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http://www.lrchive;drg/details7englishprosevers00pan^^ 


ENGUSH  PROSE  AND  VERSE 


FROM  BEOWULF  TO   STEVENSON 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED 
BY 

HENRY  S.  PANCOAST 


NEW  YORK  \ 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


COPYBIOHT,   1913 
BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANf 


TO 

FELIX  E.  SCHELLING 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  PENNSYLVANIA 

JUSTLY  EMINENT  AS 

SCHOLAR,   TEACHER,  AND  WRITER 

AND  AS  CONSTANT  AND   GENEROUS 

IN  FRIENDSHIP  AS  HE  IS 

UNWEARIED  IN  THE  SERVICE 

OF  LEARNING 


408944 


PREFACE 

The  present  collection  is  intended  to  serve  as  a  supplement  to  a  general  course 
in  the  history  of  English  literature,  from  its  beginnings  to  the  end  of  the  Victorian 
era.  With  our  modem  methods  of  teaching,  which  insist  upon  some  knowledge  of 
the  works  of  the  authors,  in  addition  to  the  study  of  literary  history  and  biography, 
collections  of  this  kind  have  become  almost  indispensable.  In  the  rapid  survey 
of  the  whole  extent  of  English  literary  history,  which  is  often  undertaken  before 
any  careful  and  minute  study  of  an  especial  author,  or  period,  or  literary  form, 
is  begun,  the  student  is  apt  to  find  himself  confused  and  discouraged  by  references 
to  authors  whose  names  mean  nothing  to  him,  and  to  works  with  whose  very  titles 
he  is  unfamiliar.  Many  of  the  books  referred  to  are  expensive,  or,  for  some  other 
reason,  not  readily  accessible;  ^  some  of  these  are  only  obtainable  in  an  English 
which  repels  him  by  its  strangeness,  or  which  he  finds  wholly  unintelligible.  In 
any  case,  to  master  all  of  the  works  mentioned  in  such  a  general  course  would 
be  the  lalDor  not  of  a  college  year,  but  of  a  life  time.  Even  if  it  were  possible,  such 
omnivorous  reading  would  be  far  from  desirable  in  this  early  stage  of  literary  study. 
One  whose  immediate  purpose  is  to  fix  clearly  in  his  mind  the  topography  of  a 
whole  continent,  who  seeks  to  see  distinctly  the  general  trend  of  its  coast-line,  the 
general  disposition  of  its  great  mountain  ranges,  its  rivers,  and  its  plains,  will  do 
well  to  disregard  for  the  time  the  windings  of  some  obscure  and  tributary  stream. 
The  familiar  words  of  Bacon  have  lost  none  of  their  force  by  frequent  repetition: 
''Some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts;  others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously; 
and  some  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention."  A  few  pages 
are  enough  to  give  one  a  very  fair  notion  of  the  general  character  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  Chronicle,  and  a  chapter  or  two  of  Bede's  Ecclesiastical  History  will  at  least 
help  to  make  that  book  something  more  than  a  disembodied  title,  and  clothe  it 
with  the  form  and  substance  of  reality.  That  such  a  method  of  approach  is,  and 
should  be,  a  mere  preliminary  to  fuller  studies,  is  obvious  enough:  that  it  is  a  wise, 
almost  a  necessary,  preliminary,  few  sensible  persons  will,  I  think,  be  disposed 
to  deny. 

To  represent  a  vast,  varied,  and  ancient  literature  like  the  English, — a  literature 
practically  limitless, — in  a  book  of  reasonable  compass,  and  in  a  manner  at  all 
adequate  to  the  student's  needs,  is  no  easy  task.  The  present  collection  is  the 
result  of  more  than  twenty  years  of  effort  and  experiment.  As  long  ago  as  1892, 
I  published  a  volume  containing  a  number  of  representative  English  masterpieces 
in  prose  and  verse,  with  a  setting  of  historical  and  biographical  comment.  This 
was  followed  by  a  collection  of  Standard  English  Poems,  from  Spenser  to  Tennyson; 
a  companion  book  of  Standard  English  Prose,  from  Bacon  to  Stevenson;  and  a  col- 
lection of  Early  English  Poems,  translated  or  modernized  in  collaboration  with 
Dr.  J.  Duncan  Spaeth,  of  Princeton  University.  The  three  books  last  named  have 
been  used  freely  in  the  making  of  the  present  collection;  but  while  many  of  the  old 
selections  have  been  retained,  I  have  taken  advantage  of  this  opportunity  for 
revision  and  rearrangement,  so  that  the  present  book  is  not  a  mere  consolidation 

1  RoUe's  Pricke  of  Conscience,  is  a  glaring  example  of  a  book  which  is  constantly  referred  to, 
and  practically  very  difficult  to  procure.  I  know  several  large  libraries  that  have  not  a  single 
copy  of  it  in  any  form,  and  have,  so  far,  been  unable  to  secure  one. 

iii 


iv  PREFACE 

of  its  predecessors  into  one  volume,  but  virtually  a  new  collection.  In  the  interests 
of  proportion,  some  of  the  poetical  selections  in  the  Old  and  Middle  English  periods 
have  been  omitted;  illustrations  of  English  prose  before  Bacon  have  been  intro- 
duced; while  many  new  selections,  most  of  them  from  18th  and  19th  century  authors, 
have  also  been  added.  So  much  space  has  been  saved  by  increasing  the  size 
of  the  page,  and  by  greatly  reducing  the  length  of  the  notes,  that  the  amount  of 
text  in  the  present  volume  is  materially  greater  than  that  in  its  three  predecessors 
combined. 

In  a  book  of  this  character,  the  needs  of  the  teacher  must  be  the  first  considera- 
tion. To  be  practically  useful,  such  a  supplementary  collection  as  this  must  in- 
clude at  least  a  large  proportion  of  the  authors  usually  considered  or  incidentally 
referred  to  in  the  class-room;  it  must  contain,  at  least,  certain  famous  poems, 
with  which  every  cultivated  reader  is  familiar;  and  it  must  contain,  at  least,  well- 
known  passages  from  the  monumental  masterpieces  of  prose.  To  supply  these 
needs,  one  must  be  content  to  follow  in  the  well-beaten  track,  made  smooth  by 
innumerable  anthologists;  he  must,  of  necessity,  provide  again  those  inevitable 
masterpieces  which  no  well  regulated  anthology  could  possibly  be  without. 

But,  when  this  primary  requirement  has  been  met  (as  fully  and  faithfully  as 
space  and  the  personal  limitations  of  the  editor  allow),  there  still  remains  a  wide 
field  for  liberty  of  choice.  The  treasures  of  English  literature  are  practically  in- 
exhaustible; we  can  say  of  it,  as  the  English  Chancellor  said  of  the  law,  "the  Lord 
forbid,  that  any  man  should  know  it  all."  When  the  paramount  needs  of  teacher 
and  student  shall  have  been  satisfied,  an  editor  will  do  well,  I  think,  in  the  interest 
of  freshness  and  variety,  to  give  some  hint  of  the  queer  nooks  and  less-trodden 
paths  that  wait  to  be  explored.  We  are  sometimes  prone  to  become  a  trifle  narrow 
and  conventional  in  our  literary  judgments,  to  regard  not  so  much  what  we  like  as 
what  we  are  expected  to  like,  and  to  pay  too  exclusive  a  reverence  to  the  "  canonical 
books.''  We  must  remember,  moreover,  that  a  book  like  the  present  is,  after  all, 
intended  to  awaken  and  foster  a  love  of  literature  in  readers  whose  taste  is  at  best 
immature.  While  such  a  book  ought  certainly  to  give  the  inevitable  and  indis- 
pensable masterpieces,  we  should  remember  that  for  some  the  real  quickener  of 
the  spirit  may  prove  to  be  a  comparatively  obscure  and  little-regarded  work,  long 
relegated,  perhaps,  to  the  literary  apocrypha.  "The  appreciation  of  Lycidas," 
said  Mark  Pattison,  with  a  rare  wisdom,  "is  the  last  reward  of  a  consummated 
scholarship." 

While  I  have  not  made  any  very  daring  innovations,  I  have,  accordingly,  not 
hesitated  to  follow  my  own  judgment,  and  include  some  authors  and  selections, 
both  ancient  and  modem,  not  usually  found  in  a  book  of  this  kind.  For  instance, 
in  the  earlier  literature,  the  thirteenth,  early  fourteenth,  and  fifteenth  centuries 
(times  fuller  of  vital  hterature  than  we  are  apt  to  realize),  have  been  represented 
with  comparative  fullness;  while  in  recent  times,  I  have  included  such  writers  as 
John  Richard  Green,  F.  W.  H.  Myers,  Leslie  Stephen,  and  two  living  authors, 
Frederic  Harrison  and  Austin  Dobson,  who,  as  I  had  resolved  to  exclude  con- 
temporary authors,  were  not  strictly  eligible.  The  choice  of  selections  must  be  of 
necessity  a  compromise  between  the  often  conflicting  claims  of  many  requirements; 
but,  so  far  as  I  could  do  so  in  justice  to  other  needs,  I  have  tried  to  make  a  book 
that  would  be  not  merely  "educational," — in  our  restricted  sense, — but  one  that 
could  be  read  with  interest  and  pleasure. 


PREFACE  V 

On  the  other  hand,  especial  care  has  been  taken  to  make  the  book  practically 
helpful  and  suggestive  on  the  historical  side.  Besides  the  chronological  arrange- 
ment, the  division  into  literary  periods,  the  insertion  of  biographical  dates,  and 
such  obvious  aids  to  the  student,  wherever  it  was  practicable  the  selections  have 
been  so  chosen,  that  the  authors  speak  for  themselves,  and  reveal  their  own  char- 
acters, or  the  plan  and  purpose  of  their  works.  Thus,  Bede,  Alfred,  Layamon, 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  Caxton,  Burton,  and  many  others,  tell  us  directly  about 
their  lives,  their  characters,  or  the  making  of  their  books.  We  learn  of  Spenser's 
hot  anger  at  the  intrigues  and  procrastinations  of  the  Court,  from  his  own  lips;  we 
listen  to  Greene's  tragic  self-reproaches;  while  Milton's  unconquerable  nobility 
of  spirit  under  the  chastisement  of  blindness  and  disappointment,  and  Scott's  no 
less  splendid  fortitude,  lie  open  to  us,  with  no  medium  of  critic  or  commentator 
between  their  souls  and  ours.  To  study  literary  history  in  such  a  fashion  is  to  drink 
from  the  fountain-head. 

Care  has  also  been  taken  to  introduce  selections  illustrative  of  literary  history, 
and,  so  far  as  possible,  to  make  one  selection  explain  or  supplement  another.  For 
instance,  we  can  follow  up  our  reading  of  Caedmon's  Hymn  and  Bede's  Death  Song, 
with  Bede's  story  of  Caedmon,  and  with  Cuthbert's  Letter  on  the  Death  of  Bede; 
we  can  study  Dr.  Johnson  in  his  prose  and  poetry,  we  can  see  him  through  the 
eyes  of  Boswell  "in  his  habit  as  he  lived,"  or  again,  we  can  look  back  and,  with 
Macaulay  and  Carlyle,  regard  both  Johnson  and  Boswell  in  that  perspective  which 
time  only  can  supply.  Many  of  the  biographical  and  critical  selections  can  be 
made  in  this  way  to  serve  a  double  purpose,  for  when  one  great  author  writes  of 
another,  he  tells  us  something  not  only  of  his  subject  but  of  himself.  Or  again, 
we  can  see  how  the  same  experience,  or  the  same  problem,  has  impressed  different 
minds.  As  we  read  the  account  of  the  fire  of  London  in  Evelyn  or  in  Pepys,  we  see 
something  more  than  confusion,  terror,  and  burning  houses, — we  see  with  an  equal 
distinctness  the  contrasted  natures  of  the  two  men.  Or  if  we  would  understand  the 
widely  different  impressions  made  upon  thoughtful  men  by  the  material  progress 
and  scientific  spirit  of  the  last  century,  we  can  gain  some  notion  of  it  by  contrasting 
the  utterances  of  Macaulay  and  Newman,  of  Huxley  and  of  Ruskin  and  Carlyle. 
Hence,  while  a  general  adherence  to  chronology  in  the  arrangement  of  the  selec- 
tions was  manifestly  advisable,  the  order  in  which  the  selections  are  read  may  be 
modified  by  the  teacher  at  his  discretion,  for  many  selections  may  be  found 
to  belong  together  in  spirit  and  to  be  separated  only  by  the  accident  of 
time. 

As  the  book  is  intended  primarily  for  students  who  are  approaching  the  subject 
from  the  purely  literary  side,  all  the  selections  from  the  Old  and  Middle  English 
periods  (with  the  single  exception  of  Chaucer)  have  been  translated  or  modernized. 
For  a  few  of  the  renderings  I  have  gone  to  Tennyson,  Henry  Morley,  or  others; 
some  of  them  have  been  made  by  Dr.  Percy  V.  D.  Shelly  for  the  present  book; 
but  by  far  the  greater  number  are  versions,  made  by  Dr.  J.  Duncan  Spaeth  or 
by  myself,  which  have  already  appeared  in  the  Early  English  Poems.  In  any  case, 
the  object  has  been  to  furnish  the  student  with  a  version  which,  while  it  gives  the 
meaning  of  the  original,  preserves  something,  at  least,  of  its  illusive  spirit  and  its 
poetic  form.  Every  one  agrees,  that  to  be  good  a  translation  must  be  accurate; 
but  many  confuse  the  deeper  faithfulness  to  one's  original,  with  a  merely  servile 
and  literal  accuracy,  forgetting  that,  especially  in  translating  poetry,  there  is  an. 


vi  PREFACE 

obligation  to  be  faithful  to  the  spirit  as  well  as  to  the  letter,  and  that  the  letter 
without  the  spirit  is  dead. 

Translation  or  modernization  was  necessary  if  the  earlier  literature  were  to  be 
made  generally  accessible,  but  the  original  texts  have  been  changed  as  little  as 
was  consistent  with  this  object,  and  in  many  cases  obsolete  words  or  quaint  and 
unusual  expressions  have  been  retained  and  explamed.  In  order  that  the  student 
may  have  some  idea  of  the  nature  and  extent  of  these  changes,  and  have  some 
concrete  reminder  of  the  slow  growth  of  the  language,  short  passages  from  the 
earlier  authors  are  given  in  the  appendix  in  their  original  form. 

To  give  the  reader  ready  access  to  the  author,  it  was  not  enough  to  clear  away  the 
barriers  of  an  unfamiliar  language,  there  were  also  obscure  allusions,  involved  or 
ambiguous  expressions,  or  other  difficulties,  which  it  was  necessary  to  explain. 
In  such  cases  the  necessary  explanation  has  been  given  at  the  foot  of  the  page.  I 
have  tried  to  make  these  notes  as  few  in  number,  as  brief  and  as  unobtrusive  as  I 
possibly  could.  Except  in  a  few  cases,  I  have  confined  myself  to  a  short  explana- 
tion of  some  real  difficulty  in  the  text.  Biographical  and  critical  matter  has  been 
introduced  very  sparingly,  and  I  have  often  refrained  from  giving  the  source  of  a 
quotation,  believing  that  the  formal  reference  to  an  ancient  and  little-read  book 
was  of  no  real  help  to  the  student.  The  traditional  commentator  is  not  unlike 
the  traditional  policeman,  always  on  hand  except  when  he  is  really  needed,  and 
the  middle  path  between  the  too-little  and  the  too-much  is  a  hard  one  to  hit  or 
to  follow. 

The  practice  of  giving  complete  works,  rather  than  fragments  or  "extracts," 
has  been  followed  in  this  book,  as  in  its  predecessors,  wherever  circumstances 
allowed.  But  to  hold  rigidly  to  this  practice  in  all  cases  (and  especially  where  one 
is  dealing  with  prose)  would  entail  too  great  a  sacrifice.  Most  of  the  selections 
are,  however,  either  literally  or  essentially  complete;  while  in  cases  where  this  was 
impracticable,  I  have  tried  to  make  the  selection  intelligible  by  explanatory  notes, 
or  by  an  abstract  of  the  portion  omitted.  As  the  drama  and  fiction  could  not  be 
adequately  represented  by  extracts,  and  as  it  was  obviously  impossible  to  give  an 
entire  novel  or  play,  it  seemed  best  to  leave  these  two  important  divisions  of  litera- 
ture unrepresented.  I  have,  however,  given  a  few  passages,  not  scenes, — from 
the  Elizabethan  dramatists,  which  can  be  read  purely  as  poetry,  and,  for  the  con- 
venience of  the  teacher,  I  have  inserted  a  short  specimen  of  a  Miracle,  and  of  a 
Moral  play  in  the  appendix. 

One  personal  conviction  it  may,  perhaps,  be  permissible  for  me  to  express  here, 
for  a  preface  is  a  spot  which  even  an  impersonal  editor  can  call  his  own.  The  chief 
business  of  the  teacher  of  English  literature  is  to  lead  the  student  to  read  the  right 
things  in  the  right  way.  The  student  must  be  taught  to  interpret,  possibly  ''to 
contradict  and  to  confute,"  but  he  must,  above  all,  be  taught  to  enjoy.  The  range 
of  his  enjoyment  must  be  widened;  his  taste  must  be  made  more  catholic,  ex- 
cluding nothing  that  is  really  significant  or  really  excellent  of  its  kind;  yet  he  must 
be  taught  to  discriminate,  and  trained  to  prefer  in  all  sincerity  the  good  to  the 
inferior,  and  even  above  the  good,  to  set  the  best.  To  this  supreme  object,  all 
others,  however  curious  or  praiseworthy,  must,  after  all,  be  made  subordinate 
and  contributory.  The  historical  development  of  the  literature,  the  lives,  the 
characters,  the  personal  peculiarities  of  authors,  the  "chatter  about  Harriet," 
the  study  of  philology,  the  study  of  dates,  or  "sources,"  the  problems  of  text  and 


PREFACE  vii 

authorship,  all  such  things,  fascinating  and  important  as  they  undeniably  are, 
must  be  regarded  as  means  to  an  end,  for,  as  Tennyson  said  of  Knowledge, — they 
are  ''the  second  not  the  first." 

This  business  of  teaching  people  to  read  is  really  a  matter  of  incalculable,  of 
national,  importance  to  us  in  America.  I  doubt  whether  there  was  ever  a  country 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  which  contained  such  multitudes  of  people  who  knew 
how  to  read,  and  so  few  true  readers;  a  country  which  contained  so  few  who  were 
illiterate,  and  so  many  who  were  uneducated.  With  all  this  we  have  quite  un- 
paralleled opportunities  for  the  reader.  We  teach  him  the  mechanical  process  of 
reading,  and  we  establish  innumerable  agencies  to  provide  him  with  reading  matter 
at  a  small  cost,  or  at  no  cost  at  all.  We  have  a  great  host  of  writers,  who  produce 
books  without  number,  yet  we  make  but  a  trifling  contribution  to  the  permanent 
literature  of  the  world.  I  suspect  that  the  true  reader  is  almost  as  rare  as  the  great 
writer,  and  I  suspect  that  to  teach  a  child  to  read  without  teaching  him  to  prefer 
a  good  book  to  a  bad  one,  is  very  like  giving  a  boy  a  loaded  gun  without  showing 
him  how  to  use  it.  Such  a  situation,  and  I  do  not  think  it  is  over-stated,  imposes 
a  heavy  but  an  honorable  responsibiUty  upon  the  teacher  of  English.  It  is  his 
task,  subordinating  all  merely  curious  researches  and  vain  disputations,  to  teach 
as  many  as  he  can  among  this  multitude  of  un-read  readers,  to  Imow  and  to  delight 
in  the  best  literature.  ''We  need  to  be  reminded  every  day,"  says  Frederic  Har- 
rison, "how  many  are  the  books  of  mimitable  glory,  which,  with  all  our  eagerness 
after  reading,  we  have  never  taken  in  our  hands."  Many  works  of  this  enduring 
and  "inimitable  glory"  have  been  brought  together  here,  gathered  from  the  noblest 
utterances  of  more  than  a  thousand  years.  If  a  book  of  this  kind  helps  the  teacher 
to  bring  these  glories  nearer  to  the  minds  and  lives  of  his  students,  if  it  helps  any 
reader  in  school  or  out,  to  come  into  closer  and  more  human  relations  with  great 
literature,  it  has  its  place  and  part  (small  as  it  may  be)  in  an  immeasurably  im- 
portant work. 

My  indebtedness  to  others  is  too  great  to  be  specifically  acknowledged.  I  can- 
not, however,  omit  a  word  of  especial  gratitude  to  my  friend  Dr.  Percy  V.  D.  Shelly, 
of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  who,  besides  contributing  several  translations 
from  Old  English  and  Latin,  has  worked  with  me  faithfully  in  the  preparation  of 
this  book. 

H.  S.  P. 
IsLESPORD,  Maine, 
July  15.  1915. 


CONTENTS 


I.  FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 


POETRY 

PAGE 

A  Charm  for  Bewitched  Land 3 

Charm  for  a  Sudden  Stitch 3 

Beowulf:     The     Fight     with     Grendel's 

Mother 3 

Beowulf's  Last  Fight  and  Death 6 

Caedmon's  Hymn 8 

Bede's  Death  Song 8 

Drowning  of  the  Egyptians  (From  Exodus)  8 
Cynewulf: 

The  Voyage  of  Life  (From  The  Crist).  .  9 

Doomsday  (From  the  same) 9 

The  Ruin 10 

The  Wanderer 11 

The  Seafarer 12 

The  Battle  of   Brunanburh   (Tennyson's 

Translation) 14 

The  Grave  (Longfellow's  Translation) ...  15 


PROSE 

Bede  (673-735) :  page 

King  Edwin  Considers  Adopting  Chris- 
tianity (From  Historia  Ecclesiastica) . .     16 
The  Vision  of  Caedmon  (From  the  same)     17 
Bede's  Account  of  Himself .  .  .' 18 

CUTHBERT  (C.  735)  I 

Letter  on  the  Death  of  Bede 19 

King  Alfred  (849-901): 

The  State  of  Learning  in  England  (From 
Alfred's  Preface  to  Gregory's  Pastoral 

Care) 20 

The  Consolation  of  Boethius  (Selections 

from  King  Alfred's  Translation) 21 

Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle  (Selections) 23 

Aelfric  (c.  955-c.  1020) : 

The  Daily  Miracle  (From  Homilies) ...     23 
WuLFSTAN  (d.  1023): 
Sermon  to  the  English 23 


II.  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 
(c.  1066-c.  1350) 


POETRY 
Poema  Morale  (Before  1200,  Selection)    27 

Layamon: 
How  Layamon  Wrote  his  Book  (From 

The  Brut,  c.  1205) 27 

Orm: 

Ormulum  (c.  1215-1220,  Selection) 28 

Thomas  of  Hales: 

A  Love  Rune  (Before  1226) 28 

The  Owl  and  the  Nightingale  (c.  1216- 

1225,  Selection) 29 

The  Debate  of  the  Body  and  the  Soul 

(13th  Century) 30 

Robert  of  Gloucester: 

In   Praise  of   England    (From   Riming 

Chronicle,  c.  1300) 33 

Norman  and  English  (From  the  same) .  .     33 
Robert  Manning,  of  Brunne: 

In  Praise  of  Woman  (From  Handlyng 

Synne,  c.  1303) 33 

Cursor  Mundi  (c.  1320-1325): 

The  Prologue,  abridged 34 

Richard  Rolle  of  Hampole  (d.  1349) : 
The  Infant  (From  The   Pricke   of  Con- 

science,  c.  1340) 35 

The  Celestial  Country  (From  the  same)     35 


Lawrence  Minot  (c.  1300-1352): 

The  Battle  of  Halidon  Hill 36 

Prayer  for   King  Edward    (From   How 

Edward  the  King  Came  to  Brabant)     37 

Sir  Orpheo  (14th  Century) 37 

EARLY  SONGS 

Cuckoo  Song  (c.  1250) 41 

Ubi  Sunt  Qui  Ante  Nos  Fuerunt  (c.  1280) .  41 

Spring  Song  (c.  1300) 42 

Alysoun  (c.  1300) 42 

Blow,  Northern  Wind  (c.  1300) 42 

When  the  Nightingale  Sings    (Early    14th 

Century) 43 

Joan 43 

Song    of    the    Scottish     Maidens    After 

Bannockburn  (1314) 43 

Lullaby  (Early  14th  Century) 44 

Ave  Maria 44 

PROSE 

Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle: 

A  Description  of  William  the  Conqueror 
William  OF  Malmsbury  (c.  1095-c.  1142): 

Malmsbury's  Account  of  Himself  (From 
Gesta  Regum  Anglorum,  c.  1120) 45 


44 


IX 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The   Battle  of   Hastings  and  the  Ef- 
fect   of    the    Conquest    (From    the 

same) 46 

Thomas  of  Ely  (d.  c.  1107): 

Canute  and  the  Monks  of  Ely  (From 

Historia  Eliensis,  12th  Century) 48 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  (d.  1154?): 

Dedicatory     Epistle     (From     HisUyria 
Regum  BritanicB,  1147) 48 

The   Story   of    King  ,  Leir   (From   the 
same) 49 


PAGE 

Ancren  Riwle  (c.  1210-1225)  Selections: 

Of  Speech 51 

Watchfulness  and  Dihgence 52 

Joy  in  Suffering 52 

Temptations 52 

The  Ladder  of  Pain 53 

Matthew  Paris  (d.  1259) : 
An    Irruption    of    the    Tartars    (From 

Historia  Anglorum) 53 

Of  an  Unusual  Swelling  and  Commotion 

of  the  Sea  (From  the  same) 54 


III.  CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 
(c.  1350-c.  1557) 


THE  AGE  OF  CHAUCER 
POETRY 

John  Barbour  (c.  1316-1396): 

Freedom  (From  The  Bruce,  c.  1375) ...     55 

The  Pearl  (c.  1370,  Abridged) 55 

The  Seasons  (From  Sir  Gawayne  and  the 

Green  Knight,  1370) 58 

Sir  Gawayne's  Journey  (From  the  same)     58 

John  Gower  (c.  1325-1408) : 

The  Praise  of  Peace 59 

William  Langland  (c.  1332-1400) : 
Piers  the  Plowman  (Selection  from  the 
Prologue) 60 

Geoffrey  Chaucer  (c.  1340-1400) : 
The  Legend  of  Good  Women  (c.  1385, 

From  the  Prologue) 62 

The  Canterbury  Tales:  The  Prologue .  .     64 

The  Pardoner's  Tale  (Abridged) 72 

The  Complaint  of  Chaucer  to  His  Purse    74 
The  Ballad  of  Good  Counsel  or  Truth . .     75 

PROSE 

The  Voyages  and  Travels  of  Sir  John 

Mandeville  (The  Prologue) 75 

Wonders  of  the  Isles  About  Java 76 

King  Alexander  and  the  Isle  of  Brag- 
man  76 

The  Hills  of  Gold  and  the  Terrestrial 

Paradise 77 

John  Wyclif  (c.  1324-1384): 
A  Short  Rule  of  Life 78 


XVth  and  early  XVIth  CENTURIES 
POETRY 

ENGLISH  FOLLOWERS  OF  CHAUCER 

A  Praise  of  Women  (Selection) 79 

Merciles  Beaute 79 


Sir  Thomas  Clanvowb  (c.  1400) : 

The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale 80 

John  Lydgate  (1370-c.  1451): 

In  Praise  of  Chaucer 80 

The  Testament  of  John  Lydgate 80 

Thomas  Hoccleve  or  Occleve  (c.  1370- 
1450): 

Thomas  Hoccleve's  Complaint 80 

A    Lament    for    Chaucer    (From    The 
Regimen  of  Princes) 81 

SCOTTISH  POETS  AFTER  CHAUCER 

King  James  I  of  Scotland  (1394-1437) : 

A  Ballad  of  Good  Counsel 82 

Robert  Henryson  (c.  1425-c.  1500): 
The   Tale    of    the    Paddock    and    the 

Mouse 82 

Content  (From  The  Tale  of  the  Upland 

^       Mouse  and  the  Burgess  Mouse) 84 

William  Dunbar  (c.  1460-c.  1525) : 

No  Treasure  Without  Gladness 84 

The  Dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins. . .     84 

The  Lament  for  the  Makers 85 

Gawain  Douglas  (c.  1474-1522) : 
Welcome  to  the  Summer  Sun   (From 

Prologue  to  the  Mneid) :     86 

Sir  David  Lyndsay  (1490-1555): 

An  Apology  for  Writing  in  the  Vulgar 
and  Maternal  Language  (From  The 

Monarchy) '.     87 

James  Wedderburn  (c.  1500-1564-5): 

Leave  Me  Not 87 

y  BALLADS  OF  UNCERTAIN  DATE 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne 88 

The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot 90 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 93 

The  Twa  Corbies 93 

The  Twa  Sisters  o'  Binnorie 94 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 95 


CONTENTS 


XI 


PAGE 

The  Nut  Brown  Maid   95 

Helen  of  Kirconnell 98 

POEMS,  SONGS,  AND  CAROLS  OF  THE 
EARLY  TUDOR  PERIOD 

A  Lyke-Wake  Dirge 98 

Carol  "Make  we  merry  in  hall  and  hour" . .  99 

The  Jolly  Shepherd 99 

The  Hunt  is  Up 99 

My  Heart  is  High  Above  (16th  Century) . .  100 

Death 100 

William  Cornish  (d.  1524?) : 

God's  Care  for  Man 100 

John  Skelton  (c.  1460-1529) : 

A  Dirge  for  Philip  Sparrow 100 

Cohn  Clout  (Selections) 101 

PROSE 
Sib  John  Fortescue  (d.  c.  1476): 

The  Royal  Power  in  France  and  Eng- 


paqe 
land    (From    The   Difference  between 
j         An  Absolute  and  a  Limited  Monarchy)  102 
V  Sir  Thomas  Malory  (c.  1430-c.  1470) : 

The  Drawing  of  the  Sword  (From  Morte 
d' Arthur) 103 

Arthur's  Encounter  With  Pellinore ....   104 

How  Arthur  Got  the  Sword  from  the 
Lady  of  the  Lake 105 

Sir  Launcelot  Departs  Out  of  England . .   105 

King    Arthur    Makes    Mordred    Chief 
Ruler 106 

Tidings  Make  Arthur  Return  to  Eng- 
land      106 

The  Death  of  Arthur 107 

Sir  Launcelot 109 

William  Caxton  (1422-1491): 

The  New  Invention  of  Printing  (From 
The  Recuyell  of  the  Histories  of  Troye)  110 

King  Arthur  (From  Caxton's  Prologue 
to  Malory's  Morte  d' Arthur) 110 


IV.  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

(c.  1525-1637) 


WYATT  AND  SURREY  AND  THE 

EARLY  ELIZABETHANS 

(c.  1525-1579) 

y  POETRY 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  (1503-1542): 

The  Lover's  Life  Compared  to  the  Alps  113 

And  Wilt  Thou  Leave  Me  Thus 113 

</  Henry  Howard,  Earl  op  SuRREi'{^.  1517- 
1547): 

Description  of  Spring 113 

The  Frailty  of  Beauty 113 

The  Means  to  Attain  a  Happy  Life.  ...   114 
Selections  from  Translation  of  Aeneid.   114 

The  Death  of  LaocoSn 114 

Night. 114 

George  Gascoigne  (c.  1536-1577): 

The  Lullaby  of  a  Lover 114 

De  Profundis 115 

Thomas  Sackville  (1536-1608): 

Introduction  to  a  Mirrour  for  Magis- 
trates   115 

PROSE 

Sir    John   Bourchier,   Lord    Berners 
(1467-1533): 
Prologue  to  Froissart's  Chronicles  (From 
Berner's  translation  of  the  Chronicles 

of  Sir  John  Froissart) 121 

The  Battle  of  Cressy 122 

The  Speech  of  John  Ball i 124 

1^  The  Burial  of  Richard  II 7 125 


^SiR  Thomas  More  (1478-1535) : 

The  People  are  Urged  to  Choose  Richard 
for  their  King  (From  History  of  Rich- 
ard III) 125 

Utopia  and  Europe  Contrasted  (From 

Utopia) 126 

William  Roper  (1496-1578): 

The   Execution   of   Sir   Thomas   More 
(From  Life  of  Sir  Thomas  More) ....   129 
Hugh  Latimer  (c.  1491-1555) : 
The  Flowers  (From  A  Sermon  Preached 

at  St.  Paul's,  1548) . . ' 130 

Description  of  His  Father  (From  Ser- 
mon Preached  March  8,  1549) 133 

Roger  Ascham  (1515-1568): 
Ascham  Explains  the  Purpose  of  His 
Book  (From  Preface  to  The  School- 
master)     133 

The  Training  of  Children 133 

The  Evil  Enchantment  of  Italy 135 

JohnFoxe  (1516^1587): 

The  Execution  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  (From 
The  Book  of  Martyrs) 135 

THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH 

(c.  1579-1637) 

POETRY 

Edmund  Spenser  (1552-1599): 
The    Faerie   Queene    (Selections   from 
Bks.  I  and  II) 136 


xu 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Courtier  (From  Mother  Hubbard's 

Tale) 147 

Prothalamion 147 

sonnets: 

XL  (From  Amoretti) 149 

LXXV  (From  the  same) 149 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552-1618): 
The  Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Passionate 

Shepherd 149 

Pilgrim  to  Pilgrim 150 

Lines   Written    the    Night   before   his 

Death 150 

John  Ltlt  (1553-1606) : 
Apelles'    Song    (From    Alexander    and 

Campaspe) 160 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  (1554-1586): 

SONNETS : 

XXXI  (From  Astrophel  and  Stella) ....   150 
XXXIX.  On  Sleep  (From  the  same)...   151 

A  Farewell 151 

Thomas  Lodge  (1558-1625): 

A  Protestation  (From  Rosalind) 151 

Phillis  (From  Phillis  Honored  with  Pas- 
toral Sonnets) 151 

George  Peele  (c.  1558-c.  1598) : 

Song,  "Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair" 

(From  The  Arraignment  of  Paris) ....   151 
"His  Golden  Locks  Time  hath  to  Silver 

Turned"    (From   Polyhymnia) 152 

"Illustrious  England,  Ancient  Seat  of 

Kings"  (From  Edward  1st) 152 

George  Chapman  (c.  1559-1634): 
Hector  and  Andromache  (From  Trans- 
lation of  Homer's  Iliad) 152 

Zeus  Sends  Hermes  to  Calypso  (From 

Translation  of  Homer's  Odyssey) 154 

Robert  Greene  (1560-1592) : 

Content 155 

Samuel  Daniel  (1562-1619): 

Sonnet  LI  (From  Delia) 155 

Prophecy    of    Literature    in    America 

(From  Musophilus) 155 

To   the   Lady  Margaret,  Countess   of 

Cumberland 155 

To  Henry  Wriothesly 156 

Michael  Drayton  (1563-1631): 
Sonnet  LXI.  "Since  there's  no  help," 

etc 157 

Agincourt 157 

From  the  "Virginian  Voyage" 158 

Christopher  Marlowe  (1564-1593) : 
The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love.  .   158 
passages  prom  the  dramas: 

Ambition  (From  Tamburlaine) 159 

Tamburlaine  to  the  Subject  Kings 159 

Faustus'  Vision  of  Helen  (From  Faustus)  159 
Faustus  Fulfils  His  Compact  with  the 
Devil 159 


page 
Leander  Sees  Hero  at  the  Feast  at  Sestos 

(From  Hero  and  Leander) 160 

William  Shakespeare  (1564-1616): 
songs: 

Sylvia  (From  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona)  161 
Fairy  Song  (From  Mid.  Night's  Dream)  161 
"You     spotted     snakes     with     double 

tongue"   (From  the  same) 161 

Fairies  Song  "Now  the  hungry  hon," 

etc.   (From  the  same) 161 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree  (From  As 

You  Like  It) 161 

O  Mistress  Mine,  Where  are  you  Roam- 
ing (From  Twelfth  Night) 162 

Take,  Oh  Take  those  lips  away  (From 

Measure  for  Measure) 162 

Hark,  hark,  the  lark  (From  Cymbeline) .    162 

Dirge  (From  the  same) 162 

A  Sea  Dirge  (From  The  Tempest) 162 

Ariel's  Song  (From  the  same) 162 

Crabbed   Age  and  Youth    (From   The 

Passionate    Pilgrim) 162 

sonnets: 

XV.  When   I   consider   everything   that 

grows 163 

XVIII.  Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  sum- 
mer's day? 163 

XXIX.  When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune 
and  men's  eyes 163 

XXX.  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent 
thought 163 

XXXIII.  Full  many  a  glorious  morning 
have  I  seen 163 

LV.  Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monu- 
ments     163 

LX.  Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the 
pebbled  shore 163 

LXV.  Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth, 
etc 164 

LXVI.  Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful 
death  I  cry 164 

LXXIII.  That  time  of  year  thou  may'st 
in  me  behold 164 

CXI.  0,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune 
chide 164 

CXVI.  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true 
minds 164 

CXLVI.  Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful 
earth 164 

prom  the  dramas: 

The  Shepherd's  Life:  Henry  Vlth's  So- 
liloquy at  the  battle  of  Towton  (From 
///  Henry  VI) 164 

England:  "This  royal  throne  of  Kings," 
etc.  (From  Richard  II) 165 

Sleep:  "How  many  thousands  of  my 
poorest  subjects"  (From  //  Henry 
IV) 165 


CONTENTS 


Xlll 


PAGE 

Henry  Vth's  Address  to  his  soldiers  be- 
fore Harfleur  (From  Henry  V.) 165 

Death  and  Hereafter:  "Aye  but  to  die, 

»and  go  we  know  not  where"   (From 
Measure  for  Measure) 166 

Isabella's  Plea  for  Mercy   (From  the 

same) 166 

Piospero's  Sohloquy  (From  The  Terry- 

vest) 166 

Thomas  Nash  (c.  1567-1601): 

Death's  Summons  (From  Summer's  Last 

Will  and  Testament) 166 

The  Coming  of  Winter  (From  the  same)  167 
Thomas  Dekker  (c.  1570-c.  1637) : 
O  Sweet   Content    (From    The   Patient 

Grissell) 167 

Saint   Hugh    (From    The   Shoemaker's 

Holiday) 167 

John  Donne  (1573-1631): 
An  Elegy  upon  the  Death  of  the  Lady 

Markham 167 

A  Valediction  Forbidding  Mourning. .  .   168 

Song,  "Sweetest  love,  I  do  not  go" 168 

Sonnet  X— On  Death 169 

A  Hymn  to  God  the  Father 169 

Ben  Jonson  (1573-1637) : 
To  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved  Master 

William  Shakespeare,  and  what  He 

Hath  Left  us 169 

Song — to     Cynthia     (From     Cynthia's 

Revels) 170 

Simplex  Munditiis  (From  Epiccme) 170 

Song  to  Celia  (From  The  Forest) 170 

The  Triumph  of  Charis  (From  Under- 
woods)     170 

Life's  True  Measure  (From  the  same) . .   171 
Thomas  Campion  (c.  1575-1620?) : 

To  Lesbia  (In  Rosseter's  Book  of  Airs) .   171 
The  Armour  of  Innocence   (From  the 

same) 171 

Fortunati  Nimium 172 

Thomas  Heywood  (c.  1581-1640?): 

Good    Morrow    (From    The    Rape    of 

Lucrece) 172 

John  Fletcher  (1579-1625) : 

"Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,"  etc.    (From 

The  Queen  of  Corinth) 172 

The  Praises  of  Pan  (From  The  Faithful 

Shepherdess) 172 

Song  of  the  Priest  of  Pan  (From  the 

same) 172 

Song  to  Pan  (From  the  same) 173 

Melancholy  (From  Nice  Valour) 173 

Francis  Beaumont  (1586?-1616): 

On  the  Life  of  Man 173 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey . .    173 
John  Webster  (Fl.  1602-1624): 

A  Dirge  (From  The  White  Devil) 173 


page 
Dirge  before  Death  (From  The  Duchess 

of  Malfy). 174 

Song  "All  the  flowers  of  the  Spring" 

(From  The  Devil's  Law  Case) 174 

William  Drummond  (1585-1649): 

On  Sleep 174 

Sonnet  "I  know  that  all,"  etc 174 

Sonnet    "Of   this   fair   volume    which 

we  world  do  name" 174 

Madrigal    "This  life  which   seems  so 

fair" 174 

Madrigal  "This  world  a-hunting  is" . .     175 

PROSE 
John  Stow  (1525-1605): 

Sports   and   Pastimes  of  Old   London 

(From  Survey  of  London) 175 

Sir  Thomas  North  (1535-1601): 

The  Death  of  Cseear  (From  translation 

•  of  Plutarch's  Lives) 176 

Raphael  Holinshed  (d.  1580) : 

Macbeth's    Meeting    with    the    Weird-* 
Sisters  (From  A  Chronicle  of  England 

and  Scotland) 177 

Richard  Hakluyt  (1553-1616): 

Dedication  to  Sir  Francis  Walsingham 

(From  Voyages  and  Discoveries) 178 

The  Loss  of  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 179 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552-1618): 

Raleigh's  Account  of  His  Book  (From 

Preface  to  History  of  the  World) 182 

Fame  and  Death  (From  the  same) ....     183 
Richard  Hooker  (1553-1600): 

A  Plea  for  Charity  in  Controversies  and 
for  Sincerity  (From  Preface  to  Ec- 
clesiastical Polity) 184 

The  Divine  Source  of  Law  (From  the 

same) 185 

JohnLyly  (1553-1606): 

A  Good  Schoohnaster  (From  Euphues)  185 
Euphues     Glass     for     Europe     (From 

Euphues  and  His  England) 187 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  (1554-1586): 

The    Preeminence    of    Poetry     (From 

The  Defense  of  Poesy) 188 

Claius    Describes    Urania    (From    The 

Arcadia) 189 

A   Description  of  Arcadia   (P'rom  the 

same) 189 

Thomas  Lodge  (c.  1558-1625): 

Saladin  and  Rosader  (From  Rosalind) . .   190 
Robert  Greene  (1560-1592): 

Greene's  Farewell  to  His  Fellow  Play- 
wrights   (From  A   Groat's   Worth  of 

Wit) 192 

Francis  Bacon  (1561-1626): 

Of  Death  (From  Essays) 193 

Of  Adversity 194 


XIV 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self 194 

Of  Riches I95 

Of  Studies 196 


PAGE 


Ben  Jonson  (1573-1637): 
From    Timber,   or   Discoveries    (Selec- 
tions)   


197 


V.  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 
(c.  1625-1660) 


POETRY 


Phineas  Fletcher  (1582-1650): 

The  Shepherd's  Life  (From  The  Purple 
Island) 199 

Giles  Fletcher  (1588-1623) : 
Christ's  Victory   and   Triumph    (Selec- 
tion)       200 

George  Wither  (1588-1667): 

The  Author's  Resolution  in  a  Sonnet. .     200 
A  Christmas  Carol 200 

William  Browne  (1590-1645): 

Britannia's  Pastorals  (Selections) 201 

Francis  Quarles  (1592-1644): 

Mors  Tua 202 

Invidiosa  Senectus 202 

Epigram  "Art  thou  consumed,"  etc.  . . .  202 

George  Herbert  (1593-1633): 

Vertue 202 

The  Pulley 203 

The  Elixir 203 

The  Collar 203 

James  Shirley  (1596-1667): 
A  Dirge:  "The  glories  of  our  blood  and 
state" 204 

William  Habington  (1605-1654) : 

Nox  Nocti  Indicat  Scientam 204 

Richard  Crashaw  (c.  1613-1649): 
An  Epitaph  Upon  Husband  and  Wife . .  205 
Wishes  to  his  Supposed  Mistress 205 

Henry  Vaughan  (1621-1695): 

The  Retreate 205 

Departed  Friends 205 

The  World 206 

Thomas  Traherne  (1634?-1674)  : 

The  Approach 206 

Wonder 207 

Edmund  Waller  (1605-1687) : 

On  a  Girdle 207 

Song  "Go,  lovely  Rose" 208 

On  the  Foregoing  Divine  Poems 208 

John  Milton  (1608-1674): 

L' Allegro 208 

II  Penseroso 209 

Song,  Sweet  Echo  (From  Comus) 211 

Song,  Sabrina  Fair  (From  the  same) ...  211 

Lycidas 211 

sonnets: 

On  His  Having  Arrived  at  the  Age  of 
Twenty-three 214 


On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont ....     214 

On  His  Blindness 214 

To  Cyriack  Skinner 214 

XXI.  To  Cyriack  Skinner 214 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  1 215 

Invocation  to  Light  (From  Bk.  III).. .  .   222 
Invocation  to  Urania  (From  Bk.  VII) .  .  223 
Milton   Speaks   of  his   Theme    (From 
Bk.  IX) 223 

Abraham  Cowley  (1618-1667): 

The  Wish 223 

The  Grasshopper 224 

Bread  and  Liberty 224 

Andrew  Marvell  (1621-1678): 

The  Garden 224 

Bermudas 225 

To  His  Coy  Mistress 225 

Thomas  Carew  (1589-1639): 

Disdain  Returned 226 

Robert  Herrick  (1591-1674): 

Argument  to  Hesperides 226 

Corinna's  Going  A-Maying 226 

To  Primroses  Filled  with  Morning  Dew  227 
To  the  Virgins,  To  Make  Much  of  Time  227 

To  Daffodils 227 

The  Hag 227 

A  Thanksgiving  to  God  for  his  House.  .  228 
His  Grange,  or  Private  Wealth 228 

Sir  John  Suckling  (1609-1641): 

Orsames'  Song  "Why  so  pale  and  wan, 
fond  lover?" 228 

Richard  Lovelace  (1618-1658): 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars. ....  229 
To  Althea,  from  Prison 229 

PROSE 

Robert  Burton  (1577-1640) : 

Burton  Tells  Why  He  Writes  Under  the 
Name  of  Democritus  Jr.     (From  The 

Anatomy  of  Melancholy) 229 

Remedies  against  Discontents  (From  the 

same) 231 

Sir  Thomas  Overbury  (1581-1613): 

A  Fair  and  Happy  Milkmaid 232 

Thomas  Hobbes  (1588-1679): 

War  (From  Leviathan) 233 

IsAAK  Walton  (1593-1683): 

Hawking,  Hunting,  and  Fishing  (From 
The  Complete  Angler) 234 


CONTENTS 


XV 


PAGE 

Selection    from    the    Life    of    Hooker 

(From  Walton's  Lives) 239 

JohnEarle  (1601?-1665): 

A  Critic  (From  Microcosmographie) ....  240 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  (1605-1682) : 

Death  and  Immortality  (From  Hydrio- 

taphia:  Urn  Burial) 240 

Faith  (From  Religio  Medici) 244 

God's  Wisdom  and  Eternity  (From  the 

same) 245 

The     Divinity    in     Man     (From     the 

same) 245 

Thomas  Fuller  (1608-1661): 
The    Good    Schoolmaster    (From    The 

Holy  State) 246 

Of  Self  Praising  (From  the  same) 247 

Of  Books  (From  the  same) 248 

Edward    Hyde,    Earl    op    Clarendon 

(1608-1674): 
Charles  1st  Sets  Up  His  Standard  at 


page 
Nottingham    (From    History    of   the 

Rebellion) 249 

Lord  Falkland  (From  the  same) 251 

Jeremy  Taylor  (1613-1667) : 

Of  Contentedness  in   all   Estates   and 

Accidents  (From  Holy  Living) 253 

Consideration  of  the  Vanity  and  Short- 
ness of  Man's  Life  (From  Holy  Dying)  254 
Anger  a  Hinderance  to  Prayer  (From 

Sermons) 1 257 

John  Bunyan  (1628-1688): 

The  Fight  With  ApoUyon  (From  Pil- 
grim's   Progress) 257 

John  Milton  (1608-1674): 

Tractate  on  Education:  Letter  to  Hart- 
lib  260 

Areopagitica  (Selection) 266 

Abraham  Cowley  (1618-1667) : 

Of  Myself  (From  Essays  in  Prose  and 
Verse) 271 


VI.  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 
(c   1660-1784) 

THE  AGE  OF  DRYDEN 
POETRY 


5AMUEL  Butler  (1612-1680) : 
The    Merits    of    Sir    Hudibras    (From 
Hudibras) 273 

John  Dryden  (1631-1700): 

/^JMfac-Flecknoe 275 

Achitophel  (From  Absalom  and  Achit- 

ophel) 277 

A  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day 277 

Alexander's  Feast 278 

Under  Mr.  Milton's  Picture 280 

Song  (From  The  Indian  Emperor) 280 

Veni  Creator  Spiritus 280 

John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester  (1647- 
1680): 
Epitaph  on  Charles  II 280 

PROSE 

John  Evelyn  (1620-1706): 

The  Great  Fire  (From  Evelyn's  Diary) . .  280 
Sir  William  Temple  (1628-1698): 

Of  Health  and  Long  Life  (From  Miscel- 
lanea)   282 

John  Dryden  (1631-1700) : 

French    and    English    Tragic    Writers 

(From  An  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy). .   285 
Shakespeare  (From  Preface  to  Troilus 

and  Cressida) 287 

Postcript  to  the  Reader  (From  Transla- 
tion of  Virgil) 289 


Samuel  Pepys  (1633- 1703) : 

The  Return  of  Charles  II.  (From  Diary)  291 
The  Great  Fire  of  London  (From  the 

same) 292 

The  Last  Entry  in  Pepys'  Diary 293 


THE  AGE  OF  POPE 
POETRY 

Matthew  Prior  (1664-1721): 

To  a  Child  of  Quality  Five  Years  Old. .  294 
A  Better  Answer 294 

Jonathan  Swift  (1667-1745): 

In  Sickness,  Written  in  Ireland  in  Oc- 
tober, 1714 294 

The  Day  of  Judgment 295 

Joseph  Addison  (1672-1719): 

Ode.  The  Spacious  Firmament  On  High  295 
Cato's  Soliloquy  (From  Cato) 295 

Alexander  Pope  (1688-1744): 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock 290 

Elegy  to  the  Memory  of  an  Unfortunate 

Lady 303 

Universal  Prayer ^04 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot •  • -^  304 

End  of  the  Dundad  "In  vain,  in  vain," 


etc. 


306 

An  Essay  on  Man  (Selections) 306 

John  Gay  (1688-1732): 

Fable  XVIII.  The  Painter  Who  Pleased 

Nobody  and  Everybody 309 

On  a  Lapdog 310 


XVI 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Black  Eyed  Susan 310 

Trivia    (Selections) 310 

PROSE 

DANIEL  Defoe  (1659?-1731): 
t^A  True  Relation  of  the  Apparition  of 

Mrs.  Veal 312 

//The  Plague  in  London  (From  A  Journal 

of  the  Plague  Year) 316 

Jonathan  Swift  (1667-1745): 

Meditation  Upon  a  Broomstick 320 

Predictions  for  the  Year  1708,  by  Isaak 

Bickerstaff 321 

The  Accomplishment  of  the  First  of  Mr. 

Bickerstafif's  Predictions 324 

Gulliver  Among  the  Lilliputians  (From 

Gulliver's  Travels) 325 

How  Gulliver  Conquered  the  Fleet  of 

the  Blef  uscudians) 326 

A  Voyage  to  Brobdignag 327 

Joseph  Addison  (1672-1719): 

Ned  Softly,  the  Poet  (From  The  Tatler)  332 
The  Object  of  the  Spectator  (From  The 

Spectator) 334 

Thoughts  in  Westminster  Abbey  (From 

the  same) 336 

The  Fine  Lady's  Journal   (From  the 

same) 337 

Sir  Roger  at  Church  (From  the  same) . .  339 
Sir  Richard  Steele  (1671-1729) : 

On  True  Distinction  (From  The  Tatler)  340 
On  the  Funeral  of  Betterton  (From  the 

same) 341 

Recollections  (From  the  same) 342 

The  Spectator  Club  (From  The  Spectator)  344 

On  Testimonials  (From  the  same) 346 

Henry  St.  John,  Viscount  Bolingbroke 
(1678-1751): 
From  "Reflections  Upon  Exile" 348 

THE  FORERUNNERS  OF  THE 
ROMANTIC  SCHOOL 

Thomas  Parnell  (1679-1718): 

A  Night  Piece  on  Death 352 

A  Hymn  to  Contentment 352 

A  Hymn  for  Morning 353 

Edward  Young  (1681-1765): 
On  Life,  Death  and  Immortality  (From 

Night  Thoughts) 354 

George  Berkeley  (1685-1753) : 
Verses  on  the  prospect  of  planting  Arts 

and  Learning  in  America 355 

Allan  Ramsay  (1686-1758): 

An  Ode  to  Ph— 355 

Song  "My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing" 
(From  The  GerUle  Shepherd) 356 


PAGE 

William  Somerville  (1692-1742): 

Field  Sports  (From  The  Chase) 356 

Address  to  the  Author's  Elbow  Chair 
New-Clothed 357 

John  Dyer  (c.  1698-1758): 

Grongar  Hill 357 

An  Epistle  to  a  Friend  in  Town 358 

The  Fleece  (Selections) 359 

ToAurelia 360 

James  Thomson  (1700-1748); 

Spring  (From  The  Seasons) 360 

Summer  (From  the  same) 361 

Autumn  (From  the  same) 361 

Winter  (From  the  same) 362 

Rule  Britannia 363 

The  Castle  of  Indolence  (Selections) ...  364 

AGE  OF  JOHNSON 
POETRY 

Samuel  Johnson  (1709-1784): 

London 366 

Prologue  at  the  Opening  of  the  Drury 
Lane  Theatre,  1747 369 

John  Armstrong  (1709-1779): 

The  Art  of  Preserving  Health  (Selection)  370 

William  Shenstone  (1714-1763): 

The  Schoolmistress  (Selections) 371 

Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley 374 

Oliver  Goldsmith  (1728-1774) : 

The  Deserted  Village 374 

The  Hermit:  A  BaUad 378 

PROSE 

Phiup  Dormer  Stanhope,  Lord  Ches- 
terfield (1694-1773): 
Manners  Makyth  Man  (From  Letters  to 

His  Son) 379 

Style  (From  the  same) 380 

Henry  Fielding  (1707-1754): 

Partridge  at  the  Play  (From  Tom  Jones)  382 
Samuel  Johnson  (1709-1784) : 
The  Lady's  Misery  in  a  Summer  Retire- 
ment   384 

Letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield 385 

Collins  (From  lAves  of  the  Poets) 386 

The  Character  of  Pope  (From  the  same)  388 
Laurence  Sterne  (1713-1764): 

Mr.  Shandy  on  His  Son's  Death  (From 

Tristram  Shandy) 394 

The  Starling  (From  A  Sentimental  Jour- 
ney)    396 

Oliver  Goldsmith  (1728-1774) : 

The  Impressions  of  a  Chinese  Traveller 

(From  Citizen  of  the  World) 397 

Letter  III.    (From  the  same) 398 

A  Visit  to  Westminster  Abbey  (From 
the  same) 400^ 


I 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Edmund  Burke  (1729-1797): 

Warren  Hastings  (From  Opening  of  the 
Impeachment,  Fourth  Day) 403 

Reflections     on     the     Revolution     in 
France 406 

A  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord.     (Abridged)  408 
William  Cowper  (1731-1800): 

Letters  from  Olney: 

Letter  to  Rev.  William  Unwin 415 

Letter  to  Rev.  John  Newton 416 

Letter  to  Rev.  John  Newton 417 

Letter  to  Rev.  John  Newton 417 

Edward  Gibbon  (1737-1794): 

Gibbon  is  Inspired  to  Write  His  History 
(From  Autobiography) 417 

Boethius  (From  The  Decline  and  Fall  of 
the  Roman  Empire) 418 

The  Causes  of  the  ruin  of  Rome  (From 

the  same) 420 

James  Boswell  (1740-1795): 

Boswell's  First  Meeting  with  Dr.  John- 
son (From  Life  of  Johnson) 424 

Oliver  Goldsmith  (From  the  same) ....  426 

.POETS  OF  THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL 

Thomas  Gray  (1716-1771): 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  Col- 
lege   427 

Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  Mr.  Richard 

West 428 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard    428 

The  Bard 430 

Wi;.LiAM  Collins  (1721-1759) : 

tr4)de  to  Evening 431 

^  The  Passions:  An  Ode  for  Music 432 

Ode:  "How  sleep  the  brave" 433 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline 433 

Thomas  Percy  (1729-1811): 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray 433 

William  Cowper  (1731-1800): 

The  Task  (Selections) 435 

On  the  receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture 

out  of  Norfolk 439 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 440 

The  Castaway 440 

William  Julius  Micklb  (1735-1788): 

There's  Nae  Luck  about  the  House. . . .  441 

James  Beattie  (1735-1803): 

The  Minstrel  (Selections) 441 

The  Hermit 444 

James  Macpherson  (1738-1796) : 

Carthon  (From  translation  of  Ossian) , .  444 

Thomas  Chatterton  (1752-1770) : 

The  Minstrel's  Roundelay  (From  Mia)  446 

The  Balade  of  Charitie 446 

Bristowe  Tragedie 448 


xvu 


page 


George  Crabbe  (1754-1832): 

The  Modem  Pastoral  (From  The  Village)  452 

Peter  Grimes  (From  The  Borough) 454 

Farmer  Moss's  Daughter  (From  Tales 

in  Verse) 454 

William  Blake  (1757-1827): 

To  the  Muses 455 

To  the  Evening  Star 455 

Introduction    from    "Songs    of    Inno- 
cence"    455 

The  Lamb 455 

Night 455 

To  the  Divine  Image 456 

On  Another's  Sorrow 456 

The  Tiger 456 

Ah!  Sunflower 457 

SCOTCH  SONG  WRITERS 

John  Skinner  (1721-1807): 

Tullochgorum 457 

Jane  Elliot  (1727-1805): 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest 457 

Isabel  Pagan  (1740-1821) : 

Ca'  the  Yowes 458 

Lady  Anne  Barnard  (1750-1825) : 
Auld  Robin  Gray 458 

Caroline  Oliphant,  Lady  Nairn  (1766- 
1845): 
The  Land  of  the  Leal 459 

Anonymous: 

The  Wee,  Wee  German  Lairdie 459 

"Charlie  is  my  Darting" 459 

Robert  Fergusson  (1750-1774): 
The  Daft  Days 460 

Robert  Burns  (1750-1796): 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 460 

Epistle  to  John  Lapraik 463 

To  a  Mouse 464 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 464 

A  Bard's  Epitaph 465 

A  Prayer  Under  the  Pressure  of  Violent 

Anguish 465 

Auld  Lang  Syne 465 

Of  a'  the  Airts  the  Wind  Can  Blaw 466 

My  Bonie  Mary 466 

The  Wounded  Hare 466 

Ae  Fond  Kiss  and  then  We  Sever 466 

Tam  O'Shanter 467 

Afton  Water 469 

Highland  Mary 469 

Bruce's  Address  to  His  Army  at  Ban- 

nockbum 469 

A  Red,  Red  Rose 470 

Contented  Wi'  Little  and  Cantie  Wi' 

Mair 470 

Is  There  for  Honest  Poverty 470 

Oh!  Wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 470 


.VYlll 


CONTENTS 


VII.  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


(c.  1784-c.  1837) 


POETRY 


William  Wordsworth  (1770-1850):       page 

Tintern  Abbey 471 

Expostulation  and  Reply 472 

The  Tables  Turned 472 

Three  Years  She  Grew 473 

She  Dwelt  Among  the  Untrodden  Ways  473 

Michael 473 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up 478 

The  Solitary  Reaper 478 

Immortality  Ode 478 

I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud 480 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 480 

Ode  to  Duty 481 

Resolution  and  Independence 481 

sonnets: 

Written  in  London,  1802 483 

London,  1802 483 

When  I  have  Borne  in  Memory 483 

Composed  Upon  Westminster  Bridge.  .  483 

Composed  Upon  the  Beach  near  Calais .  483 
The  World  is  too  much  with  us  late  and 

soon 483 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (1772-1834): 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 484 

France:  An  Ode 490 

Dejection:  an  Ode 492 

The  Good  Great  Man 493 

Sonnet  to  the  River  Otter 493 

Kubla  Khan 493 

Youth  and  Age 494 

Work  without  Hope 494 

Robert  Southey  (1774-1843): 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim 495 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyne 495 

My  Days  among  the  Dead  are  Passed. .  496 
Sir  Walter  Scorr  (1771-1832): 
Harold's  Song  to  Rosabelle  (From  The 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel) 496 

Hunting  Song 497 

Lochinvar  (From  Marmion) 497 

Ballad,  Alice  Brand  (From  Lady  of  the 

Lake) 498 

Edmund's  Song  (From  Rokehy) 499 

Song,  A  Weary  Lot  is  Thine  (From  the 

same) : 499 

Song,  Allan-a-Dale  (From  the  same) .  . .  500 

Song,  The  Cavalier  (From  the  same) . .  500 

Jock  of  Hazoldean 500 

Harlaw  (From  The  Antiquary) 501 

Madge  Wildfire's  Song  (From  The  Heart 

of  Midlothian) 501 

Border  Ballad  (From  The  Monastery) .  501 

County  Guy  (From  Quentin  Durward) .  .  502 


Charles  Lamb  (1775-1834) :  page 

To  Hester 502 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 502 

Walter  Savage  Landor  (1775-1864): 

Mild  is  the  parting  year,  and  sweet. . . .   503 

Ah!  what  avails  the  sceptered  race 503 

Yes,  I  write  verses 503 

To  Robert  Browning 503 

Introduction  to  the  last  fruit  off  an  old 
tree 503 

Joseph  Blanco  White  (1775-1841): 

Sonnet  to  Night 503 

Thomas  Campbell  (1777-1844): 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 504 

Hohenlinden 504 

The  Battle  of  the  Baltic 504 

Song,  Men  of  England 505 

Song,  To  the  Evening  Star 505 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 505 

Thomas  Moore  (1779-1852): 

As  slow  our  ship 506 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls  506 

She  is  far  from  the  land 507 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 507 

Ebenezer  Elliott  (1781-1849): 

A  Poet's  Epitaph 507 

James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt  (1784-1859): 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket.  .  .   507., 

Bryan  Waller  Proctor  (Barry  Corn- 
wall) (1787-1874): 

A  Petition  to  Time 507 

The  Sea 508 

George  Gordon  Byron  (1788-1824): 
He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 

(From  the  Giaour) 508 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib 509 

Oh!  Snatch'd  away  in  Beauty's  Bloom. .  509 

Stanzas  for  Music 509 

She  walks  in  beauty 509 

Sonnet  on  Chillon 610 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  (Selections 

from  Cantos  HI.  and  IV) 510 

The  Coliseum  at  Night  (From  Manfred)  515 
Don  Juan  (Selection  from  Canto  III.)  516 
On  this  day  I  complete  my  thirty-sixth 
year 518 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  (1792-1822): 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 518 

To  a  Skylark 519 

The  Cloud 520 

Ozymandias 521 

Adonais 521 

Time 528 

To  —  "  Music,  when  soft  voices  die" ...   528 
To  Night ( 528\ 


CONTENTS 


XIX 


PAGE 

A  Lament  "Oh,  world,  oh  life,  oh  time"  528 

To ,  One  word  is  too  often  profaned  528 

John  Keats  (1795-1821): 

Opening  of  "Endymion" 529 

sonnets: 

On     First    Looking    into    Chapman's 

Homer 529 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent . .  529 
On  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket. . .  529 
On  Seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles  for  the  first 

time 529 

On  the  Sea 530 

Why  did  I  laugh  tonight 530 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be  530 
Last  Sonnet 530 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 530 

Robin  Hood 535 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci 535 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 536 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 537 

To  Autumn 537 

Ode  on  Melancholy 538 

Charles  Wolfe  (1791-1823): 
The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  at  Corunna  538 

William  Motherwell  (1797-1834): 
Jeanie  Morrison 539 

PROSE 

Sir  Walter  Scott  (1771-1832): 
Selections  from  Scott's  Journal 539 


page 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (1772-1834) : 

The  Wanderings  of  Cain 541 

Origin   of   the   Lyrical   Ballads    (From 

Biographia  Literaria) 543 

Characteristics  of  Shakespeare's  Dramas 
(From  Lectures  Upon  Shakespeare) .  .   544 
Robert  Southey  (1774-1843): 
The  Battle  of  Trafalgar  (From  Life  of 

Nelson) 548  ^ 

Charles  Lamb  (1775-1834): 

Dream  Children,  A  Reverie  (From  Elia)  554 
Detached  Thoughts  on  Books  and  Read- 
ing (From  Last  Essays) 556 

The  Superannuated  Man 559 

On  the  Death  of  Coleridge 562 

/King  Lear     (From    The    Tragedies    of 

Shakespeare) 563 

Walter  Savage  Landor  (1775-1864) : 
Essex  and  Spenser     (From     Imaginary 

Conversations) 564 

William  Hazlitt  (1778-1830): 
Hamlet  (From  The  Characters  of  Shake- 
speare's Plays) 567 

The  English  and  their  Literature  (From 

The  Age  of  Elizabeth) 569 

On  the  Feeling  of  Immortality  in  Youth 

(From  Winterslow) 569 

Thomas  de  Quincey  (1785-1859): 

Levana  and  Our  Ladies  of  Sorrow  (From 

Suspiria   de   Profundis) 572 

The  English  Mail  Coach  (Abridged) ...  576 


VIII.  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 
(c.  1837-1900) 


POETRY 

Alfred  Tennyson  (1809-1892): 

Song,  The  Owl 683 

The  Palace  of  Art 583 

The  Lotus  Eaters 586 

"You  ask  me  why" 588 

Of  Old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights ....  588 

Locksley  Hall 589 

Ulysses 593 

.  Sir  Galahad 593 

The     Epic     (Introduction     to     Morte 

d'Arthur) 594 

Morte  d'Arthur 594 

Break,  Break,  Break 597 

A  Farewell 597 

Tears,  idle  tears  (From  The  Princess) . .   598 

In  Memoriam  (Selections) 598 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 601 

•   Maud  (Selections) 601 

Song    "^^ato,    late,    so    late"     (From 
Guinevere) 602 


The  Higher  Pantheism ." . . .  602 

Frater  ave  atque  vale 603 

Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After 603 

The  Throstle  (From  Demeter) 608 

Crossing  the  Bar 609 

Robert  Browning  (1812-1889) : 
Song,    "The    Year's    at    the    Spring" 

(From  Pippa  Passes) 609 

Cavalier  Tunes  II.    Give  a  Rouse 609 

III.  Boot  and  Saddle 609 

My  Last  Duchess 609 

How   they    Brought   the   Good    News 

from  Ghent  to  Aix 610 

Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad 611 

Home  Thoughts  from  the  Sea 611 

The  Guardian  Angel 611 

Evelyn  Hope 612 

By  the  Fireside 613 

De  Gustibus 616 

Andrea  del  Sarto 616 

An  Epistle  of  Karshish 619 

A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's ., .  622 


XX 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Saul 623 

Prospice 628 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 628 

Martin  Relph 631 

"O  Lyric  Love"  (From  The  Ring  and 

the  Book) 633 

Epilogue  from  Asolando 634 

EuzABETH    Barretf   Browning    (1809- 

1861): 

A  Musical  Instrument 634 

sonnets: 

Cheerfulness  Taught  by  Reason 634 

The  Prospect 635 

Work 635 

From  the  Portuguese:  I.  I  thought  once 

how  Theocritus  had  sung 635 

VI.  Go  from  me.    Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall 

stand 635 

XXXV.  If  I  leave  aU  for  thee,  wilt  thou 

exchange 635 

XLIII.  How  do  I  love  thee?    Let  me 

count  the  ways 635 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888): 

Thyrsis 636 

To  Marguerite  (From  "Switzerland") . .  639 

Absence 639 

Self  Dependence 639 

Dover  Beach 639 

Shakespeare 640 

Worldly  Place 640 

Geist's  Grave 640 

Lines  Written  in  Kensington  Gardens. .  641 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  (1828-1882): 

The  Blessed  Damozel 641 

The  Sea  Limits 643 

sonnets: 

Sybilla  Palmifera 643 

Silent  Noon 643 

Inclusiveness 644 

A  Superscription 644 

Christina   Georgina   Rossetti    (1830- 

1894): 

Up-Hill 644 

Symbols  (From  Devotional  Pieces) 644 

Sonnet  "Thou  who  didst  make,"  etc. . .  644 
William  Morris  (1834-1896): 

An  Apology  (From  Earthly  Paradise) . .  645 

Prologue  (From  the  same) 645 

The  Son  of  Crcesus  (From  the  same) .  . .  645 
L'Envoi  (Abridged)  (From  the  same) .  .  650 

Drawing  near  the  Light 650 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne   (1837- 

1909): 

Chorus  (From  Atlanta  in  Calydon) 650 

Chorus,  "We  have  seen  thee,  oh!  Love" 

(From  the  same) 651 

The  Garden  of  Proserpine 652 

Pastiche 653 


PAGE 

A  Forsaken  Garden 653 

Upon  a  Child 654 

The  Salt  of  the  Earth 654 

On  the  Deaths  of  Thomas  Carlyle  and 
George  Eliot 654 

OTHER  POETS  OF  THE  VICTORIAN 
AGE 

Hartley  Coleridge  (1796-1849) : 

Song,  "She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view"  655 
Sonnet  on  Prayer 655 

Thomas  Hood  (1798-1845): 

The  Death  Bed 655 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 655 

Thomas   Babington    Macaulay    (1800- 
1859): 
The  Battle  of  Ivry 656 

John  Henry  Newman  (1801-1890): 

Lead  Kindly  Light 657 

Robert  Stephen  Hawker  (1803-1875): 
The  Song  of  the  Western  Men .  ; 658 

Richard  Chevenix  Trench  (1807-1886) : 
"Some  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear"  658 

Edward  Fitzgerald  (1809-1883) : 
Rubaiyat  (Selections) 658  7 

Sir  Francis  Hastings  Charles  Doyle 
(1810-1888): 
The  Private  of  the  Buffs 659 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray  (1811- 
1863): 

At  the  Church  Gate 659 

The  End  of  the  Play 660 

William  E.  Aytoun  (1813-1865): 
The  Widow  of  Glencoe 660 

Charles  Kingsley  (1819-1875) : 

Song,  "Oh!  that  we  two  were  Maying"  662 

The  Sands  of  Dee 662 

The  Three  Fishers 662 

Clear  and  Cool 662 

George    Eliot    (Mary    Ann    Evans) 
(1818-1890): 
O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 663 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough  (1819-1861) : 

Qua  cursum  ventus 663 

"With  whom  is  no  variableness  neither 

shadow  of  turning" 663 

f/'^Say  not  the  struggle  naught  availeth . .  .  663 

George  Meredith  (1828-1909): 

Juggling  Jerry 664 

Lucifer  in  Starlight 665 

Love  in  the  Valley  (Selection) 665 

Henry  Austin  Dobson  (1840-        ) : 

A  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School 665 

The  Ballad  of  Beau  Brocade 666 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  (1850-1894) : 

A  Song  of  the  Road 669\ 

The  Celestial  Surgeon 669^ 


CONTENTS 


XXI 


PAGE 

The  Counterblast 669 

A  Lad  that  is  Gone 670 

Requiem 670 


■~^  PROSE 

Thomas  Carlyle  (1795-1881): 
The  Philosophy  of  Clothes  (From  Sar- 
tor Resartus) 670 

Natural    Supernaturalism    (From    the 

same) 672 

Boswell   the   Hero  Worshipper    (From 

Essay  on  Johnson) 676 

■■The  Hero  (From  Heroes  and  Hero  Wor- 

V/L  ship) 680 

I^Burns  (From  the  same) 683 

I^Phe  Gospel  of  Work  (From  Past  and 
wW  Present) 686 

Thomas   Babington    Macaulay    (1800- 
1859): 

swell  (From  Review  of  Croker^s  Bos- 
well's  Life  of  Johnson) 687 

e  Trial  of  Warren  Hastings 690 

liver  Goldsmith 693 

he  State  of  England  in  1685  (From 
History  of  England) 699 

he  XVIIth  Century  Squire  (From  the 
same) 701 

he  Coffee  House  (From  the  same) 702 

OHN  Henry  Newman  (1801-1890): 
Knowledge  and  Character  (From  Dis- 
cussions and  Arguments) 704 

[      The  Site  of  a  University   (From   The 

■K^  Office  and  Work  of  Universities) 707 

■Hrhe  Aim  of  a  University  Course  (From 

^        Idea  of  a  University) 709 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray  (1811- 

1863): 
The  Restoration  Drama  (From  English 

Humorists) 710 

Nil    Nisi    Bonum    (From    RoundahotU 

Papers) 711 

Charles  Dickens  (1812-1870): 
Our  School  (From  Household  Words).  . .  715 

George  Eliot  (Mary  Ann  Evans)  1819- 

1880): 
.    The  Old  Coach  Roads  of  England  (From 

Introduction  to  Felix  HoU) 718 

James  Anthony  Froude  (1818-1894): 
The    Execution    of    Mary    Queen    of 

Scots  (From  History  of  England) 721 

John  Davis:  an  example  of  a  true  hero 

(From  England's  Forgotten  Worthies)  725 


PAGE 

John  Ruskin  (1819-1900): 

Some   Sea  Pictures  of  Turner   (From 

Modem  Painters) 726 

The   Lamp   of   Memory    (From  Seven 

Lamps  of  Architecture) 727 

Science   and    Modern   Progress    (From 

Modem  Painters) 728 

Money  (From  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive)  730 

Taste  (From  the  same) 731 

Art  and  Character  (From  The  Queen 

of  the  Air) 733 

Liberty  and  Restraint  (From  the  same)  735 
Science  and  Life  (From  Fors  Clavigera)  737 

Charles  Kingsley  (1819-1875): 
St.  Guthlac  (From  The  Hermits) 741 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888): 
The  Grand  Style  (From  On  Translating 

Homer) 743 

Oxford  (From  Essays  in  Criticism) ....  745 
The  Celtic  Spirit  (From  CeUie  Litera- 
ture)   745 

Culture  (From  Culture  and  Anarchy) . . .  748 
The  Voices  of  Youth  (From  Discourses 

in  America) 749 

Wordsworth  (From  Essays  in  Criticism)  750 

Thomas  Henry  Huxley  (1825-1895): 
On    the    Advisableness    of    Improving 
Natural  Knowledge 753 

Frederick  Harrison  (1831-      ): 
Walter  Scott  (From  The  Choice  of  Books)  760 
On  Reading  (From  the  same) 761 

Sir  Leslie  Stephen  (1832-1904): 
Swift  and  the  Spirit  of  His  Time  (From 
History   of   English    Thought   in   the 
Eighteenth  Century) 762 

John  Richard  Green  (1837-1883) : 
The  Death  of  Queen  Elizabeth  (From 

History  of  the  English  People) 764 

Religion  and  the  Bible  in  16th  and  17th 

Century  England  (From  the  same) . .  765 

Walter  Pater  (1839-1894): 
The  Perception  of  Beauty  (From  The 

Renaissance) 767 

Wordsworth  (From  Appreciations) 769 

Frederick  W.  H.  Myers  (1843-1901): 
Poetry  (From  "Virgil"  in  Essays  Clas- 
sical and  Modern) 771 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  (1845-1894) : 
-^s  Triplex  (From  Virginibus  Puerisque)  772 
Pulvis    et    Umbra    (From    Across    the 
Plains) 776 

Francis  Thompson  (18597-1907): 
The  Eternal  Child  in  Shelley 779 


xxii  CONTENTS 

APPENDIX 

PAG] 

I.  Selections  Illustrating  the  English  Language 781 

II.  Illustrations  of  the  Early  Drama: 

Noah's  Flood.    A  Miracle  Play 7? 

Everyman.    Morality  Play '  * 

Index  of  Authors '  ^ 

Index  op  First  Lines ; °"^ 

Index  op  Titles ^^ 


ENGLISH  PROSE  AND  VERSE 


I 


.^ 


FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 


(From  the  translation  by  J.  D.  Spaeth) 

Erce,2  Erce,  Erce,  Mother  of  Earth,  49 

May  the  Almighty,  Lord  Everlasting, 
Grant  thee  fields,  green  and  fertile. 
Grant  thee  fields,  fruitful  and  growing, 
Hosts  of  Spear-shafts,  shining  harvests, 

Harvest  of  Barley  the  broad, 

Harvest  of  Wheat  the  white,  65 

All  the  heaping  harvests  of  earth! 
May  the  Almighty  Lord  Everlasting, 
And  his  holy  saints  in  heaven  above, 
From  fiend  and  foe  defend  this  land. 
Keep  it  from  blight  and  coming  of  harm,  60 

From  spell  of  witches  wickedly  spread! 
Now  I  pray  the  Almighty  who  made  this  world, 
That*malice  of  man,  or  mouth  of  woman 
Never  may  weaken  the  words  I  have  spoken. 
Hail  to  thee  Earth,  Mother  of  men!  67 

Grow  and  be  great  in  God's  embrace, 
ed  with  fruit  for  the  food  of  men! 


20 


f 


HARM  FOR  A  SUDDEN  STITCH » 

(Translated  by  J.  D.  Spaeth) 

Take  feverfew,  and  plantain,  and  the  red 
nettle  that  grows,  into  the  house.  Boil  in  but- 
ter. Say: — 

Loud  was  their  cry  as  they  came  o'er  the 
hill; 
ierce  was  their  rage  as  they  rode  o'er  the 
land. 
Take  heed  and  be  healed  of  the  hurt  they  have 
done  thee. 
Out  little  spear  if  in  there  thou  be !  4 

My  shield  I  lifted,  my  linden-wood  shining, 
'  en  the  mighty  women  mustered  their 

force, 
d  sent  their  spear-points  spinning  toward 
me. 
'11  give  them  back  the  bolt  they  sent, 
flying  arrow  full  in  the  face. 

Out  little  spear  if  in  there  thou  be!      lo 
Sat  a  smith, 

A  hard  blade  hammered. 
Out  little  spear  if  in  there  thou  be! 
Six  smiths  sat. 

Fighting  spears  forged  they.  15 

Out  spear,  out! 
No  longer  stay  in! 
If  any  iron  be  found  herein, 
The  work  of  witches,  away  it  must  melt. 

The   original   charm  includes   directions    (of  which 
selection  given  is  one)  for  restoring  fertility  to  land 
at  was  supposed  to  have  been  bewitched.    The  Charms 
'  are  one  of  the  characteristic  types  of  old  English  verse, 

I  are  of  great  antiquity. 
Name  of  an  ancient   goddess  of  fertility,   perhaps 
iogous  to  the  Roman  goddess  Demeter. 
Stitch,  or  rheumatism,  was  supposed  to  be  caused  by 


25 


Be  thou  shot  in  the  fell,^ 

Be  thou  shot  in  the  flesh, 

Be  thou  shot  in  the  blood. 

Be  thou  shot  in  the  bone. 

Be  thou  shot  in  the  limb. 

Thy  life  shall  be  shielded. 

Be  it  shot  of  Ese,' 

Be  it  shot  of  Elves, 

Be  it  shot  of  Hags, 

I  help  thee  surely. 
This  for  cure  of  Esa*-shot,  30 

This  for  cure  of  EK-shot, 
This  for  cure  of  Hag-shot, 

I  help  thee  surely. 
Witch  fly  away  to  the  woods  and  the  moun- 
tains. 34 
Healed  be  thy  hurt !   So  help  thee  the  Lord. 


BEOWULF 

THE  FIGHT  WITH  GRENDEL'S  MOTHER 

(Translated  by  J.  D.  Spaeth) 

[The  Hero  Beowulf  grew  up  at  the  Court  of 
his  uncle  Hygelac,  King  of  the  Geats  or  Jutes. 
Hearing  how  Heorot,  the  great  Hall  of  the 
Danish  King  Hrothgar,  was  ravaged  by  a  night- 
prowling  monster  namlld  Grendel,  Beowulf 
sailed  with  a  chosen  band  to  Hrothgar's 
kingdom,  and  offered  to  rid  the  Danes  of  their 
enemy.  Alone  and  weaponless  he  fought  with 
and  killed  Grendel  in  Heorot,  and  it  was  sup- 
posed that  the  Hall  was  again  safe.  But 
Grendel's  mother,  a  wolfish  water-wife,  bent  on 
revenge,  broke  into  the  Hall  and  carried  off 
the  King's  best  Thane.  The  next  morning 
Beowulf,  who  had  slept  elsewhere,  heard  wljft,t 
had  happened,  and  asked  if  he  might  undertake 
a  second  and  more  perilous  adventure.  Before 
going,  the  King  describes  t«  him  the  haunts  of 
the  monster.] 

"  I  have  heard  my  people,  the  peasant  folk    1345 
Who  house  by  the  border  and  hold  the  fens. 
Say  they  have  seen  two  creatures  strange. 
Huge  march-stalkers,^  haunting  the  moorland, 
Wanderers  outcast.    One  of  the  two 
Seemed  to  their  sight  to  resemble  a  woman;  1350 
The  other  manlike,  a  monster  misshapen. 
But  huger  in  bulk  than  human  kind. 
Trod  an  exile's  track  of  woe. 
The  folk  of  the  fen  in  former  days 
Named  him  Grendel.    Unknown  his  father,  1355 
Or  what  his  descent  from  demons  obscure. 
Lonely  and  waste  is  the  land  they  inhabit. 
Wolf-cliffs  wild  and  windy  headlands, 
Ledges  of  mist,  where  mountain  torrents 
Downward  plunge  to  dark  abysses,  1360 

And  flow  unspen.    Not  far  from  here 

2  Skin.  .    3  The  gods.  <  Of  the  gods. 

1  Creatures  that  stalk  along  the  Marches,  or  Borders. 


FROIyl  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 


O'er  the  moorland  in  miles,  a  mere  expands: 
Spray-frosted   trees   o'erspread   it,   and   hang 
O'er  the  water  with  roots  fast  wedged  in  the 

rocks. 
There  nightly  is  seen,  beneath  the  flood,        1365 
A  marvellous  light.    There  lives  not  the  man 
Has  fathomed  the  depth  of  the  dismal  mere. 
Though  the  heather-stepper,  the  strong-horned 

stag, 
Seek  this  cover,  forspent  with  the  chase, 
Tracked  by  the  hounds,  he  will  turn  at  bay,  1370 
To  die  on  the  brink  ere  he  brave  the  plunge, 
Hide  his  head  in  the  haunted  pool. 
Wan  from  its  depths  the  waves  are  dashed. 
When  wicked  storms  are  stirred  by  the  wind, 
And  from  sullen  skies  descends  the  rain.        1375 
In  thee  is  our  hope  of  help  once  more. 
Not  yet  thou  hast  learned  where  leads  the  way 
To  the  lurking-hole  of  this  hatcher  of  outrage. 
Seek,  if  thou  dare,  the  dreaded  spot! 
Richly  I  pay  thee  for  risking  this  fight,  1380 

With  heirlooms  golden  and  ancient  rings. 
As  I  paid  thee  before,  if  thou  come  back  alive." 

Beowulf  spoke,  the  son  of  Ecgtheow: 
"Sorrow  not  gray-beard,  nor  grieve  o'er  thy 

friend! 
Vengeance  is  better  than  bootless  mourning. 
To  each  of  us  here  the  end  must  come  1386 

Of  life  upon  earth:  let  him  who  may 
Win  glory  ere  death.    I  deem  that  best, 
The  lot  of  the  brave,  when  life  is  over. 
Rise,  O  realm-ward,  ride  we  in  haste,  1390 

To  track  the  hag  that  whelped  this  Grendel. 
I  tell  thee  in  truth,  she  may  turn  where  she  will, 
No  cave  of  ocean  nor  cover  of  wood. 
No  hole  in  the  ground  shall  hide  her  from  me. 
But  one  day  more  thy  woe  endure,  1395 

And  nurse  thy  hope  as  I  know  thou  wilt." 
Sprang  to  his  feet  the  sage  old  king. 
Gave  praise  to  God  for  the  promise  spoken. 
And  now  for  Hrothgar  a  horse  was  bridled, 
A  curly-maned  steed.    The  king  rode  on,     1400 
Bold  on  his  charger.    A  band  of  shield-men 
Followed  on  foot.    Afar  they  saw 
Footprints  leading  along  the  forest. 
They  followed  the  tracks,  and  found  she  had 

crossed 
Over  the  dark  moor,  dragging  the  body        1405 
Of   the   goodliest   thane   that   guarded   with 

Hrothgar 
Heorot  Hall,  and  the  home  of  the  king. 
The  well-born  hero  held  the  trail; 
Up  rugged  paths,  o'er  perilous  ridges, 
Through  passes  narrow,  an  unknown  way.  1410 
By  beetling  crags,  and  caves  of  the  nicors." 
He  went  before  with  a  chosen  few, 
Warriors  skilled,  to  scan  the  way. 
**       Sudden  they  came  on  a  cluster  of  trees 

Overhanging  a  hoary  rock,  1415 

A  gloomy  grove;  and  gurgling  below, 
A  stir  of  waters  all  stained  with  blood. 
Sick  at  heart  were  the  Scylding  chiefs, 
0.    Many  a  thane  was  thrilled  with  woe, 

For  there  they  beheld  the  head  of  iEschere  1420 
Far  beneath  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff. 

2  Sea-monsters,  water-goblina 


They  leaned  and  watched  the  waters  boil 
With  bloody  froth.    The  band  sat  down. 
While  the  war-horn  sang  its  summons  to  battle. 
They  saw  in  the  water  sea-snakes  a  many,    1425 
Wave-monsters  weird,  that  wallowed  about. 
At  the  base  of  the  cliff  lay  basking  the  nicors, 
Who  oft  at  sunrise  ply  seaward  their  journey, 
To  hunt  on  the  ship-trails  and  scour  the  main, 
Sea-beasts  and  serpents.    Sudden  they  fled,  1430 
Wrathful  and  grim,  aroused  by  the  hail 
Of  the  battle-horn  shrill.    The  chief  of  the  Jutes, 
With  a  bolt  from  his  bow  a  beast  did  sunder 
From  life  and  sea-frolic;  sent  the  keen  shaft 
Straight  to  his  vitals.    Slow  he  floated,         1435 
Upturned  and  dead  at  the  top  of  the  waves. 
Eager  they  boarded  their  ocean-quarry; 
With  barb-hooked  boar-spears  the  beast  they 

gaffed. 
Savagely  broached  him  and  brought  him  to 

shore. 
Wave-plunger  weird.    The  warriors  viewed 
The  grisly  stranger.    But  straightway  Beowulf 
Donned  his  corslet  nor  cared  for  his  life.  .  ,  .  1442 

To  Hrothgar  spoke  the  son  of  Ecgtheow:      1473 

"Remember  O  honored  heir  of  Healfdene, 

Now  that  I  go,  thou  noble  king. 

Warriors'  gold-friend,  what  we  agreed  on, 

If  I  my  life  should  lose  in  thy  cause, 

That  thou  wouldst  stand  in  stead  of  my  father,  , 

Fulfil  his  office  when  I  was  gone. 

Be  guardian  thou,  to  my  thanes  and  kinsmen. 

My  faithful  friends,  if  I  fail  to  return.  1481 

To  Hygelac  send,  Hrothgar  beloved. 

The  goodly  gifts  thou  gavest  to  me. 

May  the  Lord  of  the  Jutes,  when  he  looks  on 

this  treasure, 
May  Hrethel's  son,  when  he  sees  these  gifts, 
Know  that  I  found  a  noble  giver,  i486 

And  joyed  while  I  lived,  in  a  generous  lord. 
This  ancient  heirloom  to  Unferth  give, 
To  the  far-famed  warrior,  my  wondrous  sword 
Of  matchless  metal,  I  must  with  Hrunting  '  1490 
Glory  gain,  or  go  to  my  death." 

After  these  words  the  Weder-Jute  lord 
Sprang  to  his  task,  nor  staid  for  an  answer. 
Swiftly  he  sank  'neath  the  swirling  flood; 
'Twas  an  hour's  time  ere  he  touched  the  bot- 
tom. 1495 
Soon  the  sea-hag,  savage  and  wild, 
Who  had  roamed  through  her  watery  realms  at 

will. 
For  winters  a  hundred,  was  'ware  from  below 
An  earthling  had  entered  her  ocean  domain. 
Quickly  she  reached  and  caught  the  hero;      isoo 
Grappled  him  grimly  with  gruesome  claws. 
Yet  he  got  no  scratch,  his  skin  was  whole; 
His  battle-sark  shielded  his  body  from  harm. 
In  vain  she  tried,  with  her  crooked  fingers. 
To  tear  the  links  of  his  close-locked  mail.     1505 
Away  to  her  den  the  wolf-slut  dragged 
Beowulf  the  bold,  o'er  the  bottom  ooze. 
Though  eager  to  smite  her,  his  arm  was  help- ., 
less.  \ 

3  The  name  of  Beowiilf  *s  sword. 


I 


BEOWULF 


Swimming  monsters  swarmed  about  him, 
Dented  his  mail  with  dreadful  tusks.  1510 

Sudden  the  warrior  was  'ware  they  had  come 
To  a  sea-hall  strange  and  seeming  hostile, 
Where  water  was  not  nor  waves  oppressed, 
For  the  caverned  rock  all  round  kept  back 
The  swallowing  sea.    He  saw  a  light,  1515 

A  flicker  of  flame  that  flashed  and  shone. 
Now  first  he  discerned  the  sea-hag  monstrous, 
The  water-wife  wolfish.    His  weapon  he  raised. 
And  struck  with  his  sword  a  swinging  blow. 
Sang  on  her  head  the  hard-forged  blade        1520 
Its  war-song  wild.    But  the  warrior  found 
That  his  battle-flasher  refused  to  bite. 
Or  maim  the  foe.    It  failed  its  master 
In  the  hour  of  need,  though  oft  it  had  cloven 
Helmets,  and  carved  the  casques  of  the  doomed 
In  combats  fierce.    For  the  first  time  now     1526 
His  treasure  failed  him,  fallen  from  honor. 
But  Hygelac's  earl  took  heart  of  courage; 
In  mood  defiant  he  fronted  his  foe. 
The  angry  hero  hurled  to  the  ground,  1530 

In  high  disdain,  the  hilt  of  the  sword. 
The  gaudy  and  jewelled;  rejoiced  in  the  strength 
Of  his  arm  unaided.    So  all  should  do 
Who  glory  would  find  and  fame  abiding, 
In  the  crash  of  conflict,  nor  care  for  their  lives. 
The  Lord  of  the  Battle-Jutes  braved  the  en- 
counter; 1536 
.  The  murderous  hag  by  the  hair  he  caught; 
Do\vn  he  dragged  the  dam  of  Grendel 
In  his  swelling  rage,  tiU  she  sprawled  on  the 

floor. 
Quick  to  repay  in  kind  what  she  got,  1540 

On  her  foe  she  fastened  her  fearful  clutches; 
Enfolded  the  warrior  weary  with  fighting; 
The  sure-footed  hero  stumbled  and  fell. 
On  his  prostrate  body  she  squatted  enormous; 
Unsheathed  her  hip-knife,  shining  and  broad. 
Her  son  to  avenge,  her  offspring  sole.  1546 

But  the  close-linked  corslet  covered  his  breast, 
Foiled  the  stroke  and  saved  his  life. 
All  had  been  over  with  Ecgtheow's  son, 
Under  the  depths  of  the  Ocean  vast,  1550 

'Had  not  his  harness  availed  to  help  him. 
His  battle-net  stiff,  and  the  strength  of  God. 
The  Ruler  of  battles  aright  decided  it; 
The  Wielder  all- wise  awarded  the  victory: 
Lightly  the  hero  leaped  to  his  feet.  1555 

He  spied  'mongst  the  arms  a  sword  surpassing, 
Huge  and  ancient,  a  hard-forged  slayer. 
Weapon  matchless  and  warriors'  delight, 
Save  that  its  weight  was  more  than  another 
Might  bear  into  battle  or  brandish  in  war;    1560 
Giants  had  forged  that  finest  of  blades. 
Then   seized   its   chain-hilt   the  chief   of  the 

Scyldings; 
His  wrath  was  aroused,  reckless  his  mood. 
As  he  brandished  the  sword  for  a  savage  blow. 
Bit  the  blade  in  the  back  of  her  neck,  1565 

Cut  the  neck-bone,  and  cleft  its  way 
Clean   through   her   body;    she   sank   to   the 

ground; 
The  sword  was  gory;  glad  was  the  hero. 
A  light  flashed  out  from  the  inmost  den, 
Like  heaven's  candle,  when  clear  it  shines     1570 


From  cloudless  skies.    He  scanned  the  cave. 
Walked  by  the  wall,  his  weapon  upraised; 
Grim  in  his  hand  the  hilt  he  gripped. 
Well  that  sword  had  served  him  in  battle. 
Steadily  onward  he  strode  through  the  cave, 
Ready  to  wreak  the  wrongs  untold. 
That  the  man-beast  had  wrought  in  the  realm 
of  the  Danes.  ...  1579 

He    gave    him    his    due    when    Grendel    he 

found  1589 

Stretched  as  in  sleep,  and  spent  with  the  battle. 
But  dead  was  the  fiend,  the  fight  at  Heorot 
Had  laid  him  low.    The  lifeless  body 
Sprang  from  the  blows  of  Beowulf's  sword. 
As  fiercely  he  hacked  the  head  from  the  carcass. 

But  the  men  who  were  watchmg  the  water  with 
Hrothgar  1595 

Suddenly  saw  a  stir  in  the  waves. 
The  chop  of  the  sea  all  churned  up  with  blood 
And  bubbling  gore.    The  gray-haired  chiefs 
For  Beowulf  grieved,  agreeing  together 
That  hope  there  was  none  of  his  home-returning 
With  victory  crowned,  to  revisit  his  lord.    I601 
Most  of  them  feared  he  had  fallen  prey 
To  the  mere-wolf  dread  in  tne  depths  of  the  sea. 
When  evening  came,  the  Scyldings  all  1604 

Forsook  the  headland,  and  Hrothgar  himself 
Turned  homeward  his  steps.    But  sick  at  heart 
The  strangers  sat  and  stared  at  the  sea. 
Hoped  against  hope  to  behold  their  comrade 
And  leader  again. 

Now  that  goodly  sword 
Began  to  melt  with  the  gore  of  the  monster;  1610 
In  bloody  drippings  it  dwindled  away. 
'Twas  a  marvellous  sight:  it  melted  like  ice. 
When  fetters  of  frost  the  Father  unlocks. 
Unravels  the  ropes  of  the  wrinkled  ice. 
Lord  and  Master  of  months  and  seasons.       1615 
Beheld  in  the  hall  the  hero  from  Juteland 
Treasures  unnumbered,  but  naught  he  took. 
Save  Grendel' s  head,  and  the  hilt  of  the  sword. 
Bright  and  jeweled, — the  blade  had  melted. 
Its  metal  had  vanished,  so  venomous  hot     1620 
Was  the  blood  of  the  demon-brute  dead  in  the 
caver. 

Soon  was  in  the  sea  the  slayer  of  monsters; 
Upward  he  shot  through  the  shimmer  of  waves; 
Cleared  was  the  ocean,  cleansed  were  its  waters. 
The  wolfish  water-hag  wallowed  no  more;     1625 
The  mere- wife  had  yielded  her  miserable  life. 
Swift  to  the  shore  the  sailors'  deliverer 
Came  lustily  swimming,  with  sea-spoil  laden; 
Rejoiced  in  the  burden  he  bore  to  the  land. 
Ran  to  meet  him  his  mailed  comrades,  1630 

With  thanks  to  God  who  gave  them  their  leader 
Safe  again  back  and  sound  from  the  deep. 
Quickly  their  hero's  helmet  they  loosened. 
Unbuckled  his  breastplate.    The  blood-stained 

waves 
Fell  to  a  calm  'neath  the  quiet  sky.  1635 

Back  they  returned  o'er  the  tracks  with  the    ^ 

footprints, 
Merrily  measured  the  miles  o'er  the  fen. 
Way  they  knew  well,  those  warriors  brave; 


6 


FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 


Brought  from  the  holm-cliff  the  head  of  the 

monster; 
'Twas  toil  and  labor  to  lift  the  burden, 
Four  of  their  stoutest  scarce  could  carry  it 
Swung  from  a  spear-pole,  a  staggering  load. .  1638 
Thus  the  fourteen  of  them,  thanes  adventur- 
ous, 1641 
Marched  o'er  the  moor  to  the  mead-hall  of 

Hrothgar. 
Tall  in  the  midst  of  them  towered  the  hero; 
Strode  among  his  comrades,  till  they  came  to 

the  hall. 
In  went  Beowulf,  the  brave  and  victorious,  1645 
Battle-beast  hardy,  Hrothgar  to  greet. 
Lifting  by  the  hair  the  head  of  Grendel, 
They  laid  it  in  the  hall,  where  the  heroes  were 

carousing, 
Right  before  the  king,  and  right  before  the 

queen; 
Gruesome  was  the  sight  that  greeted  the  Danes. 

BEOWULF'S  LAST  FIGHT  AND  DEATH 

[Beowulf  left  with  the  Danes  his  grisly 
trophies  of  battle,  the  head  of  Grendel,  his 
huge  forequarter,  and  the  hilt  of  the  giant 
sword  with  its  mystical  runic  inscription. 
Loading  his  boat  with  the  gifts  of  Hrothgar, 
he  and  his  comrades  sailed  away  home.  After 
the  death  of  Hygelac  and  his  son,  Beowulf 
became  king  of  the  Jutes,  and  ruled  over  them 
fifty  years.  In  his  old  age  his  people  were 
harried  by  a  fire-dragon  whom  the  hero  went 
out  to  fight.  It  seems  that  an  outlaw,  banished 
and  flying  for  shelter,  had  come  upon  a  treas- 
ure hid  in  a  deep  cave  or  barrow,  guarded  by  a 
dragon.  Long  years  before,  an  earl,  the  last  of 
his  race,  had  buried  the  treasure.  After  his 
death  the  dragon,  sniffing  about  the  stones, 
had  found  it  and  guarded  it  three  hundred 
years,  until  the  banished  man  discovered  the 
place,  and  carried  off  one  of  the  golden  goblets. 
In  revenge  the  dragon  made  nightly  raids  on 
Beowulf's  realm,  flying  through  the  air,  spitting 
fire,  burning  houses  and  villages,  even  Beo- 
wulf's hall,  the  "gift-stool"  of  the  Jutes.  Beo- 
wulf had  an  iron  shield  made  against  the  dragon's 
fiery  breath,  and  with  eleven  companions, 
sought  out  the  hill-vault  near  the  sea.  Before 
attacking  the  monster  he  spoke  these  words 
to  his  comrades:] 

Beowulf  said  to  them,  brave  words  spoke  he: 

"  Brunt  of  battles  I  bore  in  my  youth,  2512 

One  fight  more  I  make  this  day. 

I  mean  to  win  fame  defending  my  people. 

If  the  grim  destroyer  will  seek  me  out,        2515 

Come  at  my  call  from  his  cavern  dark." 

Then  he  greeted  his  thanes  each  one, 

For  the  last  time  hailed  his  helmeted  warriors, 

His  comrades  dear.    "I  should  carry  no  sword. 

No  weapon  of  war  'gainst  the  worm  should  bear. 

If  the  foe  I  might  slay  by  strength  of  my  arm. 

As  Grendel  I  slew  long  since  by  my  hand.    2522 

But  I  look  to  fight  a  fiery  battle, 

With  scorching  puffs  of  poisonous  breath. 


For  this  I  bear  both  breastplate  and  shield;  2525 

No  foot  will  I  flinch  from  the  foe  of  the  barrow. 

Wyrd  is  over  us,  each  shall  meet 

His  doom  ordained  at  the  dragon-cliff! 

Bold  is  my  mood,  but  my  boast  I  omit 

'Gainst  the  battle-flier.    Abide  ye  here,       2530 

Heroes  in  harness,  hard  by  the  barrow, 

Cased  in  your  armor  the  issue  await: 

Which  of  us  two  his  wounds  shall  survive. 

Not  yours  the  attempt,  the  task  is  mine. 

'Tis  meant  for  no  man  but  me  alone  2535 

To  measure  his  might  'gainst  the  monster  fierce. 

I  get  you  the  gold  in  glorious  fight, 

Or  battle-death  bitter  shall  bear  off  your  lord." 

Uprose  with  his  shield  the  shining  hero. 
Bold  'neath  his  helmet.    He  bore  his  harness 
In  under  the  cliff;  alone  he  went,  2541 

Himself  he  trusted;  no  task  for  faint-heart. 
Then  saw  by  the  wall  the  warrior  brave, 
Hero  of  many  a  hard-fought  battle. 
Arches  of  stone  that  opened  a  way;  2545 

From  the  rocky  gate  there  gushed  a  stream. 
Bubbling  and  boiling  with  battle-fire. 
So  great  the  heat  no  hope  was  there 
To  come  at  the  hoard  in  the  cavern's  depth, 
Unscathed  by  the  blast  of  the  scorching  dragon. 
He  let  from  his  breast  his  battle-cry  leap,      2551 
Swoln  with  rage  was  the  royal  Jute, 
Stormed  the  stout-heart;  strong  and  clear 
Through  the  gloom  of  the  cave  his  cry  went 

ringing. 
Hate  was  aroused,  the  hoard-ward  knew       2555 
The  leader's  hail.    Too  late  'twas  now 
To  parley  for  peace.     The  poisonous  breath 
Of  the  monster  shot  from  the  mouth  of  the  cave, 
Reeking  hot.    The  hollow  earth  rumbled. 
The  man  by  the  rock  upraised  his  shield,       2560 
The  Lord  of  the  Jutes,   'gainst  the  loathly 

dragon. 
Now  kindled  for  battle  the  curled-up  beast; 
The  king  undaunted  with  drawn  sword  stood, 
('Twas  an  heirloom  olden  with  edge  of  lightning) 
Each  was  so  fierce  he  affrighted  the  other.     2565 
Towering  tall  'neath  tilted  shield. 
Waited  the  king  as  the  worm  coiled  back. 
Sudden  to  spring:  so  stood  he  and  waited. 
Blazing  he  came  in  coils  of  fire 
Swift  to  his  doom.    The  shield  of  iron  2570 

Sheltered  the  hero  too  short  a  while, — 
Life  and  limb  it  less  protected 
Than  he  hoped  it  would,  for  the  weapon  he  held 
First  time  that  day  he  tried  in  battle; 
Wyrd  had  not  willed  he  should  win  the  fight. 
But  the  Lord  of  the  Jutes  uplifted  his  arm,   2576 
Smote  the  scaly  worm,  struck  him  so  fierce 
That  his  ancient  bright-edged  blade  gave  way, 
Bent  on  the  bone,  and  bit  less  sure 
Than  its  owner  had  need  in  his  hour  of  peril. 2580 
That  sword-stroke  roused  the  wrath  of  the  cave- 
guard; 
Fire  and  flame  afar  he  spirted, 
Blaze  of  battle;  but  Beowulf  there 
No  victory  boasted:  his  blade  had  failed  him, 
Naked  in  battle,  as  never  it  should  have,       258f 
Well-tempered  iron!    Nor  easy  it  was  \ 

For  Ecgtheow's  heir,  honored  and  famous, 


BEOWULF 


This  earth  to  forsake,  forever  to  leave  it; 

Yet  he  must  go,  against  his  will 

Elsewhere  to  dwell.    So  we  all  must  leave   2590 

This  fleeting  life. — Erelong  the  foes 

Bursting  with  wrath  the  battle  renewed. 

The  hoard-ward  took  heart,  and  with  heaving 

breast 
Came  charging  amain.    The  champion  brave, 
Strength  of  his  people,  was  sore  oppressed,    2595 
Enfolded  by  flame.    No  faithful  comrades 
Crowded  about  him,  his  chosen  band, 
All  sethelings'  sons,  to  save  their  lives, 
Fled  to  the  wood.    One  of  them  only 
Felt  surging  sorrow;  for  nought  can  stifle   2600 
Call  of  kin  in  a  comrade  true; 
Wiglaf  his  name,  'twas  Weohstan's  son 
Shield-thane  beloved,  lord  of  the  Scylfings 
iElfhere's  kinsman.    When  his  king  he  saw 
Hard  by  the  heat  under  helmet  oppressed,  2605 
He  remembered  the  gifts  he  had  got  of  old. 
Lands  and  wealth  of  the  Waegmunding  line, 
The  folk-rights  all  that  his  father's  had  been; 
He  could  hold  no  longer,  but  hard  he  gripped 
Linden  shield  yeUow  and  ancient  sword.  . . .  2610 
For  the  first  time  there  the  faithful  thane,    2652 
Youthful  and  stalwart,  stood  with  his  leader, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  in  shock  of  battle. 
Nor  melted  his  courage,  nor  cracked  his  blade. 
His  war-sword  true,  as  the  worm  found  out  2656 
IWhen  together  they  got  in  grim  encounter. 

Wiglaf  in  wrath  upbraided  his  comrades, 
Sore  was  his  heart  as  he  spake  these  words: 
''Well  I  mind  when  our  mead  we  drank       2660 
In  the  princely  hall,  how  we  promised  our  lord 
Who  gave  us  these  rings  and  golden  armlets, 
That  we  would  repay  his  war-gifts  rich. 
Helmets  and  armor,  if  haply  should  come 
His  hour  of  peril ;  us  hath  he  made  2665 

Thanes  of  his  choice  for  this  adventure; 
Spurred  us  to  glory,  and  gave  us  these  treasures 
Because  he  deemed  us  doughty  spearmen, 
Helmeted  warriors,  hardy  and  brave. 
Yet  all  the  while,  unhelped  and  alone,  2670 

He  meant  to  finish  this  feat  of  strength, 
Shepherd  of  men  and  mightiest  lord 
Of  daring  deeds.    The  day  is  come,^ 
Now  is  the  hour  he  needs  the  aid 
Of  spearmen  good.    Let  us  go  to  him  now,    2675 
Help  our  hero  while  hard  bestead 
By  the  nimble  flames.    God  knows  that  I 
Had  rather  the  fire  should  ruthlessly  fold 
My  body  with  his,  than  harbor  me  safe. 
Shame  it  were  surely  our  shields  to  carry   2680 
Home  to  our  lands,  unless  we  first 
Slay  this  foe  and  save  the  life 
Of  the  Weder-king.    Full  well  I  know 
To  leave  him  thus,  alone  to  endure, 
Bereft  of  aid,  breaks  ancient  right.  2685 

My  helmet  and  sword  shall  serve  for  us  both. 
Shield  and  armor  we  share  to-day." 

Waded  the  warrior  through  welter  and  reek; 
Buckler  and  helmet  he  bore  to  his  leader; 
Heartened  the  hero  with  words  of  hope:       2690 
"Do  thy  best  now,  dearest  Beowulf, 


Years  ago,  in  youth,  thou  vowedst 
Living,  ne'er  to  lose  thine  honor, 
Shield  thy  life  and  show  thy  valor. 
I  stand  by  thee  to  the  end!"  2695 

After  these  words  the  worm  came  on, 
Snorting  with  rage,  for  a  second  charge; 
All  mottled  with  fire  his  foes  he  sought. 
The  warriors  hated.    But  Wiglaf's  shield 
Was  burnt  to  the  boss  by  the  billows  of  fire; 
His  harness  helped  not  the  hero  young.         2701 
Shelter  he  found  'neath  the  shield  of  his  kins- 
man. 
When  the  crackling  blaze  had  crumbled  his  own: 
But  mindful  of  glory,  the  mighty  hero 
Smote  amain  with  his  matchless  sword.        2705 
Down  it  hurtled,  driven  by  anger, 
Till  it  stuck  in  the  skull,  then  snapped  the  blade. 
Broken  was  Nsegling,  Beowulf's  sword. 
Ancient  and  gray.     'Twas  granted  him  never 
To  count  on  edge  of  iron  in  battle;  2710 

His  hand  was  too  heavy,  too  hard  his  strokes, 
As  I  have  heard  tell,  for  every  blade 
He  brandished  in  battle:  the  best  gave  way. 
And  left  him  helpless  and  hard  bestead. 
Now  for  a  third  time  neared  the  destroyer;  2715 
The  fire-drake  fierce,  old  feuds  renlembering, 
Charged  the  warrior  who  wavered  an  instant; 
Blazing  he  came  and  closed  his  fangs 
On  Beowulf's  throat;  and  throbbing  spirts 
Of  life-blood  dark  o'erdrenched  the  hero.      2720 

Then  in  the  hour  of  utmost  peril, 
The  stripling  proved  what  stock  he  came  of; 
Showed  his  endurance  and  dauntless  courage. 
Though  burnt  was  his  hand  when  he  backed  his 

kinsman. 
With  head  unguarded  the  good  thane  charged, 
Thrust  from  below  at  the  loathly  dragon,      2726 
Pierced  with  the  point  and  plunged  the  blade  in, 
The  gleaming-bright,  till  the  glow  abated 
Waning  low.    Ere  long  the  king 
Came  to  himself,  and  swiftly  drew  2730 

The  war-knife  that  hung  at  his  harness'  side. 
And  cut  in  two  the  coiled  monster. 
So  felled  they  the  foe  and  finished  him  bravely. 
Together  they  killed  him,  the  kinsmen  two, 
A  noble  pair.    So  needs  must  do  2735 

Comrades  in  peril.    For  the  king  it  proved 
His  uttermost  triumph,  the  end  of  his  deeds 
And  work  in  the  world.     The  wound  began, 
Where  the  cave-dragon  savage  had  sunk  his 

teeth. 
To  swell  and  fever,  and  soon  he  felt  2740 

The  baleful  poison  pulse  through  his  blood, 
And  burn  in  his  breast.    The  brave  old  warrior 
Sat  by  the  wall  and  summoned  his  thoughts. 
Gazed  on  the  wondrous  work  of  the  giants: 
Arches  of  stone,  firm-set  on  their  pillars,        2745 
Upheld  that  hill-vault  hoar  and  ancient. 

Now  Beowulf's  thane,  the  brave  and  faithful, 
Dashed  with  water  his  darling  lord, 
His  comrade  and  king  all  covered  with  blood 
And  faint  with  the  fight;  unfastened  his  helmet. 
Beowulf  spoke  despite  his  hurt,  2751 

His  piteous  wound.   Full  well  he  knew 


8        FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 


His  years  on  earth  were  ended  now, 

His  hours  of  glad  life  gone  for  aye, 

His  days  alloted,  and  death  was  near:  2755 

"  Now  would  I  gladly  give  to  a  son 

These  weapons  of  war,  had  WjTd  ^  but  granted 

That  heir  of  my  own  should  after  me  come, 

Sprung  from  my  loins.    This  land  have  I  ruled 

Fifty  winters.    No  follc-king  dared,  2760 

None  of  the  chiefs  of  the  neighboring  tribes, 

To  touch  me  with  sword  or  assail  me  with  terror 

Of  battle-threats.    I  bided  at  home, 

Held  my  peace  and  my  heritage  kept. 

Seeking  no  feuds  nor  swearing  false  oaths.    2765 

This  gives  me  comfort,  and  gladdojas  me  now, 

Though  wounded  sore  and  sick  unto  death. 

As  I  leave  my  life  the  Lord  may  not  charge  me 

With  kiUing  of  kinsmen.     Now  quickly  go, 

Wiglaf  beloved,  to  look  at  the  hoard,  2770 

Where  hidden  it  rests  'neath  the  hoary  rock. 

For  the  worm  lies  still,  put  asleep  by  his  wound. 

Robbed  of  his  riches.     Then  rise  and  haste! 

Give  me  to  see  that  golden  hoard. 

Gaze  on  the  store  of  glorious  gems,  2775 

That  easier  then  I  may  end  my  life, 

Leave  my  lordship  that  long  I  held." 

Swiftly,  'tis  said,  the  son  of  Weohstan 
Obeyed  the  words  of  his  bleeding  lord. 
Maimed  in  the  battle.    Through  the  mouth  of 

the  cave  2780 

Boldly  he  bore  his  battle-net  in. 
Glad  of  the  victory,  he  gazed  about  him; 
Many  a  sun-bright  jewel  he  saw; 
Glittering  gold,  strewn  on  the  ground. 
Heaped  in  the  den  of  the  dragon  hoary,     2785 
Old  twilight-flier, — flagons  once  bright. 
Wassail  cups  wondrous  of  warriors  departed 
Stript  of  their  mountings,  many  a  helmet 
Ancient  and  rusted,  armlets  a  many. 
Curiously  woven.    (Wealth  so  hoarded,        2790 
Buried  treasure,  will  taint  with  pride, 
Him  that  hides  it,  whoever  it  be.) 
Towering  high  o'er  the  hoard  he  saw 
A  gleaming  banner  with  gold  inwoven. 
Of  broidure  rare,  its  radiance  streamed         2795 
So  bright,  he  could  peer  to  the  bounds  of  the  cave. 
Survey  its  wonders;  no  worm  was  seen. 
Edge  of  the  sword  had  ended  his  life. 
Then,  as  they  say,  that  single  adventurer 
Plundered  the  hoard  that  was  piled  by  the 

giants  2800 

Gathered  together  old  goblets  and  platters, 
Took  what  he  liked;  the  towering  banner 
Brightest  of  beacons  he  brought  likewise 2776 

So  Wiglaf  returned  with  treasure  laden        2783 
The  high-souled  hero  hastened  his  steps. 
Anxiously  wondered  if  he  should  find  2785 

The  lord  of  the  Weders  alive  where  he  left  him 
Sapped  of  his  strength  and  stretched  on  the 

ground. 
As  he  came  from  the  hill  he  beheld  his  comrade. 
His  lord  of  bounty,  bleeding  and  faint, 
Near  unto  death.    He  dashed  him  once  more 
Bravely  with  water,  till  burden  of  speech      2791 
Broke  from  his  breast,  and  Beowulf  spoke, 
1  The  Goddess  of  Fate. 


Gazing  sad  at  the  gold  before  him: 

"For  the  harvest  of  gold  that  here  I  look  on, 

To  the  God  of  Glory  I  give  my  thanks.         279S 

To  the  Ruler  Eternal  I  render  praise 

That  ere  I  must  go  he  granted  me  this. 

To  leave  to  my  people  this  priceless  hoard. 

'Twas  bought  with  my  life;  now  look  ye  well 

To  my  people's  need  when  1  have  departed.  2800 

No  more  I  may  bide  among  ye  here. 

Bid  the  battle-famed  build  on  the  foreland 

A  far-seen  barrow  when  flames  have  burnt  me. 

High  o'er  the  headland  of  whales  it  shall  tower, 

A  beacon  and  mark  to  remind  my  people.    2806 

And  sailors  shall  call  it  in  years  to  come 

Beowulf's  Barrow  as  back  from  afar 

O'er  the  glooming  deep  they  drive  their  keels." 

The  great-hearted  king  unclasped  from  his 
neck  2810 

A  collar  of  gold,  and  gave  to  his  thane, 
The  brave  young  warrior,  his  bright-gilt  helmet. 
Breastplate  and  ring.    So  bade  him  farewell: 
"Thou  art  the  last  to  be  left  of  our  house. 
Wyrd  hath  o'erwhelmed  our  Wsegmunding  line, 
Swept  my  kinsmen  swift  to  their  doom,        2816 
Earls  in  their  prime.    I  must  follow  them." 
These  words  were  the  last  that  the  warrior  gray 
Found  in  his  heart  ere  the  flames  he  chose. 
Swift  from  his  bosom  his  soul  departed        2820 
To  find  the  reward  of  the  faithful  and  true. 


C^DMON'S  HYMN 

(c.  670) 

(Translated  by  P.  V.  D.  Shelly) 

Now  shall  we  hymn  high  heaven's  Ward, 

The  might  of  the  Maker,  His  mind's  desire. 

The  works  of  the  Father;  how  of  wonders  each 

one 
He,  Lord  everlasting,  laid  the  foundation. 
First  He  framed  for  the  first-born  of  men        5 
Heaven  for  a  roof,  holy  Creator. 
Shaped  He  then  earth,  Shield  of  mankind, 
God  immortal,  and  made  thereafter 
Fields  for  the  folk.  Father  almighty. 

BEDE'S  DEATH-SONG 
(Translated  by  P.  V.  D.  Shelly) 
No  man  becomes,  before  death  calls  him, 
Wiser  in  thought  than  then  he  needs  be 
Well  to  consider,  ere  the  thread's  severed, 
What  to  his  ghost,  of  good  or  of  evil. 
After  the  death-day  is  destined  by  doom.        5 

THE  DROWNING  OF  THE  EGYPTIANS 

(From  the  Exodus.^    Translated  by 

J.  D.  Spaeth.) 

The  host  was  harrowed  with  horror  of  drowning; 

Sea-de^th  menaced  their  miserable  souls.       448 

1  The  Exodus,  a  poem  of  589  lines,  is  the  oldest  extant 
epic  of  a  series  on  Biblical  subjects,  written  apparently 
in  the  north  of  England.  No  exact  date  can  be  given, 
but  it  was  evidently  written  before  the  time  of  King  Al- , 
fred  (871-901).  \^ 


CYNEWULF 


9 


The  slopes  of  the  hill-sides  were  splashed  with 

blood. 
There  was  woe  on  the  waters,  the  waves  spat 

gore;  450 

They  were  full  of  weapons,  and  frothed  with 

slaughter. 
Back  were  beaten  the  bold  Egyptians, 
Fled  in  fear;  they  were  filled  with  terror. 
Headlong  they  hastened  their  homes  to  seek. 
Less  bold  were  their  boasts  as  the  billows  rolled 

o'er  them,  455 

Dread  welter  of  waves.    Not  one  of  that  army 
Went  again  home,  but  Wyrd  from  behind 
Barred  with  billows  their  backward  path. 
Where  ways  had  lain,  now  weltered  the  sea, 
The  swelling  flood.    The  storm  went  up  460 

High  to  the  heavens;  hugest  of  uproars 
Darkened  the  sky;  the  dying  shrieked 
^ith  voices  doomed.    The  Deep  streamed  with 

blood. 
Shield-walls  were  shattered  by  shock  of  the 

tempest. 
Greatest  of  sea-deaths  engulfed  the  mighty,   465 
Captains  and  troops.    Retreat  was  cut  off 
At   the   ocean's   brink.     Their   battle-shields 

gleamed 
High  o'er  their  heads  as  the  heaped-up  waters 
Compassed  them  round,  the  raging  flood. 
Doomed  was  the  host,  by  death  hemmed  in,  470 
Suddenly  trapped.    The  salty  billows 
Swept  with  their  swirling  the  sand  from  their 

feet, 
As  the  Ocean  cold  to  its  ancient  bed. 
Through  winding  channels  the  churning  flood. 
Came  rolling  back  o'er  the  rippled  bottom,    475 
Swift  avenger,  naked  and  wild. 
With  slaughter  was  streaked  the  storm-dark  air; 
The  bursting  deep  with  blood-terror  yawned, 
When  He  who  made  it,  by  Moses'  hand 
Unbitted  the  wrath  of  the  raging  flood ;  480 

Wide  it  came  sweeping  to  swallow  the  foe; 
Foamed  the  waters,  the  fated  sank; 
Earth  was  o'erwhelmed,  the  air  was  darkened; 
Burst  the  wave- walls,  the  bulwarks  tumbled; 
The  sea-towers  melted,  when  the  Mighty  One 

smote  485 

The  pride  of  the  host,  through  the  pillar  of  fire, 
With  holy  hand  from  heaven  above. 
The  onslaught  wild  of  the  angry  main 
None  might  oppose.    He  appointed  their  end 
In  the  roaring  horror.    Wroth  was  the  sea:  490 
Up  it  rose,  down  it  smote,  dealing  destruction. 
Slaughter-blood  spread,  the  sea-wall  fell, 
Upreared  on  high,  the  handiwork  of  God, 
When  the  ocean  He  smote  with  His  ancient 

sword, 
Felled  the  defence  of  the  foam-breasted  waves. 
With  the  death-blow  deep,  the  doomed  men 

slept.  496 

The  army  of  sinners  their  souls  gave  up, 
The  sea-pale  host,  ensnared  and  surrounded. 
When  the  dark  upheaval  o'erwhelmed  them  all, 
Hugest  of  wild  waves.  The  host  sank  down, 
Pharaoh  and  his  folk,  the  flower  of  Egypt  501 
Utterly  perished.  The  enemy  of  God 
Soon  discovered,  when  the  sea  he  entered, 


That  the  ocean's  master  was  mightier  than  he. 

By  the  strength  of  His  arm  He  decided  the  battle, 

Wrathful  and  grim.    He  gave  the  Egyptians  506 

Thorough  reward  for  that  day's  work. 

Not  one  of  that  host  to  his  home  came  back; 

Of  all  those  warriors  not  one  returned 

To  bring  the  news  of  the  battle's  end,  5li 

To  tell  in  the  towns  the  tidings  of  woe, 

Their  husbands'  doom  to  the  heroes'  wives. 

How  sea-death  swallowed  the  stately  host, — 

No  messenger  left.    The  Lord  Almighty 

Confounded  their  boasting;  they  fought  against 

God.  515 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE 

(From  The  Crist.    Translated  by  J.  D.  Spaeth.) 

Our  life  is  likest  a  long  sea-voyage :  850 

O'er  the  water  cold  in  our  keels  we  glide, 

O'er  Ocean's  streams,  in  our  stallions  of  the 

deep 
We  drive  afar.    'Tis  a  dreary  waste 
Of  ceaseless  surges  we  sail  across. 
In  this  wavering  world,  o'er  wind-swept  tracts 
Of  open  sea.    Anxious  the  struggle,  856 

Ere  we  bring  at  last  our  barks  to  land. 
O'er  the  rough  sea-ridges.    Our  rescue  is  near; 
The  Son  of  God  doth  safely  guide  us, 
Helps  us  into  our  harbor  of  refuge;  860 

Shows  from  the  deck  the  sheltered  waters 
Where  smoothly  to  anchor  our  ancient  chargers, 
Hold  with  the  hawsers  our  horses  of  the  deep. 
Then  fix  we  our  hope  on  that  haven  of  safety 
That  the  Prince  of  Glory  prepared  for  us  all,  865 
The  Ruler  on  high,  when  He  rose  to  heaven. 


DOOMSDAY 

(From  The  Crist.   Translated  by  J.  D.  Spaeth.) 

Lo!  on  a  sudden,  and  all  unlooked  for. 

In  the  dead  of  the  night,  the  day  of  the  Lord 

Shall  break  tremendous  on  man  and  beast, 

O'erwhelming  the  world  and  the  wide  creation, 
As  a  ruthless  robber,  ranging  at  night,  871 

Who  strides  through  the  dark  with  stealthy 

pace. 
And  suddenly  springs  on  sleep-bound  heroes, 
Greets  with  violence  his  victims  unguarded. 

A  mighty  host  on  the  mount  of  Sion  876 

Shall  gather  together  glad  and  rejoicing 
The  faithful  of  the  Lord,  they  shall  find  their 
reward. 

With  one  accord  from  the  quarters  four, 
And  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  at  once, 
Glorious  angels  together  shall  blow  880 

Their  shattering  trumpets;  the  trembling  earth 
Shall  shake  and  sink,  as  they  sound  together, 

1  Cynewiilf,  the  greatest  early  poet  of  the  north  of 
England,  lived  probably  in  Northumbria  at  the  end  of 
the  8th  century.  The  Christ,  from  which  the  two  selec- 
tions are  taken,  is  his  chief  poem;  it  is  1664  Unea  long 
and  consists  of  three  parts,  The  Advent,  The  Ascension, 
and  Doomsday. 


10       FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 


Piercing  strong  to  the  starry  track. 
Their  music  swells  from  the  South  and  North, 
From  East  and  from  West,  o'er  the  world's 
wide  round.  885 

They  wake  from  the  dead  to  the  day  of  judge- 
ment 
The  children  of  men,  with  their  challenge  dread. 
Out  of  their  ancient  earth  and  mold, 
Forth  from  their  sleep  profound  they  wake 

them. 
Howling  with  fear  they  shall  huddle  and  flock, 
Moaning  and  groaning,  aghast  with  terror,  891 
Bewailing  the  deeds  that  were  done  in  the  body. 

Eye  hath  not  seen  a  sight  more  awful, 
To  men  shall  appear  no  portent  more  dread: 
Sinners  and  saints  in  strange  confusion,        895 
Mingled    together    shall    mount    from    their 

graves, 
The  bright  and  the  black:  for  both  shall  arise, 
Some  fair,  some  foul,  as  foreordained 
To  different  home,  of  devils  or  angels. 

From  South  and  East  o'er  Sion's  top,  900 

In  sudden  radiance  the  sun  shall  flame 
From  the  throne  of  God;  more  gleaming-bright. 
Than  man  may  imagine,  or  mind  conceive. 
Resplendent  it  shines,  as  the  Son  of  God 
Dazzling  breaks  through  the  dome  of  heaven. 
Glorious  appears  the  presence  of  Christ,       906 
The  King  as  He  comes  through  the  clouds  in 

the  East, 
Merciful  and  mild  in  mind  to  his  own. 
But  with  altered  mood  of  anger  toward  the 

wicked: 
Unlike  His  looks  for  the  lost  and  the  blest.     910 

The  greedy  spirit  of  consuming  flame 
Shall  leap  o'er  the  land,  and  the  lofty  halls; 
With  the  terror  of  fire  shall  fill  the  world. 
The  battle-thirsty  flame  shall  blaze  afar. 
Devouring  the  earth,  and  all  therein.  915 

Strong-built  walls  shall  split  and  crumble; 
Mountains  shall  melt,  and  the  mighty  cliffs 
That  buttress  the  earth  'gainst  battering  waves. 
Bulwarks  upreared  'gainst  the  rolling  billows, 
Shall  fall  on  a  sudden.    The  sweep  of  the  fire 
Shall  leave  no  bird  nor  beast  alive.  921 

The  lurid  flame  shall  leap  along  the  world 
Like  a  raging  warrior.    Where  the  waters  flowed 
In  a  bath  of  fire  the  fish  shall  be  stifled; 
Sundered  from  life,  their  struggles  over,        925 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  no  more  shall  swim. 
Like  molten  wax  the  water  shall  bum. 
More  marvels  shall  appear  than  mind  may  con- 
ceive. 
When  tempest  and  whirlwind  o'erwhelm  the 

earth. 
And  rocks  are  riven  by  the  roaring  blast.       930 
Men  shall  wail,  they  shall  weep  and  lament, 
Groan  aghast  with  grovelling  fear. 
The  smoke-dark  flame  o'er  the  sinful  shall  roll. 
The  blaze  shall  consume  their  beakers  of  gold. 
All  the  ancient  heirlooms  of  kings.  935 

The  shrieks  of  the  living  aloud  shall  resound 
Mid  the  crack  of  doom,  their  cry  of  fear, 


Their  howl  of  despair,  as  they  struggle  to  hide. 
No  guilty  wretch  shall  refuge  find. 
Not  one  shall  escape  the  scorching  flame;     940 
On  all  it  shall  seize,  as  it  sweeps  through  the 

world. 
It  shall  leap  and  run  and  ruthlessly  bore 
In  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  it  shall  burn  aloft, 
Till  the  ancient  stains  of  earthly  sin 
By  the  purging  billows  are  burnt  away.        943 


THE  RUINi 
(Translated  by  Stoppord  A.  Brooke) 

Wondrous  is  its  wall  of  stone.    Weirds^  have 

shattered  it! 
Broken  are  the  burg-steads!    Crumbled  is  the 

giants'  work. 
Fallen  are  the  roof  beams;  ruined  are  the 

towers; 
All  undone  the  door-pierced  towers;  frozen  dew 

is  on  their  plaster! 
Shorn  away  and  sunken  down  are  the  sheltering 

battlements,  5 

Undereaten  of  Old  Age!    Earth  is  holding  in 

its  clutch 
These,  the  power-wielding  workers;  all  forworn 

are  they,  forlorn  in  death  are  they! 
Hard  the  grip  was  of  the  ground,  while  a  hun- 
dred generations 
Move  away  of  men.    Long  its  wall  abode 
Through  the  rule  that  followed  rule,  ruddy 

stained,  and  gray  as  goat,  lO 

Under  storm-skies  steady!     Steep  the  court 

that  feU, 
Still  it  falleth  .  .  .  (skilful  ancient  work  it 

was)! 
Strong  in  rede,'   (the  builder  strengthened), 

strong  of  heart,  in  chains  he  bound 
All  the  wall-uprights  with  wires,  wondrous- 
wrought  together! 
Brilliant  were  the  burg-steads,  burn-fed  houses^ 

many;  15 

High  the  heap  of  horned  gables,  of  the  host  a 

mickle  sound, 
Many  were  the  mead-halls,  full  of  mirth  of  men, 
Till  the  strong-willed  Wyrd  whirled  that  all  to 

change! 
In  a  slaughter  wide  they  fell,  woeful  days  of 

bale  came  on; 
Famine-death  fortook  fortitude  from  men;     20 
All  their  battle  bulwarks  bare  foundations  were! 
Crumbled  is  the  castle-keep;  those  have  cringed 

to  earth 
Who  set  up  again  the  shrines!    So  the  halls  are 

dreary. 
And  this  courtyard's  wide  expanse!    From  the 

raftered  woodwork 

^  The  Ruin  here  described  is  supposed  to  be  that  of 
one  of  the  walled  towns  of  Roman-Britain,  probably 
Bath.  The  date  of  the  poem  is  unknown,  but  its  lan- 
guage is  later  than  that  of  Cynewulf. 

2  The  Fates. 

'  Counsel,  judgment. 

<  Houses  fed  by  springs  of  water.    This  passage,  and 
the  reference  to  the  hot  baths  in  lines  34-35  support 
the  view  that  the  city  was  Bath,  where  the  ruins  of   \ 
Roman  baths  may  still  be  seen. 


(See)  the  roof  has  shed  its  tiles!    To  ruin  sank 

the  market-place,  25 

Broken  up  to  barrows;  many  a  brave  man  there, 
Glad    of    yore,    and    gold-bright,    gloriously 

adorned. 
Hot  with  wine  and  haughty,  in  war-harness 

shone; — 
Saw  upon  his  silver,  on  set  gems  and  treasure. 
On  his  welfare  and  his  wealth,  on  his  winsome 

jewels,  30 

On  this  brightsome  burg  of  a  broad  dominion! — 
There  the  stone-courts  stood;  hotly  surged  the 

stream, 
With  a  widening  whirling;  and  a  wall  enclosed 

it  all. 
With  its  bosom  bright.    There  the  baths  were 

set 
Hot  within  their  heart;  fit  [for  health]  it  was!  35 

THE  WANDERER* 

(Translated  by  Emily  H.  Hickey) 

*  Still  the  lone  one  and  desolate  waits  for  his 

Maker's  ruth — 
God's  good  mercy,  albeit  so  long  it  tarry,  in 

sooth. 
Careworn  and  sad  of  heart,  on  the  watery  ways 

must  he 
Plow  with  the  hand-grasped  oar — ^how  long? — 

the  rime-cold  sea. 
Tread  thy  paths  of  exile,  O  Fate,  who  art 

cruelty.'  5 

Thus  did  a  wanderer  speak,  being  heart-full 

of  woe,  and  all 
Thoughts  of  the  cruel  slayings,  and  pleasant 

comrades'  fall: 
'Morn  by  mom  I,  alone,  am  fain  to  utter  my 

woe; 
Now  is  there  none  of  the  living  to  whom  I  dare 

to  show 
Plainly  the  thought  of  my  heart;  in  very  sooth 

I  know  10 

Excellent  is  it  in  man   that   his   breast  he 

straightly  bind, 
Shut  fast  his  thinkings  in  silence,  whatever  he 

have  in  his  mind. 
The  man  that  is  weary  in  heart,  he  never  can 

fate  withstand; 
The  man  that  grieves  in  his  spirit,  he  finds  not 

the  helper's  hand. 
Therefore  the  glory-grasper  full  heavy  of  soul 

may  be.  15 

So,  far  from  my  fatherland,  and  mine  own 

good  kinsmen  free, 
I  must  bind  my  heart  in  fetters,  for  long,  ah! 

long  ago, 
The  earth's  cold  darkness  covered  my  giver  of 

gold  brought  low; 
And  I,  sore  stricken  and  humbled,  and  winter- 
saddened,  went 
Far  over  the  frost-bound  waves  to  seek  for  the 

dear  content  20 

Of  the  hall  of  the  giver  of  rings;  but  far  nor 

near  could  I  find 


THE  WANDERER 


11 


Who  felt  the  love  of  the  mead-hall,  or  who  with 

comforts  kind 
Would  comfort  me,  the  friendless.     'Tis  he 

alone  will  know 
Who  knows,  being  desolate  too,  how  evil  a 

fere*  is  woe; 
For  him  the  path  of  the  exile,  and  not  the 

twisted  gold;  25 

For  him  the  frost  in  his  bosom,  and  not  earth- 
riches  old. 
*  O,  well  he  remembers  the  hall-men,  the  treasure 

bestowed  in  the  hall; 
The  feast  that  his  gold-giver  made  him,  the 

joy  at  its  height,  at  its  fall; 
He  knows  who  must  be  forlorn  for  his  dear 

lord's  counsels  gone, 
Where  sleep  and  sorrow  together  are  binding 

the  lonely  one;  30 

When  himthinks  he  clasps  and  kisses  his  leader 

of  men,  and  lays 
His  hands  and  head  on  his  knee,  as  when,  in  the 

good  yore-days, 
He  sat  on  the  throne  of  his  might,  in  the 

strength  that  wins  and  saves. 
But  the  friendless  man  awakes,  and  he  sees  the 

yellow  waves, 
And  the  sea-birds  dip  to  the  sea,  and  broaden 

their  wings  to  the  gale,  35 

And  he  sees  the  dreary  rime,  and  the  snow  com- 
mingled with  hail. 
O,  then  are  the  wounds  of  his  heart  the  sorer 

much  for  this. 
The  grief  for  the  loved  and  lost  made  new  by 

the  dream  of  old  bliss. 
His  kinsmen's  memory  comes  to  him  as  he  lies 


1  Date  and  author  unknown, 
or  9th  century. 


Attributed  to  the  8th 


And  he  greets  it  with  joy,  with  joy,  and  the 

heart  in  his  breast  doth  leap;  40 

But  out  of  his  ken  the  shapes  of  his  warrior- 
comrades  swim 
To  the  land  whence  seafarers  bring  no  dear  old 

saws  for  him; 
Then  fresh  grows  sorrow  and  new  to  him  whose 

bitter  part 
Is  to  send  o'er  the  frost-bound  waves  full  often 

his  weary  heart. 
For  this  do  I  look  around  this  world,  and  cannot 

see  45 

Wherefore  or  why  my  heart  should  not  grow 

dark  in  me. 
When  I  think  of  the  lives  of  the  leaders,  the 

clansmen  mighty  in  mood; 
When  I  think  how  sudden  and  swift  they 

yielded  the  place  where  they  stood. 
So  droops  this  mid-earth  and  falls,  and  never  a 

man  is  found 
Wise  ere  a  many  winters  have  girt  his  life 

around.  50 

Full  patient  the  sage  must  be,  and  he  that 

would  counsel  teach — 
Not  over-hot  in  his  heart,  nor  over-swift  in  his 

speech; 
Nor  faint  of  soul  nor  secure,  nor  fain  for  the 

fight  nor  afraid; 

2  Companion. 


12        FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 


Nor  ready  to  boast  before  he  know  himself  well 

arrayed. 
The  proud-souled  man   must  bide  when  he 

utters  his  vaunt,  until  55 

He  know  of  the  thoughts  of  the  heart,  and 

whitherward  turn  they  will. 
The  prudent  must  understand  how  terror  and 

awe  shall  be, 
When  the  glory  and  weal  of  the  world  lie  waste, 

as  now  men  see 
On  our  mid-earth  many  a  where,  the  wind- 
swept walls  arise, 
And  the  ruined  dwellings  and  void,  and  the 

rime  that  on  them  lies.  60 

The  wine-halls  crumble,  bereft  of  joy  the  war- 
riors lie. 
The  flower  of  the  doughty  fallen,  the  proud 

ones  fair  to  the  eye. 
War  took  off  some  in  death,  and  one  did  a 

strong  bird  bear 
Over  the  deep;  and  one — his  bones  did  the  grey 

wolf  share; 
And  one  was  hid  in  a  cave  by  a  comrade  sorrow- 
ful-faced. 65 
O,  thus  the  Shaper  of  men  hath  laid  the  earth  all 

waste. 
Till  the  works  of  the  city-dwellers,  the  works  of 

the  giants  of  earth, 
Stood  empty  and  lorn  of  the  burst  of  the 

mighty  revellers'  mirth. 
'Who  wisely  hath  mused  on  this  wallstead,  and 

ponders  this  dark  life  well 
In  his  heart  he  hath  often  bethought  him  of 

slayings  many  and  fell,  70 

And  these  be  the  words  he  taketh,  the  thoughts 

of  his  heart  to  tell: 
"Where  is  the  horse  and  the  rider?    Where  is 

the  giver  of  gold? 
Where  be  the  seats  at  the  banquet?    Where  be 

the  hall-joys  of  old? 
Alas  for  the  burnished  cup,  for  the  bymied' 

chief  to-day! 
Alas  for  the  strength  of  the  prince!  for  the  time 

hath  passed  away —  75 

Is  hid  'neath  the  shadow  of  night,  as  it  never 

had  been  at  all. 
Behind  the  dear  and  doughty  there  standeth 

now  a  wall, 
A  wall  that  is  wondrous  high,  and  with  won- 
drous snake-work  wrought. 
The  strength  of  the  spears  hath  fordone  the 

earls  and  hath  made  them  naught. 
The  weapons  greedy  of  slaughter,  and  she,  the 

mighty  Wyrd;  80 

And  the  tempests  beat  on  the  rocks,  and  the 

storm-wind  that  maketh  afeard — 
The  terrible  storm  that  fetters  the  earth,  the 

winter-bale, 
When  the  shadow  of  night  falls  wan,  and  wild  is 

the  rush  of  the  hail. 
The  cruel  rush  from  the  north,  which  maketh 

men  to  quail. 
Hardship-full  is  the  earth,  o'ertumed  when  the 

stark  Wyrds  say:  85 

«  Byrnied  chief,  i.  e.,  chief  arrayed  in  his  "byrnie,"  or 
war-shirt. 


Here  is  the  passing  of  riches,  here  friends  are 

passing  away; 
And  men  and  kinsfolk  pass,  and  nothing  and 

none  may  stay; 
And  all  this  earth-stead  here  shall  be  empty 

and  void  one  day."  .  .  .' 

THE  SEAFARERi 
(Translated  by  Henry  Morley) 
"I  may  sing  of  myself  now 
A  song  that  is  true, 
Can  tell  of  wide  travel, 
The  toil  of  hard  days; 
How  oft  through  long  seasons  5 

I  suffered  and  strove. 
Abiding  within  my  breast 
Bitterest  care; 

How  I  sailed  among  sorrows 
In  many  a  sea; 
The  wild  rise  of  the  waves, 
The  close  watch  of  the  night 
At  the  dark  prow  in  danger 
Of  dashing  on  rock. 
Folded  in  by  the  frost. 
My  feet  bound  by  the  cold 
In  chill  bands,  in  the  breast 
The  heart  burning  with  care. 
The  soul  of  the  sea-weary 
Hunger  assailed. 


10 


15 


Knows  not  he  who  finds  happiest 
Home  upon  earth 
How  I  lived  through  long  winter 
In  labour  and  care. 
On  the  icy-cold  ocean, 
An  exile  from  joy. 
Cut  off  from  dear  kindred, 
Encompassed  with  ice. 
Hail  flew  in  hard  showers, 
And  nothing  I  heard 
But  the  wrath  of  the  waters, 
The  icy-cold  way; 
At  times  the  swan's  song; 
In  the  scream  of  the  gannet 
I  sought  for  my  joy, 
bh( 


20 


25 


30 


35 


In  the  moan  of  the  sea-whelp 

For  laughter  of  men. 

In  the  song  of  the  sea-mew 

For  drinking  of  mead. 

Starlings  answered  the  storm 

Beating  stones  on  the  cliff, 

Icy-feathered,  and  often 

The  eagle  would  shriek, 

Wet  of  wing. 

Not  one  home-friend  could  feel 

With  the  desolate  soul; 

For  he  little  believes 

To  whom  life's  joy  belongs 

In  the  town,  lightly  troubled 

With  dangerous  tracks, 

Vain  with  high  spirit 

}  The  date  and  authorship  are  unknown .    Some  scholars 
think  that  the  Seafarer  is  a  dialogue  between  an  old  sailor 
and  a  young  man  who  longs  to  go  to  sea,  but  as  this  is     \, 
mere  conjecture,  no  attempt  has  been  made  in  the  present      ^ 
version  to  indicate  the  respective  parts. 


40 


45 


50 


THE  SEAFARER 


And  wanton  with  wine, 
How  often  I  wearily 
Held  my  sea-way. 

The  night  shadows  darkened, 
It  snowed  from  the  north; 
The  rime  bound  the  rocks; 
The  hail  rolled  upon  earth, 
Coldest  of  corn: 
Therefore  now  is  high  heaving 
In  thoughts  of  my  heart, 
That  my  lot  is,  to  learn 
The  wide  joy  of  waters, 
The  whirl  of  salt  spray. 
Often  desire  drives 
My  soul  to  depart, 
That  the  home  of  the  strangers 
Far  hence  I  may  seek. 

There  is  no  man  among  us 
So  proud  in  his  mind, 
Nor  so  good  in  his  gifts. 
Nor  so  gay  in  his  youth. 
Nor  so  daring  in  deeds. 
Nor  so  dear  to  his  lord, 
That  his  soul  never  stirred 
At  the  thought  of  seafaring. 
Or  what  his  great  Master 
Will  do  with  him  yet. 
He  hears  not  the  harp. 
Heeds  not  giving  of  rings. 
Has  to  woman  no  will, 
And  no  hope  in  the  world. 
Nor  in  aught  there  is  else 
But  the  wash  of  the  waves. 
He  lives  ever  longing 
Who  looks  to  the  sea. 

Groves  bud  with  green, 

The  hills  grow  fair. 

Gay  shine  the  fields. 

The  world's  astir: 

All  this  but  warns 

The  willing  mind 

To  set  the  sail. 

For  so  he  thinks 

Far  on  the  waves 

To  win  his  way. 

With  woeful  note 

The  cuckoo  warns, 

The  summer's  warden  sings, 

And  sorrow  rules 

The  heart-store  bitterly. 

No  man  can  know. 

Nursed  in  soft  ease. 

The  burden  borne 

By  those  who  fare 

The  farthest  from  their  friends. 


65 


60 


65 


70 


75 


80 


85 


00 


95 


100 


105 


13 


116 


120 


125 


With  eager  desire; 

Loud  cries  the  lone-flier. 

And  stirs  the  mind's  longing 

To  travel  the  way  that  is  trackless. 

The  death-way  over  the  flood. 

For  my  will  to  my  Master's  pleasure 

Is  warmer  than  this  dead  life 

That  is  lent  us  on  land. 

I  beheve  not  that  earth-blessings 

Ever  abide. 

Ever  of  three  things  one, 

To  each  ere  the  severing  hour: 

Old  age,  sickness,  or  slaughter, 

Will  force  the  doomed  soul  to  depart. 


Therefore  for  each  of  the  earls, 

Of  those  who  shall  afterwards  name  them. 

This  is  best  laud  from  the  living  130 

In  last  words  spoken  about  him: — 

He  worked  ere  he  went  his  way. 

When  on  earth,  against  wiles  of  the  foe. 

With  brave  deeds  overcoming  the  devil. 

His  memory  cherished  135 

By  children  of  men. 

His  glory  grows  ever 

With  angels  of  God, 

In  life  everlasting 

Of  bliss  with  the  bold.  140 


Passed  are  the  days  of  the  pride 

Of  the  kingdoms  of  earth! 

Kings  are  no  more,  and  kaisers. 

None  count  out, 

As  once  they  did,  their  gifts  of  gold. 

When  that  made  them  most  great. 

And  Man  judged  that  they  Uved 

As  Lords  most  High. 

That  fame  is  all  fallen, 

Those  joys  are  all  fled; 

The  weak  ones  abiding 

Lay  hold  on  the  world: 

By  their  labour  they  win. 


In  the  soul's  secret  chamber 

My  mind  now  is  set, 

My  heart's  thought,  on  wide  waters. 

The  home  of  the  whale;  lio 

It  wanders  away 

Beyond  hmits  of  land: 

Comes  again  to  me,  yearning 


High  fortune  is  humbled; 

Earth's  haughtiness  ages 

And  wastes, — as  now  withers 

Each  man  from  the  world: 

Old  age  is  upon  him 

And  bleaches  his  face; 

He  is  grey-haired  and  grieves, 

Knows  he  now  must  give  up 

The  old  friends  he  cherished, 

Chief  children  of  earth. 

The  husk  of  flesh. 

When  life  is  fled, 

Shall  taste  no  sweetness. 

Feel  no  sore; 

Is  in  its  hand  no  touch; 

Is  in  its  brain  no  thought. 

Though  his  born  brother 

Strew  gold  in  the  grave. 

Bury  him  pompously 

Borne  to  the  dead, 

Entomb  him  with  treasure. 

The  trouble  is  vain: 

The  soul  of  the  sinful 


145 


160 


155 


160 


166 


170 


175 


14       FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 


His  gold  may  not  save 

From  the  awe  before  God, 

Though  he  hoarded  it  heedfully 

While  he  Uved  here.  180 

Great  awe  is  in  presence  of  God. 
The  firm  ground  trembles  before  Him 
Who  strongly  fixed  its  foundations, 
The  limits  of  earth  and  the  heavens. 
Fool  is  he  without  fear  of  the  Lord;       185 
To  him  will  come  death  unforeseen: 
Happy  is  he  who  is  lowly  of  life; 
To  him  will  come  honour  from  heaven: 
The  Creator  will  strengthen  his  soul 
Because  he  put  trust  in  His  power.        190 

Rude  will  should  be  ruled 

And  restrained  within  bound 

And  clean  in  its  ways  with  men, 

If  every  man 

Kept  measure  in  mind  195 

With  friend  and  with  foe.  .  .  . 

More  force  is  in  fate,  198 

In  the  Maker  more  might, 

Than  in  thought  of  a  man.  200 

Let  us  look  to  the  home 

Where  in  truth  we  can  live, 

And  then  let  us  be  thinking 

How  thither  to  come: 

For  then  we  too  shall  toil  203 

That  our  travel  may  reach 

To  delight  never  ending, 

When  life  is  made  free 

In  the  love  of  the  Lord 

In  the  height  of  the  heavens!  210 

May  we  thank  the  All  Holy 

Who  gave  us  this  grace, — 

The  Wielder  of  glory, 

The  Lord  everlasting, — 

In  tin^e  without  end!    Amen."  213 


BATTLE  OF  BRUNANBURHi 
(Translated  by  Tennyson) 

I 
Athelstan  King, 
Lord  among  Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower  and 
Baron  of  Barons, 

He  with  his  brother,  6 

Edmund  Atheling, 
Gaining  a  lifelong 
Glory  in  battle. 
Slew  with  the  sword-edge 

jThis  poem  appears  originally  in  the  Anglo-Saxon 
Chronicle  under  the  year  937.  It  celebrates  a  battle 
fou^t  at  Brunanburh,  between  the  West  Saxons  led 
by  King  Athelstan.  grandson  of  Alfred  the  Great,  and 
iMlmund  the  Athhng  (or  prince),  and  a  combined  force 
of  Danes,  Scots,  and  Britons  led  by  Constantinus  and 
Aniaf.  The  site  of  Brunanburh  has  never  been  satisfac- 
torily established.  The  most  Ukely  place  seems  to  be 
the  old  Brunne,  now  Bourne,  in  Lincolnshire.  (See 
Ramsay  s  Foundations  of  England,  I.  285.)  Tennyson 
based  his  version  of  the  poem  upon  his  son's  prose  trans- 
lation from  the  original  Old  EngUsh. 


There  by  Bnmanburh,  lo 

Brake  the  shield-wall, 
Hew'd  the  Undenwood, 
Hack'd  the  battleshield. 
Sons  of  Edward  with  hammer'd  brands. 


15 


Theirs  was  a  greatness 
Got  from  their  grandsires — 
Theirs  that  so  often  in 
Strife  with  their  enemies 
Struck  for  their  hoards  and  their  hearths  and 
their  homes. 


m 

Bow'd  the  spoiler, 

Bent  the  Scotsman, 

Fell  the  shipcrews 

Doom'd  to  the  death. 
All  the  field  with  blood  of  the  fighters 

Flow'd,  from  when  first  the  great 

Sun-star  of  morningtide, 

Lamp  of  the  Lord  God, 

Lord  everlasting, 
Glode  over  earth  till  the  glorious  creature 

Sank  to  his  setting. 


25 


There  lay  many  a  man 
Marr'd  by  the  javehn. 
Men  of  the  Northland 
Shot  over  shield. 
There  was  the  Scotsman 
Weary  of  war. 


35 


We  the  West-Saxons, 
Long  as  the  daylight 
Lasted,  in  companies 
Troubled  the  track  of  the  host  that  we 

hated;  40 

Grimly  with  swords  that  were  sharp  from 

the  grindstone. 
Fiercely  we  hack'd  at  the  flyers  before  us. 

VI 

Mighty  the  Mercian, 

Hard  was  his  hand-play, 

Sparing  not  any  of  45 

Those  that  with  Anlaf, 

Warriors  over  the 

Weltering  waters 

Borne  in  the  bark's-bosom, 

Drew  to  this  island —  30 

Doom'd  to  the  death. 

VII 

Five  young  kings  put  asleep  by  the  sword- 
stroke. 
Seven  strong  Earls  of  the  army  of  Anlaf 
Fell  on  the  war-field,  numberless  numbers, 
Shipmen  and  Scotsmen.  55 

VIII 

Then  the  Norse  leader — 
Dire  was  his  need  of  it, 


THE  GRAVE 


15 


Few  were  his  following — 

Fled  to  his  warship; 
Fleeted  his  vessel  to  sea  with  the  king  in  it  60 
Saving  his  life  on  the  fallow  flood. 


IX 


Also  the  crafty  one, 

Constantinus, 

Crept  to  his  North  again, 

Hoar-headed  hero! 


65 


Slender  warrant  had 

He  to  be  proud  of 

The  welcome  of  war-knives — 

He  that  was  reft  of  his 

Folk  and  his  friends  that  had  70 

Fallen  in  conflict, 

Leaving  his  son  too 

Lost  in  the  carnage, 

Mangled  to  morsels, 

A  youngster  in  war!  76 

XI 

Slender  reason  had 

He  to  be  glad  of 

The  clash  of  the  war-glaive— 

Traitor  and  trickster 

And  spurner  of  treaties —  80 

He  nor  had  Anlaf 

With  armies  so  broken 

A  reason  for  bragging 

That  they  had  the  better 

In  perils  of  battle  85 

On  places  of  slaughter — 

The  struggle  of  standards, 

The  rush  of  the  javelins. 

The  crash  of  the  charges, 

The  wielding  of  weapons —  00 

The  play  that  they  play'd  with 

The  children  of  Edward. 

XII 

Then  with  their  nail'd  prows 

Parted  the  Norsmen,  a 

Blood-redden'd  relic  of  95 

Javelins  over 
The  jarring  breaker,  the  deep-sea  billow, 
Shaping  their  way  toward  Dyflen*  again, 
Shamed  in  their  souls. 

XIII 

Also  the  brethren,  100 

King  and  Atheling, 
Each  in  his  glory, 
Went  to  his  own  in  his  own  West-Saxonland, 
Glad  of  the  war. 


Many  a  carcase  they  left  to  be  carrion,  103 

Many  a  livid  one,  many  a  sallow-skin — 
Left  for  the  white-tail'd  eagle  to  tear  it,  and 
Left  for  the  horny-nibb'd  raven  to  rend  it,  and 
2  Dublin.    Some  of  th?  Norsemen  (those  under  Anlaf) 
bad  come  across  the  sea  from  Ireland. 


Gave  to  the  garbaging  war-hawk  to  gorge  it, 

and 
That  grey  beast,  the  wolf  of  the  weald.'  lio 

XV 

Never  had  huger 

Slaughter  of  heroes 

Slain  by  the  sword-edge — 

Such  as  old  writers 

Have  writ  of  in  histories —  115 

Hapt  in  this  isle,  since 

Up  from  the  East  hither 

Saxon  and  Angle  from 

Over  the  broad  billow 

Broke  into  Britain  with  120 

Haughty  war-workers  who 

Harried  the  Welshman,  when 

Earls  that  were  lured  by  the 

Hunger  of  glory  gat 

Hold  of  the  land.  126 


THE  GRAVEi 

(Longfellow's  translation,   from   The  Poets 
and  Poetry  of  Europe.) 

For  thee  was  a  house  built 
Ere  thou  wert  born; 
For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  camest.  ~ 
But  it  is  not  made  ready,  5 

Nor  its  depth  measured. 
Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 
Now  I  bring  thee 

Where  thou  shalt  be.  10 

Now  I  shall  measure  thee. 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 


Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered; 
It  is  unhigh  and  low. 
When  thou  art  therein. 
The  heel-ways  are  low. 
The  side-way  unhigh; 
The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh. 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold. 
Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within; 
There  thou  art  fast  detained. 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth-house, 
*         And  grim  within  to  dwell; 
There  thou  shalt  dwell. 
And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid 
And  leavest  thy  friends; 
Thou  hast  no  friend 
Who  will  come  to  thee, 

8  The  forest. 


16 


25 


30 


35 


1  Date   and   author  unknown,   but   probably  among 
the  latest  poems  of  the  Old  English  period. 


16       FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  i 

Who  will  ever  see  which  we  have  hitherto  professed  has,  as  far 

How  that  house  pleaseth  thee,  as  I  can  learn,  no  virtue  in  it.     For  none  of 

Who  will  ever  open  your  people  has  apphed  himself  more  diligently 

The  door  for  thee,  to  ^1^^  worship  of  our  gods  than  I ;  and  yet  there 

F^aoorthou '^^la^me  "  « <-  --/  -^o  --™  8-'-  '"T "  i"" 

And  hateful  to  see.  yo"'  «^d  a^®  ^^^^  preferred  than  I,  and  are 

more   prosperous   in   all   their   undertakings. 

^j-  Now  if  the  gods  were  good  for  anything,  they 

j^tw  would  rather  forward  me,  who  have  been  more 

673-735  10  careful  to  serve  them.    It  remains,  therefore, 

that  if  upon  examination  you  find  those  new 
KING  EDWIN  CONSIDERS  ADOPTING     doctrines,  which  are  now  preached  to  us,  better 
CHRISTIANITY  and  more  efficacious,  we  immediately  receive 

(Bede's  Ecclesiastical  History,  731)  ^^^m  without  any  delay." 

15     Another  of  the  king's  chief  men,  approvmg  of 
(Translated  by  J.  A.  Giles)  jjig  ^ords  and  exhortations,  presently  added: 

King  Edwin,  1  therefore,  delaying  to  receive  ''The  present  life  of  man,  O  king,  seems  to  me, 
the  word  of  God  at  the  preaching  of  Paulinus,^  in  comparison  of  that  time  which  is  unknown  to 
and  using  for  sometime,  as  has  been  said,  to  us,  like  to  the  swift  flight  of  a  sparrow  through 
sit  several  hours  alone,  and  seriously  to  ponder  20  the  room  wherein  you  sit  at  supper  in  winter, 
with  himself  what  he  was  to  do,  and  what  with  your  commanders  and  ministers,  and  a 
religion  he  was  to  follow,  the  man  of  God  came  good  fire  in  the  midst,  whilst  the  storms  of  rain 
to  him,  laid  his  right  hand  on  his  head,  and  and  snow  prevail  abroad;  the  sparrow,  I  say, 
asked,  "Whether  he  knew  that  sign?"  The  flying  in  at  one  door,  and  immediately  out  at 
king  in  a  trembling  condition,  was  ready  to  fall  25  another,  whilst  he  is  within,  is  safe  from  the 
down  at  his  feet,  but  he  raised  him  up,  and  in  a  wintry  storm;  but  after  a  short  space  of  fair 
familiar  manner  said  to  him,  ''Behold  by  the  weather,  he  immediately  vanishes  out  of  your 
help  of  God  you  have  escaped  the  hands  of  the  sight,  into  the  dark  winter  from  which  he  had 
enemies  whom  you  feared.  Behold  you  have  of  emerged.  So  this  life  of  man  appears  for  a 
his  gift  obtained  the  kingdom  which  you  30  short  space,  but  of  what  went  before,  or  what  is 
desired.  Take  heed  not  to  delay  that  which  to  follow,  we  are  utterly  ignorant.  If,  therefore, 
you  promised  to  perform;  embrace  the  faith,  this  new  doctrine  contains  something  more 
and  keep  the  precepts  of  Him  who,  delivering  certain,  it  seems  justly  to  deserve  to  be  fol- 
you  from  temporal  adversity,  has  raised  you  to  lowed."  The  other  elders  and  king's  coun- 
the  honour  of  a  temporal  kingdom;  and  if ,  35  sellors,  by  divine  inspiration,  spoke  to  the  same 
from  this  time  forward,  you  shall  be  obedient      effect. 

to  his  will,  which  through  me  he  signifies  to  But  Coifi  added,  that  he  wished  more 
you,  he  will  not  only  deliver  you  from  the  attentively  to  hear  Paulinus  discourse  concern- 
everlasting  torments  of  the  wicked,  but  also  ing  the  God  whom  he  preached;  which  he 
make  you  a  partaker  with  him  of  his  eternal  40  having  by  the  king's  command  performed, 
kingdom  in  heaven."  Coifi,  hearing  his  words,  cried  out,  "I  have 

The  king,  hearing  these  words,  answered  that  long  since  been  sensible  that  there  was  nothing 
he  was  both  willing  and  bound  to  receive  the  in  that  which  we  worshipped ;  because  the  more 
faith  which  he  taught;  but  that  he  would  diligently  I  sought  after  truth  in  that  worship, 
confer  about  it  with  his  principal  friends  and  45  the  less  I  found  it.  But  now  I  freely  confess, 
counsellors,  to  the  end  that  if  they  also  were  of  that  such  truth  evidently  appears  in  this 
his  opinion,  they  might  all  together  be  cleansed  preaching  as  can  confer  on  us  the  gifts  of  life,  of 
in  Christ  the  Fountain  of  Life.  PauHnus  ^  salvation,  and  of  eternal  happiness.  For  which 
consenting,  the  king  did  as  he  said;  for,  holding  reason  I  advise,  O  king,  that  we  instantly 
a  counsel  with  the  wise  men,  he  asked  of  every  50  abjure  and  set  fire  to  those  temples  and  altars 
one  in  particular  what  he  thought  of  the  new  which  we  have  consecrated  without  reaping  any 
doctrine,  and  the  new  worship  that  was  benefit  from  them."  In  short,  the  king  pub- 
preached?  To  which  the  chief  of  his  own  licly  gave  his  hcense  to  Paulinus  to  preach  the 
priests,  Coifi,  immediately  answered,  "O  king,  Gospel,  and  renouncing  idolatry,  declared  that 
consider  what  this  is  which  is  now  preached  to  55  he  received  the  faith  of  Christ:  and  when  he 
us;  for  I  verily  declare  to  you,  that  the  religion  inquired  of  the  high  priest  who  should  first 
» The  famous  King  Edwin  of  Northumbria,  617-733.        profane  the  altars  and  temples  of  their  idols, 

2  An  early  English  bishop,  who  had  come  to  Northuni-       vj\fV>  fho  pnolosiirps  fVinf  wf^rt^  ahniif  fh^m     ho 

bria  with  the  princoss  .EtLclburh  of  Kent,  when  ahe  ^^^"  ine  enclosures  tnat  were  aDout  tnem,  ne 
became  Edwin's  queen,  answered,     I;  for  who  can  more  properly  than 


BEDE  17 

myself  destroy  those  things  which  I  wor-  towards  him,  he  rose  up  from  table  and  returned 
shipped  through  ignorance,  for  an  example  to      home. 

all  others,  through  the  wisdom  which  has  Having  done  so  at  a  certain  time,  and  gone 
been  given  me  by  the  true  God?"  Then  out  of  the  house  where  the  entertainment  was, 
immediately,  in  contempt  of  his  former  super-  5  to  the  stable,  where  he  had  to  take  care  of  the 
stitions,  he  desired  the  king  to  furnish  him  with  horses  that  night,  he  there  composed  himself 
arms  and  a  stallion;  and  mounting  the  same,  he  to  rest  at  the  proper  time;  a  person  appeared  to 
set  out  to  destroy  the  idols;  for  it  was  not  him  in  his  sleep,  and  saluting  him  by  his  name, 
lawful  before  for  the  high  priest  either  to  carry  said,  "Casdmon,  sing  some  song  to  me,"  He 
arms,  or  to  ride  on  any  but  a  mare.  Having,  10 answered,  "I  cannot  sing;  for  that  was  the 
therefore,  girt  a  sword  about  him,  with  a  spear  reason  why  I  left  the  entertainment,  and  re- 
in his  hand,  he  mounted  the  king's  staUion  and  tired  to  this  place,  because  I  could  not  sing." 
proceeded  to  the  idols.  The  multitude,  be-  The  other  who  talked  to  him,  repUed,  "How- 
holding  it,  concluded  he  was  distracted;  but  he  ever  you  shall  sing." — "What  shall  I  sing?" 
lost  no  time,  for  as  soon  as  he  drew  near  the  15  rejoined  he.  "Sing  the  beginning  of  created 
temple  he  profaned  the  same,  casting  into  it  beings,"  said  the  other.  Hereupon  he  pres- 
the  spear  which  he  held;  and  rejoicing  in  the  ently  began  to  sing  verses  to  the  praise  of 
knowledge  of  the  worship  of  the  true  God,  he  God,  which  he  had  never  heard,  the  purport 
commanded  his  companions  to  destroy  the  whereof  was  thus: — We  are  now  to  praise  the 
temple,  with  all  its  enclosures,  by  fire.  This  20  Maker  of  the  heavenly  kingdom,  the  power  of 
place  where  the  idols  were  is  still  shown,  not  the  Creator  and  his  counsel,  the  deeds  of  the 
far  from  York,  to  the  eastward,  beyond  the  Father  of  glory.  How  he,  being  the  eternal 
river  Derwent,  and  is  now  called  Godmunding-  God,  became  the  author  of  all  miracles,  who 
ham,^  where  the  high  priest,  by  the  inspiration  first,  as  almighty  preserver  of  the  human  race, 
of  the  true  God,  profaned  and  destroyed  the  25  created  heaven  for  the  sons  of  men,  as  a  roof  of 
altars  which  he  himself  had  consecrated.  the  house,  and  next  the  earth.2    This  is  the 

sease,  but  not  the  words  in  order  as  he  sang 

iHiL  VlblON  Ob  Ci*.UMUJN  ^gU  composed,  cannot  be  Hterally  translated 

(From  the  same)  30  out  of  one  language  into  another,  without  losing 

/"T"        1  f.^  u     1    \    n        \  much  of  their  beauty  and  loftiness.    Awaking 

Uransiatea  Dy  J.  a.  uiujs;  ^^^^  ^^^  ^j^^p^  j^^  remembered  all  that  he  had 

There  was  in  this  abbess's  monastery^  a  sung  in  his  dream,  and  soon  added  much  more 
certain  brother,  particularly  remarkable  for  to  the  same  effect  in  verse  worthy  of  the  Deity, 
the  grace  of  God,  who  was  wont  to  make  pious  35  In  the  "morning  he  came  to  the  steward,  his 
and  religious  verses,  so  that  whatever  was  superior,  and  having  acquainted  him  with  the 
interpreted  to  him  out  of  Scripture,  he  soon  gift  he  had  received,  was  conducted  to  the 
after  put  the  same  into  poetical  expressions  of  abbess,  by  whom  he  was  ordered,  in  the 
much  sweetness  and  humility,  in  English,  which  presence  of  many  learned  men,  to  tell  his 
was  his  native  language.  By  his  verses  the  40  dream,  and  repeat  the  verses,  that  they  might 
minds  of  many  were  often  excited  to  despise  all  give  their  judgment  what  it  was,  and  whence 
the  world,  and  to  aspire  to  heaven.  Others  his  verse  proceeded.  They  all  concluded, 
after  him  attempted,  in  the  Enghsh  nation,  to  that  heavenly  grace  had  been  conferred  on  him 
compose  religious  poems,  but  none  could  ever  by  our  Lord.  They  expounded  to  him  a  passage 
compare  with  him,  for  he  did  not  learn  the  art  45  in  holy  writ,  either  historical  or  doctrinal, 
of  poetry  from  men,  but  from  God;  for  which  ordering  him,  if  he  could,  to  put  the  same  into 
reason  he  never  could  compose  any  trivial  or  verse.  Having  undertaken  it,  he  went  away, 
vain  poem,  but  only  those  which  relate  to  and  returning  the  next  morning,  gave  it  to  them 
religion  suited  his  religious  tongue;  for  having  composed  in  most  excellent  verse;  whereupon 
lived  in  a  secular  habit  till  he  was  well  advanced  50  the  abbess,  embracing  the  grace  of  God  in  the 
in  years,  he  had  never  learned  anything  of  man,  instructed  him  to  quit  the  secular  habit, 
versifying;  for  which  reason  being  sometimes  at  and  take  upon  him  the  monastic  fife;  which 
entertainments,  when  it  was  agreed  for  the  being  accordingly  done,  she  associated  him  to 
sake  of  mirth  that  all  present  should  sing  in  the  rest  of  the  brethren  in  her  monastery,  and 
their  turns,  when  he  saw  the  instrument  come  55  ordered  that  he  should  be  taught  the  whole 

8  Goodmanham,  about  twenty-three  miles  from  York,       Series     of     sacred     history.        Thus     Caedmon, 

was  a  chief  seat  of  the  old  worship.    It  was  here  that      keeping  in  mind  all  he  heard,  and  as  it  were 

the  Witan  had  met  to  consider  the  new  rehgion. 

1  The   monastery   at   Streoneshalh,   now  Whitby,   on  2  For  a  translation  of  the  Old  English  version  of  C»d- 

the  coast  of  Yorkshire.    The  abbess  was  Hild.  mon's  hynm,  see  p.  8. 


18       FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 

chewing  the  cud,  converted  the  same  into  most  sing  the  nocturnal  praises  of  our  Lord?  They 
harmonious  verse;  and  sweetly  repeating  the  answered,  *'It  is  not  far  off."  Then  he  said, 
same,  made  his  masters  in  their  turn  his  hearers.  "Well,  let  us  wait  that  hour,"  and  signing 
He  sang  the  creation  of  the  world,  the  origin  of  himself  with  the  sign  of  the  cross,  he  laid  his 
man,  and  all  the  history  of  Genesis:  and  made  5 head  on  the  pillow,  and  falling  into  a  slumber, 
many  verses  on  the  departure  of  the  children  ended  his  life  so  in  silence, 
of  Israel  out  of  Egypt,  and  their  entering  into  Thus  it  came  to  pass,  that  as  he  had  served 
the  land  of  promise,  with  many  other  histories  God  with  a  simple  and  pure  mind,  and  undis- 
from  holy  writ;  the  incarnation,  passion,  turbed  devotion,  so  he  now  departed  to  His 
resurrection  of  our  Lord,  and  his  ascension  into  lo presence,  leaving  the  world  by  a  quiet  death; 
heaven;  the  coming  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  the  and  that  tongue,  which  had  composed  so  many 
preaching  of  the  apostles;  also  the  terror  of  holy  words  in  praise  of  the  Creator,  uttered  its 
fv.ture  judgment,  the  horror  of  the  pains  of  hell,  last  words  whilst  he  was  in  the  act  of  signing 
and  the  delights  of  heaven;  besides  many  more  himself  with  the  cross,  and  recommending 
about  the  Divine  benefits  and  judgments,  byishimseK  into  His  hands,  and  by  what  has  been 
which  he  endeavored  to  turn  away  all  men  from  here  said,  he  seems  to  have  had  foreknowledge 
the  love  of  vice,  and  to  excite  in  them  the  love  of  his  death, 
of,  and  apphcation  to,  good  actions;  for  he 

was  a  very  religious  man,  humbly  submissive  to  BEDE'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF 

regular  discipline,  but  full  of  zeal  against  those  20  (From  the  same) 

who  behaved  themselves  otherwise;  for  which  ,11  *    /-. 

reason  he  ended  his  Kfe  happily.  (Translated  by  J.  A.  Giles) 

For  when  the  time  of  his  departure  drew  Thus  much  of  the  Ecclesiastical  History  of 
near,  he  laboured  for  the  space  of  fourteen  days  Britain,  and  more  especially  of  the  English 
under  a  bodily  infirmity  which  seemed  to  pre- 25  nation,  as  far  as  I  could  learn  either  from  the 
pare  the  way,  yet  so  moderate  that  he  could  writings  of  the  ancients,  or  the  tradition  of  our 
talk  and  walk  the  whole  time.  In  his  neighbor-  ancestors,  or  of  my  own  knowledge,  has,  with 
hood  was  the  house  to  which  those  that  were  the  help  of  God,  been  digested  by  me,  Bede,  the 
sick,  and  Hke  shortly  to  die,  were  carried.  He  servant  of  God,  and  priest  of  the  monastery 
desired  the  person  that  attended  him,  in  the  30  of  the  blessed  apostles,  Peter  and  Paul,  which 
evening,  as  the  night  came  on  in  which  he  was  is  at  Wearmouth  and  Jarrow;^  who  being  born 
to  depart  this  life,  to  make  ready  a  place  there  in  the  territory  of  that  same  monastery,  was 
for  him  to  take  his  rest.  This  person,  wonder-  given,  at  seven  years  of  age,  to  be  educated  by 
ing  why  he  should  desire  it,  because  there  was  the  most  reverend  Abbat  Benedict,  2  and  after- 
as  yet  no  sign  of  his  dying  soon,  did  what  he  35  wards  by  Ceolfrid;  and,  spending  all  the 
had  ordered.  He  accordingly  went  there,  and  remaining  time  of  my  Hfe  in  that  monastery, 
conversing  pleasantly  in  a  joyful  manner  with  I  wholly  apphed  myself  to  the  study  of  Scrip- 
the  rest  that  were  in  the  house  before,  when  it  ture,  and  amidst  the  observance  of  regular 
was  past  midnight,  he  asked  them  whether  they  discipline,  and  the  daily  care  of  singing  in  the 
had  the  Eucharist  there?  They  answered,  40  church,  I  always  took  dehght  in  learning, 
''What  need  of  the  Eucharist?  for  you  are  not  teaching,  and  writing.  In  the  nineteenth  year 
likely  to  die,  since  you  talk  so  merrily  with  us,  of  my  age,  I  received  deacon's  orders;  in  tne 
as  if  you  were  in  perfect  health." — "However,"  thirtieth,  those  of  the  priesthood,  both  of  them 
said  he,  "bring  me  the  Eucharist."  Having  by  the  ministry  of  the  most  reverend  Bishop 
received  the  same  into  his  hand,  he  asked,  45  John,^  and  by  the  order  of  the  Abbat  Ceolfrid. 
whether  they  were  all  in  charity  with  him,  and  From  which  time,  till  the  fifty-ninth  year  of 
without  any  enmity  or  rancour?  They  an-  my  age,  I  have  made  it  my  business,  for  the 
swered,  that  they  were  all  in  perfect  charity,  use  of  me  and  mine,  to  compile  out  of  the  works 
and  free  from  anger;  and  in  their  turn  asked  of  the  venerable  Fathers,  and  to  interpret  and 
him,  whether  he  was  in  the  same  mind  towards  50  explain  according  to  their  meaning  these 
them?     He  answered,  "I  am  in  charity,  my      following  pieces.^ 

children,  with  all  the  servants  of  God."    Then         1  Bede  entered  the  monastery  of  St.  Peter  at  Wear- 
strengthening     himself     with      the     heavenly       mouth,  in  Durham,  in  his  seventh  year,  and  the  associated 

.    ,.  V  jrxu  i.  -J.  monastery  of  St.  Paul  at  Jarrow  m  his  nineteenth  year. 

Viaticum,    he   prepared    tor   tne    entrance   into  2  The  famous  Benedict  Biscop,  Abbot  of  Wearmoutk. 

another  hfe,  and  asked,  how  near  the  time  55  ^^,olf rid  was  his  successor. 

,         ,  1      ,       .  V  X     u  1  J  J.  John  of  Beverley,  bishop  of  Hexham. 

was  when  the  brothers  were  to  be  awakened  to         <  Here  follows  a  list  of  Bede'a  works.  \ 


CUTHBERT  19 

Cutljbttti  And  when  he  had  come  to  the  words  "leave  us 

not  orphans,"  he  burst  into  tears  and  wept 
CUTHBERT'S  LETTER  ON  THE  DEATH      much.    And  after  a  while  he  began  to  repeat 
OF  BEDE  what  he  had  begun.     And  we,  hearing  these 

(c.  735)  ^  things,  mourned  with  him.    Now  we  read,  and 

/T^        1  X  J  u    T.  Tr  T^  CI  N  °o^  ^®  wept;  nay,  we  read  as  we  wept.     In 

(Translated  by  P.  V.  D.  Shelly)  ^^^^  gladness  we  passed  the  quinquagesimal 

To  his  most  dear  fellow-lector  Cuthwin,  days  '^  until  the  above  mentioned  day,  and  he 
beloved  in  Christ,  Cuthbert,  his  co-disciple  in  rejoiced  greatly  and  gave  thanks  to  God 
God,  sends  greeting.  The  httle  gift  you  sent  lO  because  he  had  been  worthy  of  such  affliction, 
me  I  have  received  with  pleasure,  and  with  He  would  of  ten  say ,"  God  scourgeth  every  son 
great  joy  have  I  read  your  letter,  full  of  a  whom  He  receiveth,"  ^  and  much  more  from 
devout  learning,  in  which  I  learn,  what  I  so  the  holy  scriptures.  A  saying  of  Ambrose's 
greatly  desired,  that  you  are  diligently  cele-  he  would  also  repeat,  "  I  have  not  hved  in  such 
brating  masses  and  prayers  for  our  father  and  15  a  manner  as  to  be  ashamed  to  live  among  you; 
master,  Bede,  beloved  of  God.  Wherefore —  but  neither  do  I  fear  to  die,  because  we  have  a 
more  on  account  of  my  love  for  him  than  be-  good  God."  In  these  days  also,  he  strove  to 
cause  of  any  confidence  in  my  powers — I  am  produce  two  works  worthy  of  memory,  in 
pleased  to  tell  you  in  a  few  words  how  he  addition  to  teaching  us  and  singing  psalms, 
departed  from  this  Hfe,  since  this,  I  understand,  20  He  translated  into  our  tongue,  for  the  use  of 
is  what  you  desire  and  request.  About  two  the  Church,  the  gospel  of  St.  John,  to  where  it  is 
weeks  before  the  day  of  the  Resurrection,  he  said,  "But  what  are  these  among  so  many?"  ^ 
was  afflicted  with  great  weakness  and  with  and  certain  excerpts  from  the  works  of  Bishop 
shortness  of  breath,  although  he  was  without  Isidore,  saying,  "I  do  not  wish  that  my  pupils 
pain;  and  so,  happy  and  rejoicing,  giving  25  should  read  falsehood,  or  labor  herein  without 
thanks  to  Almighty  God  every  day  and  every  profit  after  my  death."  When  the  third  Tues- 
night,  indeed  almost  every  hour,  he  lived  until  day  before  the  Ascension  of  our  Lord  had  come, 
the  day  of  our  Lord's  ascension,  that  is  the  he  began  to  experience  great  difficulty  in  breath- 
seventh  of  the  Kalends  of  June.^  To  us,  his  ing,  and  a  sUght  swelling  developed  in  his  feet, 
pupils,  he  continued  to  give  lessons  every  day,  30  But  he  labored  all  that  day,  and  dictated 
and  the  rest  of  the  day  he  spent  in  singing  happily,  and  among  other  things  said,  "Learn 
psalms.  Ever  vigilant,  he  would  spend  the  quickly,  for  I  know  not  how  long  I  shall  live,  or 
whole  night  in  rejoicing  and  in  giving  thanks,  whether  in  a  little  while  my  Maker  shall  take 
except  when  a  little  sleep  prevented.  Upon  me."  To  us,  however,  it  seemed  that  he  knew 
awaking,  however,  he  would  again  repeat  the  35  well  the  time  of  his  going  forth.  Thus  he  spent 
customary  prayers  and  with  hands  upHfted  the  night  in  vigils  and  thanksgiving.  And  at 
continue  to  give  thanks  to  God.  Truly  I  may  dawn,  that  is  on  Wednesday,  he  commanded  us 
say  that  I  have  neither  seen  with  my  eyes  nor  to  write  diligently  what  we  had  begun;  and  this 
heard  with  my  ears  any  one  give  thanks  so  we  did  unto  the  third  hour.  From  the  third 
diligently  to  the  living  God.  40  hour  we  walked  with  the  relics  of  the  saints,  as 

0  truly  blessed  man!  He  was  wont  to  repeat  the  custom  of  the  day  demanded.  One  of  us 
the  words  of  St.  Paul  the  Apostle,  "It  is  a  remained  with  him,  who  said  to  him,  "There  is 
fearful  thing  to  faU  into  the  hands  of  the  yet  one  chapter  lacking.  Does  it  not  seem  hard 
living  God,"  '  and  many  other  things  from  the  that  you  should  be  questioned  further?"  But 
Scriptures,  by  which  he  would  admonish  us  to 45 he  answered,  "It  is  easy.  Take  pen  and  ink, 
rouse  ourselves  from  the  sleep  of  the  soul  by  and  write  quickly."  He  did  so.  At  the  ninth 
thinking  upon  our  last  hour.  Also  he  some-  hour  he  said  to  me,  "In  my  chest  I  have  a  few 
times  spoke  in  our  tongue,  the  English,  for  he  little  valuables,  pepper,  napkins,  and  incense, 
was  very  learned  in  our  songs:  *  .  .  .  He  Go  quickly  and  bring  hither  the  priests  of  our 
would  also  sing  Antiphons,  according  to  his  50  monastery,  that  I  may  distribute  among  them 
usage  and  ours,  one  of  which  is:  "O  King  of  what  gifts  God  has  granted  me.  The  rich  men, 
glory,  Lord  of  Hosts,  who  in  triumph  didst  in  this  day,  may  wish  to  give  gold  and  silver  and 
this  day  ascend  above  all  the  heavens,  leave  us  the  like  treasures;  I,  with  great  charity  and 
not  orphans,  but  send  upon  us  the  promise  of  gladness,  shall  give  to  my  brothers  what  God 
the   Father,    the   Spirit  of  Truth,    Alleluia."  55  has  bestowed."     And  with  fear  I  did  this. 

1  r.,fi,i,..f     I,         *     *  u        *     J    -.1,  *u   u  ..         Then  addressing  one  and  all,  he  besought  them 

1  Cuthbert,  who  must  not  be  confused  with  the  better       ,        .  7       t.-  j  j.  jk ,,4.i„. 

known  St.  Cuthbert,  was  a  pupil  of  Bede.  to  smg  masses  for  him  and  to  pray  diligentiy, 

2  May  26,  735.  a  Hebrews,  x,  31. 

*  Here  follows  the  so-called  Bede' 8  Death  Song,  for  a  ^  The  time  between  Easter  and  Pentecost, 

translation  of  which  see  p.  8.  «  Hebrews,  xii,  6.  ^  St.  John,  vL  9. 


20        FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 

which  they  freely  promised.  They  all  con-  borders  they  maintained  their  peace,  their 
tinned  to  weep  and  mourn,  especially  because  customs,  and  their  might,  and  at  the  same  time 
he  had  said  that  they  should  not  see  his  face  extended  their  territory  beyond;  how  they 
much  longer  in  this  life.  But  they  rejoiced  prospered  both  in  war  and  in  wisdom ;  and  also 
because  he  said,  "It  is  time  that  I  return  to  5 how  zealous  were  those  of  the  religious  life  in 
Him  who  made  me,  who  created  me  and  formed  teaching  and  in  learning  and  in  all  those  serv- 
me  out  of  nothing.  I  have  lived  long,  and  my  ices  which  they  owed  to  God;  and  how  foreign- 
gracious  Judge  has  ordered  my  life  well;  the  ers  came  hither  to  this  land  seeking  wisdom  and 
time  of  my  return  is  come,  for  I  desire  to  die  and  learning,  and  how  we  must  now  get  them  from 
to  be  with  Christ."  10  abroad  if  we  are  to  have  them.    So  clean  was 

This  and  much  else  he  said,  passing  the  day  learning  fallen  away  among  the  English,  that 
in  gladness  up  to  vespers.  And  the  boy  men-  there  were  very  few  on  this  side  of  the  Humber 
tioned  above  said,  "One  sentence,  dear  master,  who  could  understand  their  service-book  in 
is  yet  to  be  written."  He  answered,  "Write  English,  or  translate  a  letter  from  Latin  into 
quickly."  Afteralittle  the  boy  said,  "Now  the  15  English;  and  I  ween  there  were  not  many 
sentence  is  written."  "It  is  well;  you  spoke  beyond  the  Humber.  So  few  of  them  were 
truly;  it  is  finished.  Take  my  head  in  your  there  that  I  cannot  think  of  one  south  of  the 
hands,  for  it  pleases  me  greatly  to  sit  opposite  Thames  when  I  came  to  the  throne.  To  God 
my  holy  place  where  I  was  wont  to  pray,  so  Almighty  be  the  thanks  that  we  have  any  sup- 
that  sitting  I  may  invoke  my  Father."  And  20  ply  of  teachers  now.  And  therefore  I  bid  thee, 
thus,  on  the  floor  of  his  cell,  chanting  "Gloria  as  I  believe  thou  art  willing,  as  often  as  thou 
Patri,  et  Fiho,  et  Spu-itui  Sancto,"  as  he  named  art  able,  to  free  thyself  from  worldly  affairs, 
the  Holy  Spirit  he  breathed  his  last,  and  so  that  thou  mayest  apply  the  wisdom  that 
passed  to  the  heavenly  kingdom.  God  gavest  thee  wherever  thou  canst.    Think 

All  who  saw  the  death  of  the  venerable  25  what  punishments  came  upon  us  on  account  of 
father  said  that  they  had  seen  no  one  end  his  this  world,  when  we  neither  loved  wisdom  our- 
life  in  such  devotion  and  tranquillity,  for,  as  selves  nor  allowed  it  to  other  men:  the  name 
you  have  heard,  while  his  soul  was  in  his  body,  alone  of  being  Christians  we  loved,  and  very 
he  chanted  the  Gloria  Patri  and  other  divine      few  of  the  practises. 

songs  to  the  glory  of  God,  and,  his  hands  up-  30  When  I  remembered  all  this,  I  also  recalled 
lifted  to  the  living  God,  he  uttered  thanks  that  I  saw,  before  it  was  all  laid  waste  and 
without  ceasing.  Know,  dear  brother,  that  I  burnt,  how  the  churches  throughout  England 
could  record  many  things  of  him,  but  my  lack  stood  filled  with  treasures  and  books,  and  also  a 
of  skill  in  speech  makes  my  narrative  short,  great  number  of  God's  servants;  but  they  knew 
Nevertheless,  I  purpose,  with  God's  help,  to  35  very  little  use  of  those  books,  since  they  were 
write  of  him  more  fully  what  I  have  seen  with  able  to  understand  no  whit  of  them,  for  they  were 
my  eyes  and  heard  with  my  ears.  not  written  in  their  own  tongue.    As  if  they  had 

said,  "Our  elders,  who  held  these  places  of  old, 

^ina    ^lfi!£2l  loved  wisdom,  and  through  it  they  got  wealth 

HMH^   ;auiK^it  40  and  left  it  to  us.    Here  we  can  yet  see  their 

849-901  tracks,  but  we  know  not  how  to  follow  them; 

TTTT?  QTATT?  HI?  Ti?APMT\rP  TM  TJ>^r  and  therefore  we  have  lost  both  the  wealth  and 
THE   STATE   OF   LEARNING   IN   ENG-      ^j^^  wisdom,  because  we  would  not  bend  our 

^^^^  minds  to  follow  their  path." 

King  Alfred's  Preface  to  his  Translation  of  45     When  I  remembered  all  this,  I  wondered  very 
Gregory's  Pastoral  Care  greatly,  concerning  the  good  wise  men  who  were 

(Translated  by  P.  V.  D.  Shelly)  l^^^^'l^  ,f?/^°S  t^^  ^'iff.u''\^f.  ^"""^ 

vxiaiioiai,c^  uy  x .  » .  ^.  ^ai^uuxj  learned  all  those  books,  that  they  had  turned 

AKred,  the  king,  greets  bishop  Werferth,^      no  part  of  them  into  their  own  language.    But  I 

with  his  words  lovingly  and  in  friendly  wise;  and  50  soon  answered  myself  and  said,  "They  did  not 

I  let  it  be  known  to  thee  that  it  has  very  often      think  that  men  would  ever  become  so  careless 

come  to  my  mind  what  wise  men  there  were      and  that  learning  would  so  fall  away;  hence 

formerly  among  the  Enghsh,  both  of  godly  and      they  neglected  it,  through  the  desire  that  there 

of  worldly  office,  and  what  happy  times  were      might  be  the  more  wisdom  here  in  the  land  the 

those  throughout  England;  and  how  the  kings  55  more  we  knew  of  languages. " 

who  had  rule  of  the  folk  in  those  days  obeyed  Then  I  called  to  mind  how  the  law  was  first 

God  and  His  ministers;  and  how  within  their      found  in  Hebrew;  and  again,  when  the  Greeks 

ir.-  v        *  w        *        Ai*   J  •  *    ^  J  *         A  learned  it,  they  translated  all  of  it  into  their 

1  Bishop  of  Worcester.     Alfred  intended  to  send  a  ^        '  ji  n.vri  *j 

copy  of  this  work  to  each  of  the  English  bishops.  own  tongue,  and  also  all  Other  Dooks.     And 


KING  ALFRED  21 

again,  the  Romans  likewise,  after  they  learned  possession  of  earthly  power,  nor  longed  for  this 
them,  translated  the  whole  of  them,  through  authority,"  but  I  desired  instruments  and 
wise  interpreters,  into  their  own  language,  materials  to  carry  out  the  work  I  was  set  to  do, 
And  also  all  other  Christian  peoples  turned  which  was  that  I  should  virtuously  and  fittingly 
some  part  of  them  into  their  own  tongue.  5  administer  the  authority  committed  unto  me. 
Therefore  it  seems  better  to  me,  if  it  seems  so  to  Now  no  man,  as  thou  knowest,  can  get  full  play 
you,  that  we  also  translate  some  books  that  are  for  his  natural  gifts,  nor  conduct  and  administer 
most  needful  for  all  men  to  know,  into  that  government,  unless  he  hath  fit  tools,  and  the 
language  which  we  are  all  able  to  understand;  raw  material  to  work  upon.  By  material  I 
and  that,  as  we  very  easily  can  with  God's  help  10  mean  that  which  is  necessary  to  the  exercise  of 
if  we  have  peace,  we  cause  all  the  youth  now  in  natural  powers;  thus  a  king's  raw  material  and 
England  of  the  class  of  freemen,  who  are  rich  instruments  of  rule  are  a  well  peopled  land,  and 
enough  to  be  able  to  apply  themselves  to  it,  to  he  must  have  men  of  prayer,  men  of  war,  and 
be  set  to  learn,  the  while  they  can  be  put  to  no  men  of  work.  As  thou  knowest,  without  these 
other  employment,  until  they  are  well  able  to  15  tools  no  king  may  display  his  special  talent, 
read  English  writing;  and  afterward  let  those  Further,  for  his  materials  he  must  have  means 
be  taught  in  the  Latin  tongue  who  are  to  be  of  support  for  the  three  classes  above  spoken  of, 
taught  further  and  to  be  put  in  a  higher  office,  which  are  his  instruments;  and  these  means  are 
When  I  remembered  how,  before  now,  the  land  to  dwell  in,  gifts,  weapons,  meat,  ale, 
knowledge  of  Latin  had  fallen  away  among  the  20  clothing,  and  what  else  soever  the  three  classes 
English  and  yet  many  knew  how  to  read  Eng-  need.  Without  these  means  he  cannot  keep 
lish  writing,  I  began,  among  other  various  and  his  tools  in  order,  and  without  these  tools  he 
manifold  concerns  of  this  kingdom,  to  translate  cannot  perform  any  of  the  tasks  entrusted  to 
into  English  the  book  that  in  Latin  is  called  him.  "I  have  desired  material  for  the  exercise 
"Pastoralis,"  and  in  English,  "Shepherd's  25  of  government  that  my  talents  and  my  power 
Book," — at  times  word  by  word,  and  again  might  not  be  forgotten  and  hidden  away,"  for 
according  to  the  sense,  as  I  had  learned  it  from  every  good  gift  and  every  power  soon  groweth 
Plegmund  my  archbishop,  and  from  Asser  my  old,  and  is  no  more  heard  of,  if  Wisdom  be  not 
bishop,  and  from  Grimbold  my  mass-priest,  and  in  them.  Without  Wisdom,  no  faculty  can  be 
from  John  my  mass-priest.  After  I  had  learned  30  brought  out,  for  whatsoever  is  done  unwisely 
it,  I  turned  it  into  English  as  I  understood  it  can  never  be  accounted  as  skill.  To  be  brief, 
and  could  most  clearly  expound  it;  and  to  every  I  may  say  that  it  has  ever  been  my  desire  to 
bishopric  in  my  kingdom  I  wish  to  send  one;  live  honourably  while  I  was  alive,  and  after  my 
and  in  each  there  is  a  book-mark  worth  fifty  death  to  leave  to  them  that  should  come  after 
mancuses.  And  I  command  in  God's  name  that  35  me  my  memory  in  good  works.' 
no  man  take  the  book-mark  from  the  book,  nor 

the  book  from  the  minster.    We  know  not  how  Fate  and  Providence 

long  there  may  be  such  learned  bishops  as,  God  "Then  she  began  to  speak  in  a  very  remote 

be  thanked,  there  now  are  nearly  everywhere,  and  roundabout  fashion,  as  though  she  were 
Therefore,  I  would  that  they  may  always  be  40  not  alluding  to  the  subject,  and  yet  she  led  up 
in  their  place,  unless  the  bishop  wishes  to  have  to  it,  saying,  '  All  creatures,  both  the  seen  and 
them  with  him,  or  they  be  lent  anywhere,  or  the  unseen,  the  motionless  and  the  moving, 
anyone  copy  them.  receive  from  the  unmoving,  unchanging,  and 

undivided   God   their   due   order,   form,    and 

45  proportions;  and,  inasmuch  as  it  was  so  created, 

THE  CONSOLATION  OF  BOETHIUS  He  knoweth  why  He  hath  made  all  that  He 

hath  made.    Nothing  of  what  He  hath  made  is 

(Selections  from  King  Alfred's  Translation)      without  use  to  Him.    God  ever  dwelleth  in  the 

(Translated  from  the  Old  English  by  W.  J.      high  city  of  His  unity  and  mercy;  thence  He 

Sedgefield)  50dealeth  out  ordinances  many  and  various  to 

^       ^^  o.  ,  all  His  creatures,  and  thence  He  ruleth  them 

The  King  and  his  Servants^  ^^     g^^  regarding  that  which  we  call  God's 

"When  Philosophy  had  sung  this  song  she      providence  and  foresight,  this  exists  as  long  as 

was  silent  for  a  time.    Then  the  Mind  answered,      it  abides  with  Him  in  His  mind,  ere  it  be 

saying,   *0  Philosophy,  thou  knowest  that  I  55  brought  to  pass,  and  while  it  is  but  thought. 

never  greatly  delighted  in  covetousness  and  the      But  as  soon  as  it  is  accomplished  we  call  it  Fate. 

From  this  every  man  may  know  that  Prov- 

» The  passages  in  this,  and  in  the  following  selection,      idence  and  Fate  are  not  Only  two  names,  but 

not  enclosed  in  double  quotation  marks,  were  composed       .         .-w  d  ^,,;^^w,«^  Jo,  4-V.^  ■n;,r;««  Tfr^aann 

by  Alfred  himself  and  inserted  in  his  translation.  two  thmgS.     PrOVldence  IS  the  DlVine  Keason, 


22       FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 

and  lieth  fast  in  the  high  Creator  that  knoweth  wards.  Just  as  the  spokes  have  one  end  stick- 
how  everything  shall  befall  ere  it  come  to  pass,  ing  in  the  felly  and  the  other  in  the  nave,  while 
But  that  which  we  call  Fate  is  God's  working  in  the  middle  the  spoke  is  equally  near  either, 
day  by  day,  both  that  which  we  see,  and  that  so  the  midmost  men  are  at  the  middle  of  the 
which  is  not  seen  of  us.  The  divine  forethought  5  spokes,  the  better  sort  nearer  the  nave,  and  the 
holdeth  up  all  creatures,  so  that  they  may  not  baser  nearer  the  fellies,  joined,  however,  to  the 
fall  asunder  from  their  due  order.  Fate  there-  nave,  which  in  turn  is  fixed  to  the  axle.  Now, 
fore  allots  to  all  things  their  forms,  places,  the  fellies  are  fastened  to  the  spokes,  though 
seasons,  and  proportions;  but  Fate  comes  from  they  roll  on  the  ground;  and  so  the  least  worthy 
the  mind  and  the  forethought  of  Almighty  10  men  are  in  touch  with  the  middle  sort,  and  these 
God,  who  worketh  whatsoever  He  wiU  accord-  with  the  best,  and  the  best  with  God.  Though 
ing  to  His  unspeakable  providence.  the  worst  men  turn  their  love  towards  this 

'Even  as  every  craftsman  thinks  over  and  world  they  cannot  abide  therein,  nor  come  to 
marks  out  his  work  in  his  mind  ere  he  take  it  in  anything,  if  they  be  in  no  degree  fastened  to 
hand,  and  then  carries  it  out  altogether,  so  this  15  God,  no  more  than  the  wheel's  fellies  can  be  in 
changing  lot  that  we  call  Fate  proceeds  accord-  motion  unless  they  be  fastened  to  the  spokes, 
ing  to  His  forethought  and  purpose,  even  as  and  the  spokes  to  the  axle.  The  fellies  are 
He  resolveth  that  it  shall  be  done.  Though  it  farthest  from  the  axle,  and  therefore  move 
seem  to  us  manifold,  partly  good,  partly  evil,  least  steadily.  The  nave  moves  nearest  the 
yet  it  is  to  Him  good,  pure  and  simple,  for  He  20  axle,  therefore  is  its  motion  the  most  sure, 
bringeth  it  all  to  a  goodly  conclusion,  and  So  do  the  best  men;  the  nearer  to  God  they  set 
doeth  for  good  all  that  He  doeth.  When  it  is  their  love,  and  the  more  they  despise  earthly 
done,  we  call  it  Fate;  before,  it  was  God's  things,  the  less  care  is  theirs,  *' and  the  less  they 
forethought  and  His  purpose.  Now  Fate  He  reck  how  Fate  veers,  or  what  she  brings."  So 
setteth  in  motion  by  means  of  the  good  angels  25  also  the  nave  is  ever  sound,  let  the  fellies 
or  the  souls  of  men,  or  the  Hves  of  other  crea-  strike  on  what  they  may;  and  nevertheless 
tures,  or  through  the  heavenly  bodies,  or  the  the  nave  is  in  some  degree  severed  from  the 
divers  wiles  of  evil  spirits;  at  one  time  through  axle.  Thereby  thou  mayest  perceive  that  the 
one  of  them,  at  another  through  all.  But  it  is  wagon  keeps  far  longer  whole  the  less  its 
manifest  that  the  divine  purpose  is  single  and  30  distance  from  the  axle,  and  so  also  those  men 
unchanging,  and  rules  everything  in  orderly  are  most  free  from  care,  both  in  this  present 
wise,  and  gives  unto  all  things  their  shape,  life  of  tribulation  and  in  the  life  to  come,  that 
Now  some  things  in  this  world  are  subject  to  are  firmly  fixed  in  God.  But  the  farther  they 
Fate,  others  are  in  no  way  subject;  but  Fate,  are  sundered  from  God,  the  more  sorely  are  they 
and  the  things  that  are  subject  to  her,  are  sub-  35  confounded  and  afflicted  both  in  mind  and  in 
ject  to  divine  Providence.    Concerning  this  I      body. 

can  tell  thee  a  parable,  so  that  thou  mayest  the  "That  which  we  call  Fate  is,  compared  to 

more  clearly  understand  who  are  the  men  that  divine  Providence,  what  reflection  and  reason 
are  subject  to  Fate,  and  who  are  they  that  are  are  when  measured  against  perfect  knowledge, 
not.  40  and  as  things  temporal  compared  with  things 

'All  this  moving  and  changing  creation  turns  eternal,  or,  again,  like  the  wheel  compared 
round  the  unmoving,  the  unchanging,  and  the  with  the  axle,  the  axle  governing  all  the  wagon, 
undivided  God,  and  He  ruleth  all  creatures  as  So  with  the  forethought  of  God;  it  govemeth 
He  purposed  in  the  beginning,  and  still  doth  the  firmament  and  the  stars,  and  maketh  the 
purpose.  The  wheels  of  a  wagon  turn  upon  its  45  earth  to  be  at  rest,  and  measureth  out  the  four 
axle,"  while  the  axle  stands  still  and  yet  bears  elements,  to  wit,  water,  earth,  fire,  and  air. 
all  the  wagon  and  guides  all  its  movement.  These  it  keepeth  in  peace;  unto  these  it  giveth 
The  wheel  turns  round,  and  the  nave  next  the  form,  and  again  taketh  it  away,  changing  them 
wheel  moves  more  firmly  and  securely  than  the  to  other  forms  and  renewing  them  again.  It 
felly  does.  Now  the  axle  is  as  it  were  the  high-  50  engendereth  everything  that  groweth,  and 
est  good  we  call  God,  and  the  best  men  move  hideth  and  preserveth  it  when  old  and  withered, 
next  unto  God  just  as  the  nave  moves  nearest  and  again  bringeth  it  out  and  reneweth  it 
the  axle.  The  middle  sort  of  men  are  like  the  when  it  pleaseth."  Some  sages,  however,  say 
spokes,  for  one  end  of  each  spoke  is  fast  in  the  that  Fate  rules  both  weal  and  woe  of  every 
nave,  and  the  other  is  in  the  felly;  and  so  it  is  55  man.  But  I  say,  as  do  all  Christian  men,  that 
with  the  midmost  man,  at  one  time  thinking  it  is  the  divine  purpose  that  rules  them,  not 
in  his  mind  upon  this  earthly  life,  at  another  Fate;  and  I  know  that  it  judges  all  things  very 
upon  the  divine  life,  as  if  he  looked  with  one  rightly,  though  unthinking  men  may  not 
eye  heavenwards,  and  with  the  other  earth-      think  so.     They  hold  that  all  are  good  that 


I 


WULFSTAN  23 


work  their  will,  and  no  wonder,  for  they  are  stars  showed  themselves  full-nigh  half  an  hour 

blinded  by  the  darkness  of  their  sins.     "But  after  nine  in  the  forenoon. 

divine  Providence  understandeth  it  all  most 

rightly,  though  we  in  our  folly  think  it  goes  A.  596.  This  year  Pope  Gregory  sent  Augus- 

awry,  being  unable  to  discern  what  is  right.  5  tine  to  Britain,  with  a  great  many  monks,  who 

He,  however,  judgeth  all  aright,  though  at  preached  the  word  of  God  to  the  nation  of  the 

times  it  seems  to  us  otherwise."  Angles. 

aelfric 

THE  ANGLO-SAXON  CHRONICLE  c.  955-c.  1020 

Selections  THE  DAILY  MIRACLE 

(Translated  by  J.  A.  Giles)  (From  the  Homilies,  990-994,  translated  by 

A.  443.  This  year  the  Britons  sent  over  sea  ^-  ^-  ^-  Shelly) 

to  Rome,  and  begged  for  help  against  the  Picts;  15  Many  wonders  hath  God  wrought,  and  daily 
but  they  had  none,  because  they  were  them-  doth  work;  but  these  wonders  are  much  weak- 
selves  warring  against  Attila,  king  of  the  Huns,  ened  in  the  sight  of  men  because  they  are  very 
And  then  they  sent  to  the  Angles,  and  en-  common.  That  each  day  Almighty  God  feeds 
treated  the  like  of  the  ethelings^  of  the  Angles.      all  the  earth  and  directs  the  good,  is  a  greater 

A.  444.  ThisyearSt.  Martmdied.  20 miracle  than  was  that  of  feeding  five  thousand 

"^  men  with  five  loaves;  yet  men  marvelled  at 

A.  449.  This  year  Martianus  and  Valentinus  that,  not  because  it  was  a  greater  miracle,  but 
succeeded  to  the  empire,  and  reigned  seven  because  it  was  uncommon.  Who  grants  fruit 
years.  And  in  their  days  Hengist  and  Horsa,^  to  our  fields,  and  increases  the  harvest  from  a 
invited  by  Vortigern,  king  of  the  Britons,  25  few  grains,  but  He  who  multiplied  the  five 
landed  in  Britain  on  the  shore  which  is  called  loaves?  The  might  was  in  Christ's  hands, 
Wippidsfleet;'  at  first  in  aid  of  the  Britons,'  and  the  five  loaves  were  seed,  as  it  were  not 
but  afterwards  they  fought  against  them,  sown  in  the  earth,  but  multiplied  by  Him  who 
King  Vortigern  gave  them  land  in  the  south-      wrought  the  earth. 

east  of  this  country,  on  condition  that  they  30  This  miracle  is  very  great  and  deep  in  its 
should  fight  against  the  Picts.  Then  they  tokens.  Often  one  sees  fair  letters  written,  and 
fought  against  the  Picts,  and  had  the  victory  praises  the  writer  and  the  letters,  and  knows 
wheresoever  they  came.  They  then  sent  to  the  not  what  they  mean.  He  who  has  knowledge 
Angles;  desired  a  larger  force  to  be  sent,  and  of  letters,  praises  their  fairness,  and  reads  the 
caused  them  to  be  told  the  worthlessness  of  the  35  letters,  and  understands  what  they  mean.  In 
Britons,  and  the  excellencies  of  the  land.  Then  one  way  do  we  view  a  painting,  but  in  other 
they  soon  sent  thither  a  larger  force  in  aid  of  wise,  letters.  In  the  case  of  the  painting,  one 
the  others.  At  that  time  there  came  men  from  needs  only  to  see  it  and  praise  it;  but  it  is  not 
three  tribes  in  Germany;  from  the  Old-Saxons,  enough  that  you  look  at  letters  without  also 
from  the  Angles,  from  the  Jutes.  From  the  40  reading  them  and  understanding  the  sense. 
Jutes  came  the  Kentish-men  and  the  Wight-  So  is  it  with  the  wonder  that  God  wrought 
warians,  that  is,  the  tribe  which  now  dwells  in  with  the  five  loaves;  it  is  not  enough  that  we 
Wight,  and  that  race  among  the  West-Saxons  marvel  at  the  token  or  praise  God  for  it,  unless 
which  is  still  called  the  race  of  Jutes.  From  we  also  understand  its  meaning, 
the  Old-Saxons  came  the  men  of  Essex  and  45 

Sussex  and  Wessex.     From  Anglia  which  has  ^UlKtan 

ever  since  remained  waste  betwixt  the  Jutes  and  SERMON  TO   THE  ENGLISH 

the  feaxons,   came  the  men  of  East  Anglia,  _  ,,,  ^  o 

Middle  Anglia,  Mercia,  and  all  North-humbria.      ^^  the  Time  of  Their  Great  Suffering. 
Their  leaders  were  two  brothers,  Hengist  and  50         from  the  Danes,  that  is,  m  the 
Horsa:  they  were  the  sons  of  Wihtgils;  Wihtgils  ^^""^  «^  ^^^^  Aethelred.i 

son  of  Witta,  Witta  of  Wecta,  Wecta  of  Woden;  (Translated  by  P.  V.  D.  Shelly) 

from  this  Woden  sprang  all  our  Royal  famiUes,  Beloved  men,  know  it  for  sooth,  that  this 

and  those  of  the  South-humbrians  also.  world  is  in  haste  and  neareth  the  end.    Hence 

A.  540.  This  year  the  sun  was  ecHpsed  on  the  55  in  the  world  is  it  ever  the  longer  the  worse,  and 
twelfth  before  the  Kalends  of  July,  and  the     so  it  must  needs  grow  very  evil  from  day  to 

ipj^jjpgg  day  before  the  coming  of  Antichrist,  because 

«  Leaders  of  the  Jutes.  i  This  was  apparently  written  in  either  999  or  1014. 

»Now,  Ebbsfleet  in  the  Isle  of  Thanet,  on  the  east  The  writer  may  have  been  Wulfstan,  Archbishop  of  York- 
coast  of  Kent.  c.  1003-1023. 


24        FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 

of  the  folk's  sins;  and  indeed  it  will  then  be      ished.     Freemen  cannot  command  their  own 
fearful  and  terrible  far  and  wide  in  the  world,      persons,  nor  go  where  they  will,  nor  do  with 

Understand  also  that  the  devil  hath  now  for  their  own  as  they  wish;  nor  can  thralls  have 
many  years  led  this  people  too  far  astray,  that  what  they  possess,  though  they  toiled  for  it 
there  has  been  little  faith  among  men,  though  5  in  the  time  that  was  theirs,  nor  that  which  by 
they  have  spoken  fair.  Wrong  hath  reigned  God's  grace  good  men  have  given  them  as  an 
too  much  in  the  land,  and  of  many  men  never  almsgift  for  the  love  of  God;  but  each  alms- 
hath  one  thought  of  the  remedy  as  eagerly  as  he  right  which  each  one  in  God's  grace  ought  right 
ought;  but  daily  have  we  heaped  evil  upon  evil,  gladly  to  perform,  he  decreaseth  or  with- 
and  reared  injustice  and  un-law  far  too  widely  10  holdeth,  since  injustice  and  love  of  un-law  are 
throughout  the  nation.  And  for  this  we  have  too  common  among  men.  In  a  word,  God's 
also  endured  many  losses  and  insults,  and  if  laws  are  loathed,  and  learning  is  despised;  and 
we  are  to  expect  any  mending,  then  must  we  for  this  we  all  often  suffer  insults  through  God's 
merit  of  God  better  than  we  have  done  ere  anger,  as  he  may  understand  who  can;  and  the 
this,  for  with  great  deserving  have  we  earned  15  loss  will  be  common  to  all  this  people,  though 
the  miseries  that  sit  upon  us,  and  with  very  men  think  not  so,  unless  God  save, 
great  deserving  must  we  obtain  the  remedy  at  Certainly  it  is  clear  and  manifest  to  us  all 
God's  hands,  if  things  henceforth  are  to  be  that  hitherto  we  have  more  often  broken  [the 
better.  We  know  full  well  that  a  mickle  breach  law]  than  bettered  it,  and  hence  this  nation 
needs  much  mending,  and  a  great  fire,  much  20  hath  had  many  set-backs.  This  long  time 
water,  if  that  fire  is  at  all  to  be  quenched.  And  naught  hath  availed  at  home  or  abroad;  there 
great  also  is  the  need  to  every  man  that  he  have  been  harrying  and  hunger,  burning  and 
willingly  keep  God's  law  henceforth  better  bloodshed,  on  every  hand  often  and  often; 
than  he  did  before,  and  carry  out  His  justice  stealing  and  slaughter,  sedition  and  pestilence, 
with  uprightness.  25  cattle-plague  and  disease,  slander  and  hate,  and 

Among  heathen  people  no  man  durst  hold  rapine  of  robbers  have  harmed  us  greatly; 
back  little  or  much  of  that  which  by  law  is  due  unjust  taxes  have  afflicted  us  sorely,  and  often 
to  the  worship  of  idols;  but  everywhere  we  foul  weather  has  spoiled  our  harvests;  because, 
withhold  God's  rights,  all  too  often.  Neither  as  it  may  seem,  now  for  many  years  in  this  land 
among  the  heathen  durst  man  injure,  within  or  30  there  have  been  much  unrighteousness  and 
without,  any  of  those  things  that  are  brought  unstable  faith  among  men  everywhere.  Often 
to  the  idols  and  are  appointed  for  sacrifice;  but  hath  a  kinsman  protected  his  kinsman  no 
we  have  clean  despoiled  God's  house  within  more  than  a  foreigner,  nor  the  father  his  son, 
and  without.  Also,  God's  servants  are  every-  nor  at  times  the  son  his  own  father,  nor  one 
where  deprived  of  honor  and  protection;  and  35  brother  the  other.  Nor  hath  any  of  us  ordered 
some  men  say  that  among  heathen  peoples  no  his  fife  as  he  should, — neither  those  in  orders, 
man  durst  in  any  wise  ill  treat  the  servants  according  to  their  rule,  nor  laymen,  according 
of  idols,  as  men  now  too  generally  do  the  to  the  law;  but  the  lust  of  crime  is  all  too  often 
servants  of  God,  in  places  where  Christians  a  law  to  us,  and  we  hold  not  to  the  learning  or 
should  hold  to  God's  law  and  protect  God's  40  law  of  God  or  of  men  as  we  should.  No  one 
servants.  hath  thought  toward  the  other  faithfully  as  he 

Sooth  is  it  that  I  say — ^we  have  need  of  should,  but  for  the  most  part  each  is  deceitful 
mending,  for  God's  laws  have  been  waning  too  and  injures  others  by  word  and  by  deed; 
long  within  this  land  on  every  side,  and  the  unrighteously  and  from  behind,  each  striketh 
folk-laws  have  become  worse,  all  too  much  45  at  his  fellow  with  shameful  calumnies  and 
since  Edgar  died.^  Sanctuaries  are  too  gen-  accusations;  let  him  do  more  if  he  can. 
erally  unprotected,  and  God's  houses  are  too  Here  in  our  land  is  much  treachery  toward 
clean  bereft  of  their  old  rights,  and  are  stripped  God  and  the  world,  and  likewise  in  divers  ways 
within  of  all  things  befitting.  Men  of  rehgion  traitors  too  many.  Of  all  treasons  in  the  world 
have  now  this  long  time  been  greatly  despised;  50  the  greatest  is  that  a  man  betray  his  lord's 
widows  unlawfully  are  forced  to  marry,  and  soul;  and  a  full  great  treason  is  that  also,  that  a 
too  many  are  made  poor  and  are  greatly  ill  man  betray  his  lord's  life  or  drive  him  living 
used.  Poor  men  are  sore  deceived  and  misera-  from  the  land;  and  both  have  been  present 
bly  ensnared,  and,  though  innocent,  are  sold  in  this  realm.  Edward^  was  betrayed,  then 
out  of  the  land  into  the  power  of  foreigners;  55  murdered,  and  after  that  burned,  and  Aethel- 
through  cruel  un-law  children  are  enslaved  for      red"  was  driven  from  the  land.    Gossips^  and 

petty    theft;    free-right    is    taken    away,     and  3  Edward  the  Martyr,  murdered  in  978. 

thrall-right    curtailed,    and    alms-right    dimin-  ^  Aethelred  the  Un-redy,  or  "ill  advised,"  waa  obliged 

to  flee  to  Normandy  in  1014. 
*  Edgar,  King  of  Wessex,  died  975.  6  Sponsors. 


WULFSTAN  25 

god-children  too  many  have  been  slain  through-  crowd  of  Christian  men  from  sea  to  sea  through 
out  this  people,  besides  others  all  too  many,  the  nations,  huddled  together,  to  the  shame  of 
who,  without  fault,  have  been  destroyed,  us  all  in  the  sight  of  the  world, — if  in  earnest 
Too  many  holy  places,  far  and  wide,  have  we  knew  any  shame  or  even  would  rightly 
perished,  because  certain  men  were  lodged  5  understand.  And  all  the  misery  that  we 
there,  as  they  would  not  have  been,  if  we  had  continually  suffer  we  repay  with  honor  to  them 
wished  to  know  reverence  for  God's  peace,  that  shame  us.  We  pay  gelds*  to  them  con- 
Christian  folk  too  many  have  been  sold  all  the  tinually,  and  they  abuse  us  daily.  They  harry, 
while  out  of  this  land.  All  this  is  loathsome  they  burn,  they  spoil  and  plunder,  and  carry 
to  God,  let  him  beUeve  it  who  will.  .  .  .  Also  10  off  to  the  ships;  and  lo,  what  else  in  these 
we  know  full  well  whence  hath  come  the  evil  troubles  is  clear  and  manifest  but  God's  wrath 
that  a  father  sell  his  son  for  a  price,  and  the  son      towards  this  people? 

his  mother,  and  one  brother  the  other,  into  the  No  wonder  misfortune  is  upon  us,  for  we 

power  of  strangers  outside  this  nation.  All  know  full  well  that  now  for  many  years  men 
these  are  mickle  and  terrible  deeds,  as  he  may  15  have  seldom  recked  what  they  wrought  in  word 
understand  who  will;  and  there  are  yet  greater  or  deed;  but  this  nation  hath  become,  as  it  may 
and  more  manifold  that  afflict  this  people,  appear,  very  sinful,  through  manifold  sins  and 
Many  are  forsworn  and  greatly  purjured;  misdeeds,  through  murder  and  evil,  through 
pledges  are  broken  again  and  again;  and  it  is  greed  and  covetousness,  rapine  and  robbery, 
clear  in  this  land  that  God's  wrath  sits  heavily  20  treachery  and  heathen  vices,  through  treason 
upon  us, — let  him  who  can,  understand.  and  deceit,  through  law-breaking  and  sedition, 

Lo,  how  can  greater  shame  come  upon  men  through  attacks  on  kinsmen,  through  man- 
through  God's  wrath  than  cometh  upon  us,  for  slaughter  and  violation  of  religious  vows, 
our  own  deserts?  Though  a  thrall  escape  from  through  adultery  and  incest  and  divers  f orni- 
his  lord  and  leave  Christendom  to  become  a  25  cations.  Also,  as  we  said  before,  through  oath- 
Viking,  and  it  come  about  afterward  that  breaking  and  pledge-breaking,  and  through 
thane  and  thrall  come  together  in  battle,  if  divers  falsehoods,  more  than  should  be  are 
the  thrall  foully  slay  the  thane,  the  thane  for  all  ruined  and  forsworn.  Breaches  of  the  peace 
his  relations  must  lie  without  wer-geld,  and  and  of  fasting  are  wrought  again  and  again, 
if  the  thane  foully  kill  the  thrall  whom  he  30  Also  here  in  the  land  are  reprobate  apostates 
formerly  owned,  he  must  pay  the  wer-geld  of  a  and  hostile  persecutors  of  the  Church,  and 
thane.^  Full  evil  laws  and  shameful  tribute  cruel  tyrants,  all  too  many;  despisers  of  divine 
are,  through  God's  wrath,  common  to  us,  as  he  law  and  Christian  customs;  and  everywhere  in 
who  can  may  understand;  and  many  mis-  the  nation  foolish  mockers,  most  often  of  those 
fortunes  beset  this  people.  This  long  time  35  things  commanded  by  God's  ministers,  and 
nothing  hath  prospered  within  or  without,  but  very  often  of  those  things  that  belong  of  right 
harrying  and  hatred  have  been  continual  on  to  God's  law.  Therefore  hath  now  come  about 
every  side.  The  English  have  now  long  been  the  wide-spread  evil  custom  that  men  are  more 
without  victory,  and  too  greatly  dismayed,  ashamed  of  good  deeds  than  of  misdeeds,  for 
through  God's  anger;  and  the  ship-men^  have  40  men  too  often  deride  good  deeds,  and  all  too 
become  so  strong,  with  God's  consent,  that  in  much  revile  the  pious,  and  blame  and  greet  with 
battle  one  of  them  will  often  put  to  flight  ten  of  contumely  those  who  love  right  and  have  in 
us,  sometimes  less,  sometimes  more,  all  because  any  measure  the  fear  of  God.  Because  men 
of  our  sins.  .  .  .  Often  a  thrall  bindeth  fast  the  despise  all  that  they  ought  to  praise  and  con- 
thane  who  was  formerly  his  lord,  and  maketh  of  45  tinually  loathe  what  they  should  love,  all  too 
him  a  thrall,  through  God's  anger.  Alas  for  many  are  brought  to  evil  thoughts  and  deeds, 
the  misery,  alas  for  the  shame  in  the  eyes  of  the  so  that  they  are  not  ashamed  though  they  sin 
world,  that  Englishmen  now  suffer,  all  by  God's  greatly  and  work  in  all  things  against  God 
wrath!    Often  two  or  three  seamen  will  drive  a      himself;  but  because  of  idle  calumnies  they  are 

« ^u    .V  ,  .u    u-  u         1       ^  .1,    *!,    „    r  50  ashamed  to  better  their  misdeeds,  as  books 

'The  thane  was  of  the  higher  rank,  and  the  thrall  of  .        ,         vi      j.i.         r      i        u     f       4-u^;«  »^>.;^^  -^riU 

the  lowest  rank  in  old  English  society.      Wer-geld,  or  teach, — like  those  fools  who  tor  their  pride  WlU 

Man-price,  was  the  sum  at  which  a  man's  life  was  valued  not    Save    themSclvCS    before    that    time    when 

according  to  law,  the  amount  varying  for  the  different  ,,                       .  .  i          i_  iu                 ^A 

ranks  of  society.     If  one  murdered  another,  the  mur-  they  cannot  though  they  WOUlQ.    .    .    . 

derer  could  atone  for  his  crime  by  paying  wer-geld  to  ^^   historian    there   waS   in   the   time   of   the 

the  kinsmen  of  the  one  slain.     Wulfstan's  complaint  is        ^   .,  /~im  i      «  i  u        j.^  ^e   i-U^;^ 

that  the  law  pertaining  to  wer-gelds  was  no  longer  ad-  55  Britons,  Glldas^  by  name,  WhO  wrote  Ot    their 

ministered  with  justice,  and  that  in  the  case  described,  misdeeds     hoW   by   their   sins    they    SO    greatly 

the  thane  who  should  kill  his  escaped  thrall,  or  slave,  ' 

would  have  to  pay  the  same  wer-geld  as  if  he  had  killed 

a  thane,  and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  thrall  had  »  Payments  of  money  to  buy  off  the  Danes. 

joined  the  enemy.  »  A  Romanized  Briton  who,  about  547,  wrote  a  history 

'  The  Danes,  or  Vikings.  of  Britain  from  Roman  times  to  his  own  day. 


26       FROM  THE  BEGINNING  TO  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 

angered  God  that  He  very  soon  let  the  army  of  us  do  as  we  have  need  to  do,  turn  to  the  right 

the  EngHsh  win  their  land  and  entirely  de-  and  im  some  measure  shun  and  forsake  un- 

stroyed  the  flower  of  the  Britons.     This,  he  righteousness,  and  eagerly  better  what  we  have 

said,  came  about  because  the  clergy  broke  their  heretofore  broken.    Let  us  seek  Christ  on  our 

vows,  and  laymen  the  law,  because  of  plunder-  5  knees  and  often  call  upon  Him  with  trembling 

ing  by  the  rich,  extortion,  evil  laws  of  princes,  heart  and  earn  His  mercy.     Let  us  love  God 

false   judgments;    because   of   the   sloth   and  and  fulfill  God's  laws,   and  perform  eagerly 

ignorance  of  bishops,  and  the  wicked  cowardice  what  we  promised  when  we  received  baptism, 

of  God's  ministers,  who  all  too  often  were  si-  or  those  promised  who  at  baptism  spoke  for 
lent  concerning  the  truth,  and  mumbled  within  10  us.    Let  us  rightly  order  words  and  works,  and 

their  jaws  when  they  should  have  called  out.  willingly  cleanse  our  inner  thoughts,  carefully 

Through  foul  wantonness  of  the  folk,  through  keep  oath  and  pledge,  and  without  weakness 

gluttony  and  manifold  sins,  they  ruined  their  have  some  faith  amongst  us.     Let  us  often 

land,  and  themselves  perished.  consider  the  great  judgment  we  shall  all  come 
But  let  us  do,  as  is  needful  for  us, — take  15  to,  and  eagerly  save  ourselves  from  the  raging 

warning  by  such.    Sooth  is  it  that  I  say,  worse  fire  of  hell's  torment,  and  earn  for  us  the  glory 

deeds  we  know  have  been  among  the  English  and  the  gladness  that  God  hath  prepared  for 

than  we  have  heard  of  anywhere  among  the  those  who  work  His  will  in  the  world.     May 

Britons,  and  therefore  have  we  great  need  to  God  help  us.    Amen, 
reflect  and  to  reconcile  ourselves  to  God.    Let  20 


II.  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 

1066-c.  1350 

POEMA  MORALE! 
(Before  1200) 


I  am  now  older  than  I  was,  in  winters  and  in 

lore, 
I  wield  more  power  than  I  did,  my  wit  ought 

to  be  more. 
Too  long  a  child  I  have  been,  in  word  and  eke 

in  deed; 
And  though  I  am  in  winters  old,  too  young  I  am 

in  rede. 2 
My  life  methinks  a  useless  one,  like  that  I've 

ever  led;  5 

When  I  bethink  me  well  thereon,  full  sore  I  am 

adread. 
Mere  idleness  and  childishness  seems  most  that 

I  have  done; 
Full  late  I  have  bethought  myself,  unless  God's 

grace  I've  won. 
I've  spoken  many  idle  words  since  I  to  speak 

knew  how, 
And  many  deeds  I  did  in  youth  that  I  repent 

me  now,  10 

All  too  often  have  I  sinned  in  work  and  eke  in 

word; 
All  too  much,  alas,  I've  spent,  too  little  laid  in 

hoard. 
At  most  of  that  I  liked  of  yore  I  now  can  only 

grieve; 
Who  overmuch  doth  have  his  will,  himself  doth 

but  deceive. 
I  might  in  truth  have  better  done,  had  I  of  joy 

great  wealth;  15 

And  now  I  would,  and  yet  cannot,  for  age  and 

for  unheal th. 
Old  age  on  me  hath  stolen  fast,  before  of  it  I 

wist; 
Nor  can  I  see  before  me  now  for  dark  smoke  and 

for  mist. 
Fearful  are  we  to  do  good,  in  evil  all  too  bold; 
More  in  awe  of  man  is  man  than  of  the  Christ  of 

old.  20 

Who  doth  not  well  the  while  he  may,  full  oft  it 

shall  him  rue, 
When  men  at  last  shall  surely  reap  that  which 

they  ere  did  strew. 

tla^anton 

HOW  LAYAMON  WROTE  HIS  BOOK 

(From  the  Brut,"-  c.  1205) 

In  the  land  lived  a  priest,  who  was  Layamon 

called, 
He   was   Leovenath's   son;   Lord   to   him   be 

gracious, 

1  This  selection  is  taken  from  the  opening  of  the  Poema 
Morale,  or  Moral  Ode;  a  poem  of  about  400  lines.  It  may 
have  been  written  as  early  as  the  reign  of  Henry  I. 
(1100-1135).  2  Counsel,  wisdom. 

1  The  BrtU  ia  a  poem  of  about  30,000  lines.     It  is  on 


He  abided  at  Arnley,  at  the  great  Church  there 
Upon  Severn's  side,  (it  seemed  to  him  good 

there) 

Hard  by  to  Radestone,  where  he  read  bookes.  5 
It  came  in  his  mind,  and  he  made  it  his  purpose, 
To  tell  of  the  Enghsh,  the  triumphs  of  old; 
What  names  the  men  had,  what  lands  they  were 

come  from; 
What  folk  English-land  first  of  all  owned 
After  the  deluge  that  down  from  the  Lord 

came  lo 

Which  quelled^  all  men   that   quick  here  it 

founde, 
Except  Noah  and  Shem,  Japhet  and  Ham, 
And  their  four  wives  who  were  in  the  ark  with 

them. 

So  'gan  Layamon  wander  wide  'mongst  the 

people, 
And  noble  books   got  he  for  guides  in  his 

labours.  15 

That  English  book  took  he,  made  by  Saint 

Baeda; 
Another  in  Latin,  left  by  Saint  Albin, 
And  the  bless'd  Austin, ^  who  baptism  brought 

us; 
A  third  he  took  likewise,  and  laid  it  among 

them. 
That  a  French  clerk  had  made, — Wace  was  he 

called,  20 

This  goodly  writing  he  gave  to  the  noble 
Eleanor,  of  Henry,  that  high  King,  his  Queen. 
Layamon  laid  these  books  down,  their  leaves  he 

turned  over. 
With  love  he  looked  on  them,  the  Lord  grant 

him  mercy, 
Feather*  took  he  with  fingers,  and  fair  on  the 

book-skin  25 

The  sooth  words  then  wrote  he,  and  set  them 

together, 
And  these  three  writings  he  wrought  into  one. 

Now  Layamon  prayeth  for  the  Lord's  love 

Almighty, 
Each  wise  man  who  readeth  words  in  this  book 

written, 
And  heedeth  this  teaching,   that  these  holy 

wordes  30 

He  say  all  together: 
For  the  soul  of  his  father^   who  forth  him 

broughte, 
For  the  soul  of  his  mother,  who  made  him  a  man, 
And  for  his  own  soul,  so  that  better  befall  it. 
Amen. 

the  legendary  history  of  Britain,  based  largely  on  the 
Bnit  of  the  "Anglo-Norman  poet  Wace.  Brut=Brutu3, 
who  according  to  the  fabulous  accounts  of  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth  and  others  was  the  grandson  of  jEneas,  and 
the  founder  of  New  Troy  or  London. 

2  Killed. 
.^Austin,  i.  e.  St.  Augustine,  the  first  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury. 

♦Pen. 


27 


28 


THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 


ORMULUMi 
(c.  1215-1220) 

Now,  brother  Walter,  brother  mine 

After  the  fleshes  kind, 
And  brother  mine  in  Christendom 

Through  baptism  and  through  truth, 
And  brother  mine  eke  in  God's  house,  5 

Once  more,  in  a  third  way, 
Since  that  we  two  have  taken  both 

One  book  of  rules  to  follow. 
Under  the  canons'  rank  and  life 

So  as  Saint  Austin^  set;  10 

I  now  have  done  even  as  thou  bad'st, 

Forwarding  to  thy  will, 
I  now  have  turned  into  English 

The  Gospel's  holy  lore, 
After  that  little  wit  that  me  15 

My  Lord  and  God  has  lent. 
Thou  thoughtest  how  that  it  might  well 

To  mickle  profit  turn. 
If  English  folk,  for  love  of  Christ, 

It  readily  would  learn  20 

And  follow  it,  fulfilling  it 

With  thought,  with  word,  with  deed. 
And  therefore  yearnedst  thou  that  I 

This  work  for  thee  should  work; 
And  I  have  forwarded  it  for  thee,  25 

And  all  through  help  of  Christ.  .  .  . 
And  since  the  holy  gospel  book 

All  this  goodness  shows  us. 
This  sevenfold  good  that  Christ  to  us 

Did  grant  through  His  great  love,  30 

For  this  'tis  meet  all  Christian  folk 

Should  follow  gospel's  lore. 
And  therefore  have  I  rendered  it 

Into  English  speech. 
Because  I  wished  most  earnestly  35 

That  all  good  English  folk 
With  ear  should  hearken  unto  it. 

With  heart  should  truly  beUeve, 
With  tongue  should  ever  tell  of  it, 

In  deed  should  follow  it,  40 

To  win  through  Christ  in  Christendom 

The  soul's  salvation  true. 
And  God  almighty  give  us  might 

And  wish  and  wit  and  will 
To  follow  well  this  English  book  45 

That  is  all  holy  lore, 
So  that  we  may  full  worthy  be 

To  know  high  heaven's  bliss. 

Amen.    Amen.    Amen. 
I  that  in  English  this  have  set,  50 

Englishmen  to  teach, 
At  the  time  when  I  was  christened, 

By  name  of  Orm  was  called. 
And  I,  Orm,  full  inwardly 

With  mouth  and  eke  with  heart,  55 

1  The  book  of  the  monk  Orm,  an  unfinished  poem  of 
over  10,000  lines,  giving  the  gospels  of  the  ecclesiastical 
year  as  arranged  in  the  Mass-book  (Cf.  "The  Gospel's 
holy  lore,"  line  14),  with  comments  and  appropriate  re- 
ligious instruction. 

2  Saint  Augustine  (354-430)  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 
Early  Fathers  of  the  Church- 


Here  bid  all  those  good  Christian  men 

Who  either  hear  or  read 
This  book,  1  bid  them  now  that  they 

Will  pray  for  me  this  prayer: 
The  brother  who  this  English  book  60 

Both  wrote  and  wrought  the  first, 
May  he  as  wages  for  his  work 

True  bliss  of  heaven  find. 

Amen. 


Gliomas?  of  l^alesf 

A  LOVE  RUNEi 

(Before  1226) 

A  maid  of  Christ  entreateth  me 

That  I  for  her  a  love-rune  write 

By  which  most  plainly  she  may  see 

The  way  to  choose  a  faithful  knight; 

One  that  to  her  shall  loyal  be  5 

And  guard  and  keep  her  by  his  might. 

Never  will  I  deny  her  plea, 

To  teach  her  this  be  my  delight. 

Maiden,  thou  may  est  well  behold 

How  this  world's  love  is  but  a  race  10 

Beset  with  perils  manifold 

Fickle  and  ugly,  weak  and  base. 

Those  noble  knights  that  once  were  bold 

As  breath  of  wind  pass  from  their  place. 

Under  the  mold  now  lie  they  cold,  15 

Wither  hke  grass  and  leave  no  trace. 

There's  none  so  rich,  nor  none  so  free. 

But  that  he  soon  shall  hence  away. 

Nothing  may  ever  his  warrant  be. 

Gold,  nor  silver,  nor  ermine  gay.  20 

Though  swift,  his  end  he  may  not  flee. 

Nor  shield  his  life  for  a  single  dsiy. 

Thus  is  this  world,  as  thou  may'st  see. 

Like  to  the  shadow  that  gUdes  away. 

This  world  all  passes  as  the  wind,  25 

When  one  thing  comes,  another  flies; 

What  was  before,  is  now  behind; 

What  was  held  dear,  we  now  despise. 

Therefore  he  does  as  doth  the  blind 

That  in  this  world  would  claim  his  prize.       30 

This  world  decays,  as  ye  may  find; 

Truth  is  put  down  and  wrong  doth  rise. 

The  love  that  may  not  here  abide, 

Thou  dost  great  wrong  to  trust  to  now; 

E'en  so  it  soon  shall  from  thee  glide,  35 

'Tis  false,  and  brittle,  and  slight,  I  trow. 

Changing  and  passing  with  every  tide. 

While  it  lasts  it  is  sorrow  enow; 

At  end,  man  wears  not  robe  so  wide 

But  he  shall  fall  as  leaf  from  bough.  40 

Paris  and  Helen,  where  are  they 
That  were  so  bright  and  fair  of  face? 

1 A  love  poem,  writing,  or  counsel. 


I 


THE  OWL  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE 


Amadas,  Tristram,  did  they  stay, 

Or  Iseult  with  her  winsome  grace? 

Could  mighty  Hector  death  delay,  45 

Or  Csesar,  high  in  pride  of  place? 

They  from  this  earth  have  slipped  away 

As  sheaf  from  field,  and  left  no  trace. 

They  are  as  though  they  never  were, 

Of  them  are  many  wonders  said,  50 

And  it  is  pity  for  to  hear 

How  these  were  slain  with  tortures  dread. 

And  how  alive  they  suffered  here; 

Their  heat  is  turned  to  cold  instead, 

Thus  doth  the  world  but  false  appear,  55 

The  foolish  trust  it, — lo!  'tis  sped. 

For  though  a  mighty  man  he  were 
As  Henry,  England's  king  by  birth. 
Though  he  as  Absalom  were  fair. 
Whose  peer  lived  not  in  all  the  earth,  60 

Yet  of  his  pride  he's  soon  stripped  bare, 
At  last  he'll  fetch  not  a  herring's  worth, 
Maid,  if  thou  mak'st  true  love  thy  care 
I'll  show  thee  a  love  more  true  than  earth. 

Ah!  maiden  sweet,  if  thou  but  knew  65 

All  the  high  virtues  of  this  knight! 

He  is  fair  and  bright  of  hue, 

Mild,  with  face  of  shining  light, 

Meet  to  be  loved  and  trusted  too. 

Gracious,  and  wise  beyond  man's  sight,  70 

Nor  through  him  wilt  thou  ever  rue. 

If  thou  but  trust  in  his  great  might. 

He  is  the  strongest  in  the  land; 

As  far  as  man  can  tell  with  mouth, 

All  men  He  beneath  his  hand,  75 

East,  and  West,  and  North,  and  South; 

Henry,  King  of  Engelland, 

He  holds  of  him  and  to  him  boweth 

His  messenger,  at  his  command. 

His  love  declares,  his  truth  avow'th.  80 

Speak'st  thou  of  buildings  raised  of  old, 

Wrought  by  the  wise  king  Solomon, 

Of  jasper,  sapphires,  and  fine  gold. 

And  of  many  another  stone? 

His  home  is  fairer  by  many  fold  85 

Than  I  can  tell  to  any  one; 

'Tis  promised,  maid,  to  thee  of  old. 

If  thou  wilt  take  him  for  thine  own. 

It  stands  upon  foundations  sound. 

So  built  that  they  shall  never  fall;  90 

Nor  miner  sap  them  underground, 

Nor  shock  e'er  shake  the  eternal  wall; 

Cure  for  each  wound  therein  is  f©und. 

Bliss,  joy  and  song,  fill  all  that  hall. 

The  joys  that  do  therein  abound  95 

Are  thine,  thou  may'st  possess  them  all. 

There  friend  from  friend  shall  never  part. 

There  every  man  shall  have  his  right; 

No  hate  is  there,  no  angry  heart. 

Nor  any  envy,  pride  or  spite;  100 

But  all  shall  with  the  angels  play 


In  peace  and  love  in  heavenly  light. 
Are  they  not,  maid,  in  a  good  way, 
Who  love  and  serve  our  Lord  aright? 

No  man  may  Him  ever  see 
As  He  is  in  all  His  might. 
And  without  pure  bliss  may  be 
When  he  knows  the  Lord  of  light. 
With  Him  all  is  joy  and  glee. 
He  is  day  without  a  night. 
Will  he  not  most  happy  be 
Who  may  bide  with  such  a  knight? 

This  writing,  maiden,that  I  send, 

Open  it,  break  seal  and  read; 

Wide  unroll,  its  words  attend. 

Learn  without  book  each  part  with  speed. 

Then  straight  to  other  maidens  wend 

And  teach  it  them  to  meet  their  need; 

Whoso  shall  learn  it  to  the  end 

In  sooth  'twill  stand  him  in  good  stead. 


29 


105 


110 


115 


120 


And  when  thou  sittest  sorrowing. 

Draw  forth  the  scroll  I  send  thee  here. 

And  with  sweet  voice  its  message  sing. 

And  do  its  bidding  with  good  cheer. 

To  thee  this  does  His  greeting  bring;  125 

Almighty  God  would  have  thee  near; 

He  bids  thee  come  to  His  wedding, 

There  where  he  sits  in  Heaven's  high  sphere. 

THE  OWL  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE^ 

(c.  1216-1225) 

Once  within  a  summer's  dale. 

In  a  very  secret  vale, 

Heard  I  'gainst  each  other  rail 

Hoary  Owl  and  Nightingale. 

That  strife  was  stiff,  and  stark,  and  strong,     5 

Now  'twas  soft,  now  loud  it  rung. 

And  each  bird  would  the  other  flout. 

And  all  the  evil  mood  let  out; 

And  each  said  of  the  other's  way 

The  very  worst  she  knew  to  say;  10 

Indeed,  about  each  other's  song 

The  strife  they  waged  was  very  strong. 

The  Nightingale  began  the  speech 
From  her  corner  in  a  beech: 
She  sat  upon  a  pleasant  bough,  15 

Blossoms  about  there  were  enow. 
Where  in  a  thick  and  lonely  hedge, 
Mingled  soft  shoots  and  greenest  sedge. 
She,  gladdened  by  the  bloomy  sprays. 
Varied  her  song  in  many  ways.  20 

Rather  it  seemed  the  joy  I  heard 
Of  harp  or  pipe  than  song  of  bird. 
Such  strains,  methought,  must  rather  float 
From  harp  or  pipe  than  feathered  throat. 

1  Thia  poem  and  the  following  are  examples  of  a  popu- 
lar poetic  mode  in  the  middle  ages,  i.  e.  debates  or  disputes. 
In  The  Owl  and  the  Nightingale,  the  two  birds  are  repre- 
sented as  disputing  over  their  respective  modes  of  life. 
The  poem  has  a  broad  human  interest,  as  the  two  birds 
express  two  opposing  ideals  of  life:  the  nightingale  that 
of  the  refined,  joyous,  pleasure-lover;  the  owl,  that  of 
the  ascetic.  The  birds  submit  their  case  at  last  to  the 
judgment  of  Nicholas  of  Guildford,  whom  some  suppose 
to  be  the  author  of  the  poem. 


30 


THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 


Then,  from  a  trunk  that  stood  hard-by,         25 

The  Owl  in  turn  made  her  reply, 

O'er  it  the  ivy  grew  apace; 

There  made  the  Owl  her  dwelling-place. 

The  Nightingale,  who  saw  her  plain, 
Surveyed  the  bird  with  high  disdain,  30 

Filled  with  contempt  she  viewed  the  Owl, 
Whom  all  men  loathsome  deem  and  foul. 
"Monster,"  she  cried,  ''take  wings  and  flee, 
I  am  the  worse  for  sight  of  thee, 
Truly,  at  thy  black  looks  of  yore  35 

Full  oft  my  song  I've  given  o'er; 
My  tongue  grows  weak,  my  courage  flies 
When  you  appear  before  mine  eyes, 
I'm  more  inclined  to  spit  than  sing 
At  sound  of  thy  harsh  sputtering."  40 

The  Owl  abode  till  it  grew  late. 
Eve  came,  she  could  no  longer  wait; 
Her  heart  began  to  swell  and  strain 
Till  scarce  she  could  her  breath  contain. 
Half  choked  with  rage,  these  words  she  flung: 
"  What  think'st  thou  now  about  my  song?       46 
Think'st  thou  in  song  I  have  no  skill 
Merely  because  I  cannot  trill? 
Often  to  wrath  thou  movest  me. 
And  dost  abuse  me  shamefully.  50 

If  in  my  claws  I  held  thee  fast, — 
And  so,  mayhap,  I  shall  at  last, — 
And  thou  wert  down  from  off  thy  spray 
Then  should'st  thou  sing  another  way." 

Then  made  the  Nightingale  reply:  55 

"If  I  avoid  the  open  sky, 
And  shield  myself  in  places  bare. 
Nothing  for  all  thy  threats  I  care; 
While  in  my  hedge  secure  I  sit, 
I  reck  not  of  your  threats  a  whit.  60 

I  know  you  cniel  to  devour 
All  helpless  things  within  your  power, 
Wreaking  your  wrath  in  evil  way 
On  smaller  birds  where'er  you  may. 
Hated  of  all  the  feathered  rout,  65 

The  birds  combine  to  drive  you  out; 
Shrieking  and  scolding  after  you. 
They  hard  upon  your  flight  pursue. 
The  tit-mouse,  if  she  had  her  will, 
Would  tease  you  and  would  work  you  ill.  70 

Hateful  to  look  upon  thou  art 
In  many  ways,  and  every  part; 
Thy  body's  short,  thy  neck  is  small. 
Thy  head  is  greater  far  than  all; 
Thine  eyes  coal-black  are  staring  wide  75 

As  though  with  woad  they  had  been  dyed; 
You  stare  as  though  you'd  like  to  bite 
Each  thing  your  cruel  claws  could  smite; 
Just  like  an  awl  that  has  been  crooked. 
Your  bill  is  stiff  and  sharp  and  hooked,  80 

With  it  you  hoot  both  oft  and  long, 
This  passes  with  you  for  a  song. 
You  threaten  me,  longing  to  clasp 
My  flesh  and  crush  me  in  your  grasp; 
More  fit  for  thee  would  be  a  frog,  85 

That  sits  beneath  the  mill-wheel's  cog, 
Or  snails,  and  mice,  and  creatures  foul, — 
Such  are  the  sort  fit  for  an  Owl. 
By  day  you  sit,  by  night  take  wing, 
Knowing  you  are  an  eerie  thing;  90 


That  thou  art  loathsome  and  unclean 
From  thine  own  nest  is  plainly  seen, 
And  also  by  thy  foul  young  brood. 
Which  thou  dost  feed  on  foulest  food." 

[After  a  prolonged  controversy,  the  Nightin- 
gale speaks  again:] 

"Owl,"  she  said,  "why  dost  thou  so?  4ii 

Thou  sing'st  in  winter  welawo! 

Thou  sing'st  as  doth  a  hen  in  snow, 

And  all  she  sings  is  but  for  woe: 

Thou  sing'st  in  winter's  wrath  and  gloom,      415 

In  summer  thou  art  ever  dumb. 

It  is  but  for  thy  foolish  spite 

That  thou  with  us  canst  not  be  bright; 

For  thee  consuming  envy  bums 

When  to  the  land  our  bliss  returns.  420 

Thou'rt  like  some  cross-grained,  crabbed  wight. 

Who  turns  black  looks  on  each  dehght. 

Ready  to  grudge  it,  and  to  lower 

If  men  are  happy  for  an  hour; 

He  wishes  rather  to  espy  425 

The  tears  of  grief  in  each  man's  eye. 

Let  the  mob  fight,  he  does  not  care 

Though  each  man  pulls  the  other's  hair. 

E'en  so  thou  dost  upon  thy  side. 

For  when  the  snow  lies  thick  and  wide,        430 

And  every  creature  has  his  sorrow. 

Thou  sing'st  from  night-fall  till  the  morrow. 

But  I,  all  bliss  with  me  doth  wake, 

Each  heart  is  gladder  for  my  sake, 

All  live  in  joy  when  I  am  here,  435 

All  wait  ^or  me  to  reappear. 

The  blossom  'gins  to  spring  and  sprede 

Upon  the  tree  and  on  the  mede. 

The  lily,  with  her  face  of  snow, 

Welcometh  me,  as  well  you  know,  440 

And  bids  me,  with  her  aspect  fair, 

To  fly  to  her,  and  greet  her  there. 

So  too,  with  ruddy  face,  the  rose, 

That  from  the  thorny  briar  grows. 

Bids  me  to  sing  in  bush  and  grove,  445 

A  joyous  carol  for  her  love." 

THE  DEBATE  OF  THE  BODY  AND  THE 
SOULi 

(13th  Century) 

As  once  I  lay  in  winter's  night. 
Sunk  deep  in  sleep  before  the  day, 
Methought  I  saw  a  wondrous  sight; 
Upon  a  bier  a  body  lay. 

It  once  had  been  a  wilful  Knight,^  5 

Scant  service  he  to  God  did  pay; 
Clean  lost  had  he  his  lifes  light. 
The  ghost  was  out  and  must  away. 

When  the  ghost  it  needs  must  go, 
It  turned  aside  and  near  it  stood;  lo 

Beheld  the  body  it  came  fro 
Most  sorrowful  in  frightened  mood. 

1  The  poem  is  a  controversial  dialogue  between  the 
body  and  the  soul,  the  warring  parts  of  man's  nature 
which  St.  Paul  speaks  of  as  "the  flesh"  and  "the  spirit."      V 
In  Prof.  Kittredge's  opinion  this  poem  is  incomparably       1 
the  best  embodiment  of  the  theme  that  can  be  found  in       ( 
any  literature. 


It  said:  ' 


THE  DEBATE  OF  THE  BODY  AND  THE  SOUL 


31 


said:  "Woe!  woe!  and  welawoe! 
Woe  worth  thy  flesh,  thy  foule  blood, 
Wretched  body,  why  Uest  thou  so  15 

That  wert  but  now  so  wild  and  wode?^ 

"Thou  that  once  wert  wont  to  ride 
High  on  horse  with  head  un-bowed, 
Famed  for  prowess  far  and  wide, 
As  a  lion  fierce  and  proud,  '    20 

Where  is  all  thy  mighty  pride, 
And  thy  voice  that  rang  so  loud. 
Why  dost  thou  there  all  naked  bide, 
Stitched  within  that  wretched  shroud? 

"  Where  is  now  thy  broidered  weed,  25 

Thy  sumpters,^  bearing  thy  rich  bed? 
Thy  palfreys  and  thy  battle-steed 
Which  at  thy  side  thy  Squire  led? 
Thy  crying  hawks  of  chosen  breed. 
And  the  hounds  that  thou  hast  fed?  30 

Methinks,  God  recks  not  of  thy  need, 
For  all  thy  friends  are  from  thee  fled. 

"Where  are  thy  castles  and  thy  towers, 
Thy  chambers  and  thy  stately  halls, 
Painted  with  many-coloured  flowers,  35 

And  thy  riche  robes  all? 
Thy  downy  quilts  and  covertures. 
Thy  sendals*  and  thy  purple  palls? 
Wretch!  full  dark  is  now  thy  bower, 
To-morrow  thou  therein  shalt  fall!"  ...      40 

Now  when  the  ghost  with  gruesome  cheer^  49 
Thus  had  made  his  mournful  moan, 
The  corpse,  stretched  stark  upon  the  bier, — 
A  ghastly  thing  thus  left  alone, — 
Its  head  and  neck  did  strait  uprear; 
As  a  sick  thing  it  'gan  to  groan, 
And  said:  "Where  art  thou  now,  my  fere,'     65 
My  ghost,  that  quite  art  from  me  gone? 


"God  shaped  thee  in  His  image  fair, 
And  gave  to  thee  both  wit  and  skill; 
He  trusted  me  unto  thy  care 
To  guide  according  to  thy  will. 
In  witchcrafts  foul  I  had  no  share, 
Nor  wist  I  what  was  good  nor  ill. 
But  Uke  dumb  beast  thy  yoke  I  Dare 
And  as  thou  bad'st  I  must  fulfill. 


"Placed  thy  pleasures  to  fulfill. 
Both  at  even  and  at  mom, 
I  was  in  thy  keeping  still 
From  the  time  that  thou  wast  bom. 
Thou,  that  knewest  good  and  ill. 
Surely  should'st  have  judged  befom 
Of  my  pride,  my  foolish  will; 
Now  alone  thou  liest  forlorn." 

The  ghost  it  said:  "Body,  be  still. 
Where  leamed'st  thou  this  moral  air? 
Givest  thou  me  harsh  words  and  ill 
And  liest  like  swollen  wine-skin  there? 


60 


65 


70 


75 


Thinkest    thou,    wretch,  though    thou    shalt 

fill 
With  thy  foul  flesh  a  noisome  lair, 
That  from  the  deeds  thou  didest  ill 
Thou  shalt  be  freed,  nor  judgment  bear? 


80 


85 


2  Passionate.  » Pack-horses. 

*  Sendal  was  a  rich  silk  material.  ^  Expression. 

•  Companion. 


"Thinkest  now  thy  rest  to  win 
Where  thou  Uest  rotting  in  the  clay? 
Though  thou  be  rotten  bone  and  skin, 
And  blowen  with  the  wind  away, 
Yet  limb  and  joint  thou  shalt  come  in 
Again  to  me  on  doomesday. 
Together  we  shall  pass  within 
To  Court,  to  take  our  bitter  pay. 


"You  to  my  sway  did  God  commit, 
But  when  you  thought  on  evil  deed,  90 

Hard  in  your  teeth  you  held  the  bit, 
And  did  all  things  that  I  forbede. 
Sin  you  obeyed,  you  drew  to  it. 
To  ease,  and  shame,  and  lust,  and  greed; 
I  fought  you  hard  with  strength  and  wit,       95 
But  aye  you  followed  your  own  rede.  .  .  . 

"I  bade  you  mind  your  spirit's  need;        105 
But  matins,  mass,  and  evensong 
You  put  aside  for  other  deed. 
And  called  them  vain,  with  foolish  tongue. 
To  wood  and  field  you  chose  to  speed, 
Or  run  to  Court  to  do  men  wrong;  lio 

Except  for  pride  or  greater  meed 
Small  good  you  did  your  whole  life  long."  . .  .112 

The  Body,  answering,  said  its  say:  137 

"O  Soul!  thou  hast  done  wrong  in  this. 
All  the  blame  on  me  to  lay. 
Now  thou  hast  lost  the  highest  bliss.  140 

Where  did  I  go,  by  wood  or  way. 
Where  sat,  or  stood,  or  did  amiss. 
But  'neath  thine  eye  I  went  each  day; 
Well  knowest  thou  the  truth  of  this.  ...     144 


' '  I  should  have  been  but  as  the  sheep,         1 6 1 
Or  like  the  dumb  and  herded  kine, 
That  eat,  and  drink,  and  sprawl,  and  sleep. 
And  passed  my  pain — like  slaughtered  swine; 
Gold  had  I  never  cared  to  keep,  165 

Nor  known  that  water  was  not  wine, 
Nor  been  thrust  down  to  hell's  black  deep. 
But  for  thee, — Soul, — the  fault  was  thine." 

The  ghost  replied:  "There  is  no  doubt 
Thy  part  was  always  me  to  bear:  170 

Needs  must  this  be,  I  was  without 
Or  hand  or  foot  wert  thou  not  there: 
Save  as  thou  carriedst  me  about 
I  could  do  naught,  nor  least  act  share; 
I  must  before  thee  bend  devout,  178 

To  do  aught  else  I  did  not  dare. 

"Of  one  woman  bom  and  bred. 
Body,  thou  and  I  were  twain; 
Together  fostered  fair  and  fed 
Till  thou  couldst  walk  and  speak  thee  plain]   180 


32 


THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 


Thee  gently,  moved  by  love,  I  led, 
Nor  dared  I  ever  give  thee  pain. 
To  lose  thee  was  my  sorest  dread, 
Knowing  I'd  get  no  more  again. 

"  I  saw  you  fair  in  flesh  and  blood,  185 

And  all  my  love  to  you  I  gave; 
That  you  should  thrive  methought  was  good, 
Soft  ease  and  rest  I  let  you  have; 
This  wrought  in  you  rebellious  mood, 
You  rushed  to  sin  as  impulse  drave;  190 

To  fight  against  you  did  no  good 
You  bore  me  with  you  as  your  slave.  .  .       192 

'  *  Well  warned  wert  thou  of  this  before,       20 1 
And  told  we  both  should  judgment  have; 
All  this  you  scorned  as  foolish  lore. 
Yet  watched  thy  kin  go  down  to  grave. 
Thou  didst  all  that  the  world  thee  bade,      205 
Each  thing  thy  eager  flesh  might  crave, 
And  I  allowed  it  (I  was  mad!), 
Thou  wert  the  master,  I  the  slave." 

[The  Body  speaks] 

"Thinkest  thou.  Ghost,  thou  gainest  aught 
To  quit  thee  from  thy  blame  withal,  210 

By  saying  that  thou,  so  nobly  wrought, 
Wast  forced  to  serve  me  as  my  thrall? 
Nothing  I  did  and  nothing  sought, 
Ne'er  plundered,  stole,  ne'er  sinned  at  all. 
But  first  in  thee  arose  the  thought.  215 

Abide  it  who  abide  it  shall! 

"How  wist  I  what  was  wrong  or  right, 
What  to  take,  what  cast  away. 
Save  as  thou  brought'st  it  to  my  sight,         219 
Thou  o'er  whom  wisdom  should  bear  sway? 
Thus,  trained  by  you  in  base  delight. 
Companion  of  your  pleasures  gay. 
Then  did  I  ill  with  all  my  might. 
Once  more  to  have  my  wicked  way. 

"But  haddest  thou, — Christ  grant  'twere 
true, —  225 

Given  me  hunger,  thirst,  and  cold, 
And  taught  me  good  that  no  good  knew. 
When  I  in  evil  was  so  bold. 
Then,  what  I  learned  in  youth  from  you, 
I  had  held  fast  when  I  was  old;  230 

You  let  me  North  and  South  roam  through. 
And  take  my  pleasures  uncontrolled."  ...  232 

Then  wept  the  ghost  most  bitterly,  249 

"Body,  alas,  alas!"  (it  said). 
"That  e'er  of  old  I  lov6d  thee! 
Lost  was  the  love  I  on  thee  stayed; 
Falsely  you  feigned  a  love  for  me. 
And  me  a  house  of  glass  you  made; 
I  gave  you  pleasures  trustfully,  255 

You,  traitor,  still  my  trust  betrayed.  .  .  . 


They  come  to  fetch  me  down  to  hell. 
No  whither  may  I  from  them  flee; 
And  thou  shalt  come  with  flesh  and  fell 
At  doomesday  to  dwell  with  me." 

Almost  before  the  words  were  said. 
That  told  it  wist  where  it  must  go. 
Burst  in  at  once  in  sudden  raid 
A  thousand  devils  and  yet  mo. 
And  when  they  once  had  on  him  laid 
Their  savage  claws,  they  tare  him  so 
He  was  in  torment,  sore  afraid. 
Tossed,  tugged  and  tousled  to  and  fro. 


360 


365 


"No  longer.  Body,  may  I  dwell. 
No  longer  stand  to  speak  with  thee; 
Now  I  hear  the  hell-hounds  yell. 
And  fiendes  more  than  man  may  see 


352 


355 


For  they  were  shaggy,  shock-haired,  tailed. 
With  bulgy  bumps  upon  the  back,  369 

Their  claws  were  sharp,  they  were  long-nailed. 
No  limb  there  was  but  showed  some  lack. 
The  ghost  was  right  and  left  assailed 
By  many  a  devil  foul  and  black; 
Crying  for  mercy  naught  availed 
When  God  his  vengeance  due  must  take.  . .  .  375 

Instead  of  colt  for  him  to  ride,  399 

Straightway  a  cursed  devil  came. 
That  grisly  grinned  and  yawned  wide 
Out  from  his  throat  flared  tongues  of  flame. 
The  saddle  on  his  back  and  side 
Was  stuck  with  pikes  to  pierce  and  maim,. 
'Twas  as  a  heckle  to  bestride,^  405 

And  all  a-glow  with  scorching  flame. 

Upon  that  saddle  was  he  slung, 
As  though  to  ride  in  tournament; 
A  hundred  devils  on  him  hung, 
Hither  and  thither  him  they  sent;  410 

He  with  hot  spears  was  pierced  and  stung, 
And  sore  with  hooks  of  iron  rent; 
At  every  stroke  the  sparkles  sprung 
As  they  from  blazing  brand  were  sent. 

When  he  the  ride  had  ridden  at  last,         415 
Fast  to  that  fearful  saddle  bound, 
As  hunted  fox  he  down  was  cast, 
The  worrying  hell-hounds  close  him  round. 
They  rend  him,  trembling  and  aghast. 
And  harry  him  towards  hell's  dark  bound;  420 
A  man  might  trace  the  way  they  passed 
By  blood-stains  on  the  trampled  ground. 

They  bid  him  then  his  horn  to  blow, 
To  urge  on  Bauston  and  Bevts, 
His  hounds,  well  wont  his  call  to  know,        425 
For  they  would  shortly  sound  the  pm.* 
A  hundred  devils,  in  a  row. 
Drag  him  with  ropes  toward  the  abyss, 
The  loathly  flames  are  seen  below. 
The  mouth  of  hell  it  was,  I  wis.  430 

When  once  that  dread  abode  is  won, 
The  fiends  set  up  so  loud  a  yell 

^  Heckle.  An  instrument  consisting  of  a  board  in  which 
are  inserted  sharp  spikes  used  for  dressing  flax  or  hemp, 
by  splitting  and  straightening  the  fibres.     See  Burns*  \ 
Address  to  the  Toothache.  \ 

8  The  note  of  the  horn  blown  at  the  taking  of  the  deerj    / 
used  in  hunting.    French  prendre. 


ROBERT  MANNING  OF  ERUNNE 


That  earth  it  opens  up  anon; 
Smother  and  smoke  rise  from  that  cell, 
Both  of  foul  pitch  and  of  brimstone,  435 

Men  five  miles  off  can  smell  that  smell; 
Woe  grips  and  holds  that  wretched  one 
Who  scents  from  far  that  scent  of  hell. 

The  foule  fiends,  with  eager  grin. 
Seize  on  the  soul,  and,  whirling  it,  440 

With  might  and  main  they  hurl  it  in, 
Down,  down,  into  the  devil's  pit; 
Then,  they  themselves  plunge  straight  therein, 
To  darkness  with  no  sunshine  lit, 
Earth  closes  on  that  house  of  sin,  445 

The  dungeon-doors  shut  fast  on  it. 

When  they  had  gone,  that  loathsome  brood, 
To  hell's  black  pit,  ere  it  was  day. 
On  every  hair  the  sweat-drops  stood 
For  fright  and  fear  as  there  I  lay:  450 

To  Jesus  Christ,  in  chastened  mood. 
Yearning  I  cried, — and  dreaded  aye 
That  those  fierce  fiends  so  foul  and  lewd. 
Would  come  to  carry  me  away. 

Then  thanked  I  Him  who  passed  death's  gate, 

Who  unto  man  such  mercy  bore,  456 

My  shield  'gainst  many  an  evil  fate, 

And  felt  my  sins  as  ne'er  before. 

All  ye  who  sin,  I  charge  you  straight 

To  shrive  you  and  repent  you  sore;  460 

For  sin  was  never  sinned  so  great 

That  Christ's  wide  mercy  was  not  more. 

Eobm  of  ^louce^ter 

IN  PRAISE  OF  ENGLAND 

(From  Riming  Chronicle,^  c.  1300) 

England  is  a  right  good  land,  I  ween  of  all  the 

best. 
Set  it  is  at  the  world's  end,  afar  within  the 

west. 
And  all  about  it  goes  the  sea,  it  standeth  as  an 

isle. 
Its  foes  it  thus  needs  fear  the  less,  except  it  be 

through  guile 
On  part  of  folk  of  its  own  land,  as  hath  been 

seen  erstwhile.  5 

From  North  to  South  it  stretches  out  in  length 

eight  hundred  mile. 
Two  hundred   miles  from  East  to  West  in 

breadth  the  land  extends; — 
In  the  mid-land,  that  is  to  say,  and  not  as  at 

one  end. 
Plenty  one  may  in  Engeland  of  all  good  thinges 

see; 
If  only  folk  will  spoil  them  not,  or  other  worse 

years  be.  10 

For  Engeland  is  full  enough  of  fruit  and  eke  of 

treen,2 

1  The  Riming  Chronicle  is  a  metrical  history  of  Eng- 
land from  the  earliest  and  mythical  period  to  the  latter 
part  of  the  13th  century.  Robert,  who  was  presumably  a 
monk  in  the  Abbey  of  Gloucester,  probably  wrote  only 
the  latter  part  of  the  poem.  The  entire  work  is  more 
than  12,000  lines  in  length,  «  Trees. 


Of  woodes  and  of  parkes  most  joyful  to  be  seen; 
Of  fowles  and  of  beastes,  both  wild  and  tame 

als6; 
Of  salt  fish  and  of  fresh  fish,  of  rivers  fair 

thereto; 
Of  wells  both  sweet  and  cold  enough,  of  pasture 

and  of  mead;  15 

Of  ore  of  silver  and  of  gold,  of  tin  and  eke  of 

lead; 
Of  steel,  of  iron,  and  of  brass,  of  coin  in  great 

plenty; 
Of  wheat  and  eke  of  wool,  so  good  none  better 

may  there  be. 
Waters  it  hath  enough  als6;  before  all  others 

three, 
As  arms  are  these  out  of  the  land,  and  reaching 

to  the  sea.  20 

By  them  the  ships  may  come  from  sea  and  out 

their  way  may  trace, 
And  bring  inl&nd  enough  of  goods,  to  well  nigh 

every  place. 
Severn,  and  Thames,  and  Humber,  so  these 

three  rivers  stand; 
And  in  the  midst,  as  hath  been  said,  there  lyeth 

the  pure  land. 


NORMAN  AND  ENGLISH 

(From  the  same) 

Thus   came,    lo   Engeland    into    Normandy's 

hand, 
And  the  Normans  could  speak  then  naught  but 

their  own  speech. 
And   spoke   French   as   at   home,    and   their 

children  did  teach. 
So  high  men  of  this  land,  that  of  Norman  blood 

come, 
Keep  them  all  to  that  speech  that  they  had  at 

their  home.  5 

If  a  man  know  not  French,  small  store  men  by 

him  set. 
But  low  men  hold  to  English  and  to  their  own 

speech  yet. 
I  ween  that  there  beeth  in  the  world  countries 

none 
That  hold  not  to  their  own  speech  but  England 

alone. 
And  well  do  I  wot  to  know  both  well  it  is,         1 0 
For  the  more  a  man  knows  the  more  worth  he 

is. 


Hobert  ^anninst  of  llBmnne 

IN   PRAISE  OF  WOMAN 

(From  Handlyng  Synne,^  c.  1303) 

Nothing  is  to  man  so  dear 
As  woman's  love  in  good  manure. 

1  A  poem  of  over  12,000  lines,  treating  of  the  Ten 
Commandments,  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins,  the  Seven 
Sacraments  and  other  religious  themes.  The  author 
enlivens  his  doctrinal  instructions  with  appropriate 
stories,  for  he  says  he  has  made  his  poem  for  those  who 
love  to  hear  stories  over  their  ale,  and  who  are  prone  t» 
fall  into  sin. 


34 


THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 


A  good  wom4n  is  manes  bliss, 

When  her  love  right  and  steadfast  is. 

No  solace  is  there  'neath  the  sky,  6 

Of  all  that  man  may  name  or  try, 

That  man  to  joy  so  greatly  moves 

As  a  good  woman  that  truly  loves. 

Nor  dearer  is  none  in  all  God's  herd 

Than  a  chaste  woman  with  lovely  word.        10 

CURSOR  MUNDIi 
(c.  1320-1325) 

THE   PROLOGUE 

Man  yearneth  rimes  for  to  hear, 

And  romances  of  strange  mattere, 

Of  Alisaundere'^  the  conquerour. 

Of  Julius  Caesar  the  emperour, 

Of  Greece  and  Troy  the  strange  strife  5 

Where  many  thousand  lost  their  life; 

Of  Brut,  that  hero  bold  of  hand, 

First  conquerour  of  Engeland; 

Of  King  Arthour  that  was  so  rike' 

Whom  no  one  in  his  time  was  Uke;  10 

Of  wonders  that  his  knights  befell 

Adventures  many  as  I've  heard  tell, 

As  Gawain,  Kay,  and  others  stable. 

For  they  were  men  of  the  Round  Table; 

How  Charles  and  Roland  waged  their  fight,  15 

With  Sarcens  they  no  troth  would  plight; 

Of  Tristrem  and  his  dear  Ysote 

How  he  for  her  became  a  sote;* 

Of  Joneck  and  of  Ysambrase, 

Of  Ydoine  and  of  Amadase,  20 

Stories  als6  of  sundry  things. 

Of  princes,  prelates,  and  of  kings, 

Many  songs  of  storied  rime, 

English,  Frankish,  and  Latine. 

To  read  and  hear  each  one  is  prest  25 

Of  whatsoe'er  he  likes  the  best; 

The  wise  man  will  of  wisdom  hear. 

The  fool  to  folly  draws  him  near; 

The  wrong  to  hear  of  right  is  loath. 

And  pride  with  buxomness^  is  wroth.  ...     30 

But  by  the  fruit  the  wise  may  see  33 

Of  what  vertii  is  every  tree. 

All  sorts  of  fruit  that  man  shall  find  35 

Must  draw  from  out  the  root  their  kind; 

From  goodly  pear-trees  come  good  pears. 

Worse  tree,  the  worse  the  fruit  it  bears. 

That  I  should  speak  from  thLs  same  tree 

Betokens,  man,  both  me  and  thee;  40 

This  fruit  betokens  all  our  deeds. 

Both  good  and  ill  who  rightly  reads. 

Our  dedes  in  our  hearts  take  root. 

Whether  they  be  for  bale  or  boot; 

For  by  the  thing  man  draweth  unt6  45 

For  good  or  ill  men  shall  him  know.  .  .  . 

1  The  poem  is  named  from  the  fact  that  in  its  stories 
it  "courses"  pretty  much  over  the  world,  as  is  indicated 
in  the  Prologue.  It  is  about  30,000  lines,  and  it  was 
written  in  EngHsh  "for  the  love  of  EngHsh  folk." 

2  This  list  includes  some  of  the  most  important  groups 
or  cycles  of  romance.  Those  on  Alexander,  on  Brut  or 
Brutus,  the  supposed  founder  of  Britain,  on  Arthur  and 
his  knights,  on  Charlemagne,  and  on  Roland. 

» Mighty.  *  Madman.  *  Humility. 


All  this  world,  ere  I  have  done,  121 

With  Christ's  help  shall  I  over-run, 

And  tell  some  stories  principal. 

For  no  man  may  relate  them  all. 

But  since  no  work  may  long  endure  12S 

That  stands  not  on  foundation  sure. 

This  same  work,  therefore,  shall  I  found 

Upon  a  wondrous,  steadfast,  ground; 

That  is  the  Holy  Trinity 

That  all  has  wrought  with  His  beauty.         130 

Unto  Him  first  I  turn  my  face. 

And  then  His  handy  work  I'll  trace: 

Of  the  angels  first  that  fell. 

And  next  I  will  of  Adam  tell, 

Of  his  offspring  and  of  No6,  135 

And  somewhat  of  his  sonnes  three; 

Of  Abraham  and  of  Is4aC, 

That  holy  were  withouten  make;^ 

After  shall  I  tell  to  you 

Of  Jacob  and  of  Esau  too;  140 

Then  should  there  be  thereafter  told 

How  that  Joseph  was  bought  and  sold; 

How  Moses  'midst  the  Jews  arose. 

That  Goddes  folk  to  lead  them  chose; 

How  God  the  law  to  him  did  give  145 

By  which  the  Jewish  folk  should  live. 

Of  Saul  the  king,  and  David  too 

How  he  GoHath  fought  and  slew; 

And  next  of  Solomon  the  Wise, 

How  craftily  he  did  justice;  160 

How  Christ  came  down  through  prophecy, 

And  how  He  came  His  folk  to  buy. 

[The  author  next  goes  on  to  enumerate 
various  other  matters  of  which  he  proposes  to 
treat,  such  as  the  birth  of  Christ,  the  de- 
struction of  the  innocents,  the  flight  into 
Egypt,  and  so  on  through  the  gospel  story. 
After  this  outline  of  the  general  plan  and 
scope  of  his  work  he  concludes  his  prologue  as 
follows: — ] 

These  are  the  subjects  put  in  place  221 

I  think  within  this  book  to  trace; 
Speaking  but  shortly  of  each  deed, 
For  there  are  many  tales  to  speed. 
Useful,  methinks,  it  were  to  man  225 

To  know  himself  how  he  began; 
How  he  at  first  was  bom  and  bred. 
How  o'er  the  earth  his  offspring  spread; 
Both  of  the  first  and  of  the  last. 
And  in  what  course  this  world  is  past.  230 

Those  things  that  Holy  Church  doth  state 
In  this  same  book  I  now  translate. 
In  English  tongue  'tis  all  made  clear 
For  love  of  all  the  EngUsh  here; 
English  folk  of  Engeland,  28S 

For  the  commons  to  understand. 
French  rimes  are  there  in  this  land 
To  be  found  on  every  hand; 
French  is  wrought  for  Frankish  man. 
What  is  for  him  that  no  French  can?  ato 

The  nation  of  England  old 
The  Englishmen  in  common  hold; 
The  speech  that  man  with  most  may  speed 
« Without  an  equal. 


RICHARD  ROLLE  OF  HaMPOLE 


35 


Must  be  the  speech  that  men  most  need. 

Seldom  was  by  any  chance  245 

Praised  the  English  tongue  in  France; 

Do  we  the  same  to  their  langulige 

Methinks  we  do  them  no  outrage. 

For  unlearned  EngUshman  I  spell, 

That  understandeth  what  I  tell,  250 

And  specially  I  those  address 

That  all  their  lives  in  idleness 

On  trifles  waste  and  beggars'  Ues, 

To  them  I  say:  "Take  care,  be  wise. 

And  well  unto  my  words  attend,  255 

And  all  your  way  with  might  amend." 

Ill  have  they  who  in  spending  spend, 

And  find  no  fruit  thereof  at  end.  .  .  .  258 

Now  from  this  prologue  we  will  blinne,'  265 

And  in  Christ's  name  our  book  begin: 

Cursor  o' World  men  ought  it  call, 

For  almost  it  o'er  runs  it  all. 

Take  we  our  beginning  than* 

From  Him  who  all  the  world  began.  270 


Kictiaro  MoUe  of  l^ampote 

died  1349 
THE  INFANT 

(From  The  Pricke  of  Conscience,^  c.  1340) 

[When  man]  was  bom  to  this  world's  light, 

He  had  not  either  strength  or  might,  465 

Either  to  walk  or  yet  to  stand, 

Nor  to  creep  with  foot  and  hand. 

Then  has  the  man  less  might  than  beast; 

When  he  is  bom,  he  seems  the  least; 

For  a  beast,  when  it  is  bom,  may  go  470 

And  run  soon  after  to  and  fro; 

But  a  man  has  no  might  thereto, 

When  he  is  bom,  such  things  to  do; 

For  then  he  may  not  stand  nor  creep, 

But  only  sprawl  and  cry  and  weep.  475 

For  a  child  is  scarcely  bom  before 

It  has  begun  to  cry  and  roar;  ^ 

And  by  that  cry  men  tell  truly 

Whether  it  man  or  woman  be. 

When  it  is  born  it  cries  such  way:  480 

For  if  it  be  man  it  says  "a,  a," 

So  that  the  letter  is  the  same 

As  the  first  in  Father  Adam's  name. 

And  if  the  child  a  woman  be. 

When  it  is  bom  it  says  "e,  e,"  485 

E  is  the  foremost  letter  in 

Eve's  name,  who  brought  us  death  and  sin. 

Hence  a  clerk  made  in  this  manere, 

This  line  in  metre  written  here: 

Dicentes  E  vel  A  quotquot  nascuntur  ah  Eva,  490 

**A11  those,"  he  says,  "that  come  of  Eve, 

Means  all  men  that  below  here  live, 

When  they  are  bom,  what-so  they  be, 

T  Cease.  «  Then. 

1 A  Poem  of  about  10,000  lines  is  addressed  to  the  un- 
learned "that  can  ne  Latyne  understand,"  and  is  in- 
tended by  its  dreadful  pictures  of  death  and  judgment, 
to  prick  the  reader's  conscience,  so  that  he  may  "work 
good  works  and  flee  folly." 


They  either  say  "a,  a,"  or  "e,  e," 

And  thus  here  we  find  the  starting  495 

Of  our  weeping  and  life's  smarting. 

Unto  this  have  sorrows  brought  us, 

Therefore  Innocent  has  taught  us: 

Omnes   nasdmur   eiulantes,    ut    nature   nostre 

miseriam  exprimamus. 
He  says:  "We  all  are  born  complaining,        500 
We  cry,  and  wail — man's  sorrow  feigning. 
To  show  the  misery,  how  great 
The  wretchedness  of  man's  estate." 
Thus  when  the  time  came  of  our  birth, 
All  made  sorrow  and  no  mirth;  505 

Naked  we  hither  came,  and  bare, 
And  just  so  shall  we  hither  fare. 


THE  CELESTIAL  COUNTRY 

(From  the  same) 

All  joys  are  there  in  that  countrie, 

There  Ufe  from  death  forever  free; 

There  youth  is,  ever  without  eld,  7815 

All  wealth  is  there  forever  held: 

There  is  aye  rest  without  travail; 

There  are  all  goods  that  never  fail; 

There  peace  forever,  without  strife: 

There  every  kind  of  joyous  life;  7820 

There  is,  free  from  all  darkness,  light; 

There  is  aye  day  and  never  night; 

There  aye  is  summer  bright  to  see; 

And  never  more  winter  in  that  countrie; 

There  are  true  friendships  and  richesse,       7825 

More  nobleness  than  man  may  guess; 

There  is  more  worship  and  honour 

Than  ever  had  king  or  emperour; 

There  is  all  might  and  power  secure; 

And  there  an  endless  home  made  sure;       7830 

There  too  are  all  delights  and  ease, 

And  sure  tranquility  and  peace; 

There  peaceful  joy  forever  is. 

And  pleasure  there  and  lasting  bliss.  .  . .    7834 

There  always  blissful  certainty,  7837 

And  certain  dwelling  ever  free; 

There  is  all  mirth,  each  pastime  dear; 

There  laughter  is,  and  lovely  cheer;  7840 

There's  melody  and  angel's  song. 

And  love  and  praise  from  that  bright  throng: 

There  is  all  friendship  that  may  be; 

And  perfect  love  and  charitie; 

There  is  accord,  and  its  due  mede  7845 

Is  given  aye  to  each  good  deed; 

There's  lowly  awe  and  reverence, 

And  meekness  and  obedience; 

There  are  all  virtues  and  no  sin, 

All  dainties  and  delights  therein,  7850 

All  wisdom's  there  from  folly  free. 

And  honour  without  villany.  .  .  .  7852 


There  is  brightness  and  beautie 
In  everything  that  men  shall  see; 
There  joys  are  free  and  general. 
But  the  most  sovereign  joy  of  all 
Is  the  blest  sight  of  God's  bright  face, 
Beyond  all  joys  and  all  solace. 


7860 


7865 


36 


THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 


ilatorence  ^inot 

c.  1300-1352 
THE  BATTLE  OF  HALIDON  HILL^ 

Listen,  Lordings,  if  you  will 
Hear  of  the  battle  of  Halidon  Hill. 

True  King  that  sitteth  on  thy  throne, 
Unto  thee  I  tell  my  tale, 
And  unto  thee  I  bid  a  boon. 
For  thou  art  balm  of  all  my  bale. 
As  thou  hast  made  the  earth  and  moon, 
And  beasts  and  foules  great  and  smale, 
Unto  me  send  thy  succour  soon 
Direct  my  deedes  in  this  dale. 

In  this  dale  I  droup^  and  dare 
For  evil  deeds  that  cost  me  dear. 
For  England  had  my  heart  great  care. 
When  Edward  went  at  first  to  were.' 
The  men  of  France  were  bold  to  fare 
Against  him  with  the  shield  and  spere; 
They  turned  again  with  sides  sair 
And  all  their  pomp  not  worth  a  pere.* 

A  pear  is  more  of  price  sometide^ 
Than  all  the  boast  of  Normandie. 
They  sent  their  ships  on  ilka  side 
With  flesh  and  wine  and  wheat  and  rye; 
With  heart  and  hand,  'tis  not  denied. 
For  to  help  Scotland  gan  they  hie. 
They  fled  and  durst  no  deed  abide 
And  all  their  boast  not  worth  a  flye. 

For  all  their  boast  they  durst  not  fight, 
For  dint  of  death  they  had  such  dout,' 
Of  Scotland  had  they  never  sight 
Although  they  were  of  wordes  stout. 
They  would  have  magnified  their  might 
And  troubled  were  they  there  about. 
Now  God  help  Edward  in  his  right,— 
Amen — and  all  his  ready  rout. 


10 


15 


20 


25 


30 


35 


His  ready  rout  may  Jesu  speed. 

And  save  them  both  by  night  and  day; 

That  Lord  of  Heaven  may  Edward  lead, 

And  him  maintain  as  well  He  may. 

The  Scotchmen  now  all  wide  will  sprede^ 

For  they  have  failed  of  their  prey,  40 

Now  are  they  daunted  all  for  drede 

That  were  before  so  stout  and  gay. 

Gay  they  were  and  well  they  thought 
On  Earl  Moray^  and  others  stout; 

1  This  poem  is  one  of  the  famous  war-songs  which 
celebrate  events  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III.  between 
1333-1352.  The  battle  of  Halidon  Hill  was  fought  in 
1333.  The  King,  who  was  besieging  Berwick,  completely- 
routed  a  Scotch  force  under  Sir  Archibald  Douglas, 
which  had  come  to  relieve  the  town.  Berwick  passed 
into  the  hands  of  the  English,  and  has  remained  so  till 
today. 

*  Pine.  »  War.  *  Pear. 

« Sometimes.  » Fear.  ">  Disperse. 

"John  Randolph,  3rd  Earl  of  Moray,  d.  1346,  was 
one  of  the  strongest  supporters  of  the  young  king  of 
Scotland,  David  II. 


They  said  it  should  full  dear  be  bought,         45 

The  land  whence  they  were  driven  out. 

Philip  Valois  wordes  wrought, 

And  said  he  should  their  foeman  stay; 

But  all  these  words  they  went  for  naught. 

Words  must  be  meet  or  weak  are  they.  50 

More  menaces  they  boasting  cry. 

In  spite  of  might  they  have  their  meed; 

And  many  a  night  awake  they  lie 

To  harm  all  England  by  their  deed; 

But  low  is  now  that  pride  so  high  55 

Of  those  that  were  so  stout  on  steed; 

And  some  of  them  all  naked  lie 

Not  far  from  Berwick  upon  Tweed. 

A  little  from  that  selfsame  town, 

Halidon  Hill  that  is  the  name,  60 

There  was  cracked  many  a  crown 

Of  the  wild  Scot  and  eke  of  tame. 

Then  was  their  banner  borne  all  down, 

To  make  such  boasts  they  were  to  blame; 

But  natheless  aye  are  they  boune^  65 

To  hurt  Engldnd  with  sorrow  and  shame. 


Shame  they  have  as  I  here  say; 
At  Dundee  now  is  done  their  dance, 
And  wend  they  must  another  way 
Even  through  Flanders  into  France. 
On  Philip  Valois^"  fast  cry  they. 
There  for  to  dwell  and  him  advance. 
And  nothing  list  they  now  to  play 
Since  them  befell  this  sorry  chance. 


70 


75 


This  sorry  chance  hath  them  o'erthrown, 

For  they  were  false  and  wondrous  fell; 

For  cursed  caitiffs  are  they  known 

And  full  of  treason,  sooth  to  tell. 

Sir  John  Comyn^^  had  they  struck  down, 

In  holy  kirk  they  did  him  quell ;^2  gg 

So  many  a  Scottish  bride  makes  moan 

With  dolour  dight^^  there  must  they  dwell. 

There  dwelled  our  king,  the  sooth  to  sayn, 

With  his  menie^*  a  little  while; 

He  gave  good  comfort  on  that  plain  85 

To  all  his  men  about  a  mile. 

Although  his  men  were  mickle  of  main,^* 

Ever  they  doubted  them  of  guile; 

They  Scottish  gauds^^  might  nowise  gain 

For  all  they  stumbled  at  that  stile.  90 

They  came  not  from  that  strife  alive 
That  were  before  so  proud  in  prese,^' 
J6su,  for  thy  woundes  five. 
In  England  help  us  to  have  peace. 

0  Ready. 

10  Philip  VI.  King  of  France,  1328-1350,  who  in  the 
interests  of  France,  became  the  ally  of  Scotland  against 
their  common  enemy  England. 

"  Comyn,  surnamed  The    Red,  one  of   the  rivals  of 
Bruce  to  the  Throne  of  Scotland  after  Edward  Balliol's 
renunciation.     He  was  murdered  on  the  altar  steps  of 
the  Franciscan  church  at  Dumfries  by  Bruce  and  his  \ 
followers,  in  1306.  \ 

»*  Kill.  13  Grief-stricken.  ( 

"  Company.  is  Great  of  might. 

>«  Trappings,  booty.  "  The  post  of  danger. 


I 


SIR  ORPHEO 


37 


PRAYER  FOR  KING  EDWARD 

(From  How  Edward  the  King  came  to  Brabant) 

God  that  shaped  both  sea  and  sand, 

Save  Edward,  King  of  Engeland, 

Both  body,  soul,  and  hfe. 

And  grant  him  joy  withouten  strife; 

For  many  men  'gainst  him  are  wroth  5 

In  France  and  in  Flanders  both, 

For  he  defendeth  fast  his  right 

And  thereto  J^su  grant  him  might. 

That  he  may  do  so  night  and  day 

That  it  may  be  for  Goddes  pay.^  10 


SIR  ORPHEO* 

(14th  Century) 

We  read  full  oft  and  find  y-writ 

As  clerkes  wise  make  us  to  wit, 

Those  lays  that  have  for  men's  harping 

Been  made  of  many  a  noble  thing: 

Some  are  of  weal  and  some  of  Woe,  5 

Some  of  joy  and  mirth  als6. 

Some  of  jest  and  ribaldry. 

And  some  there  are  of  faerie; 

Of  traitors  some,  and  some  of  guile. 

Or  some  mishap  that  chanced  erstwhile:        10 

Of  all  the  things  that  men  may  see 

Most  fit  to  praise  forsooth  they  be. 

In  Brittany  these  lays  were  wrought. 

There  first  were  made,  and  thence  were  brought 

Of  ^ventures  that  fell  in  days  15 

Whereof  the  Britons  made  their  lays; 

So  when  of  old  they  chanced  to  hear 

Of  ^ventures  in  days  that  were. 

They  took  their  harps  with  glee  and  game^ 

And  made  a  lay  and  did  it  name.  20 

Of  ^ventures  that  did  befall 

I  can  tell  some  but  nowise  all. 

Harken,  lordlings,  that  be  true, 

And  I  will  tell  of  Sir  Orphew. 

Orpheo  was  a  riche  King,  25 

And  in  his  time  a  great  lording; 

A  full  fair  man  both  large  and  tall, 

And  courteous  and  brave  withal. 

His  father  was  come  of  King  Plut6, 

And  his  mother  came  of  Queen  Jun6,  30 

Who  in  old  times  as  gods  were  holden 

For  deeds  they  did  and  words  they  tolden. 

Orpheo  most  of  anything, 

Loved  the  music  of  harping; 

Certain  was  every  good  harp&ur  35 

From  him  to  have  most  high  honour. 

Right  well  himself  he  loved  to  harp. 

And  gave  thereto  his  wittes  sharp; 

He  learned  so  that  there  was  none, 

Who  could  harp  better  'neath  the  sun.  40 

1  Satisfaction. 
^The  romance  of  Sir  Orpheo  belongs  to  that  group 
of  poems  known  as  "Breton  Songs."  That  is  to  say, 
it  is  one  of  a  number  of  short  rhymed  narrative  poems 
which  are  chiefly  of  Celtic  origin.  The  Classical  story 
of  Orpheus  is  transformed  into  a  medieval  fairy  story,  and 
the  gloomy  land  of  Pluto  becomes  a  beautiful  land  of 


45 


50 


Man  in  this  world  was  never  bom, 

Who,  if  he  Orpheo  sat  beforn. 

And  once  might  of  his  harping  hear, 

But  he  should  thinke  that  he  were 

In  one  of  the  joys  of  Paradis, 

Such  music  in  his  harping  is. 

Orpheo  lived  in  Crass^ns, 

A  city  noble  in  defence. 

He  hath  a  queen  full  fair  of  pris,' 

That  called  is  Dame  Erodys, 

The  fairest  woman  for  the  nones  * 

That  might  be  made  of  flesh  and  bones. 

Full  of  all  love  and  of  goodness. 

No  man  may  tell  of  her  fairness. 

It  befel  in  time  of  May, —  55 

When  is  merry  and  pleasing  the  summer's  day, 

Away  have  gone  the  winter's  showers, 

And  every  field  is  full  of  flowers, 

Of  blossoms  springing  on  the  bough, 

O'er  all  the  land  'tis  merry  enow, — 

That  this  same  Queen,  Dame  Erodys, 

Took  with  her  maidens  two  of  pris. 

And  walked  in  the  undertide  ^ 

To  play  within  her  orchard-side. 

To  see  the  flowers  spread  and  spring. 

And  see  and  hear  the  sweet  birds  sing. 

Then  down  they  seated  them  all  three, 

Fairly  beneath  an  ympe  tree,^ 

And  full  soon  that  fairest  queen, 

Fell  fast  asleep  upon  the  green. 

The  maidens  durst  not  her  awake, 

But  round  her  they  'gan  merry  make, 

And  let  her  sleep  till  afternoon 

When  the  undertide  was  gone; 

And  as  soon  as  she  gan  wake 

She  cried,  and  loathsome  'gan  her  make, 

Her  hands  and  eke  her  feet  she  tore. 

And  scratched  her  till  she  bled  full  sore; 

Her  clothing  rich  she  all  to-rent. 

All  wild  out  of  her  wittes  went. 

The  maidens  two  that  sat  beside. 

They  durst  no  longer  there  abide. 

But  straightway  sought  the  castle  hall 

And  told  both  knights  and  squires  all. 

How  that  their  Queen  away  would  go. 

The  knights  went  also,  and  ladies  too. 

And  demoiselles  fifty  and  many  mo,' 

To  fetch  her  as  they  fain  would  do. 

Into  the  orchard  ran  they  out 

And  took  her  in  their  armos  stout, 

And  brought  her  to  her  bed  at  last 

And  therein  held  her  down  full  fast; 

But  still  she  cried  in  angry  mood. 

And  rent  herself  as  she  were  wode.* 

When  heard  the  King  this  dread  tidfng. 

He  was  never  so  woe  for  any  thing. 

The  King  came  with  his  knightes  keen  ^ 

Into  the  chamber  to  his  Queen, 

And  for  her  had  he  great  pitle. 

"Sweet  heart,"  he  said,  "how  may  this  be 

That  thou  who  ever  wert  so  still, 

Shouldst  now  cry  out  so  loud  and  shrill? 

Thy  body  that  was  white  beforn. 

Now  with  thy  nails  is  rent  and  torn. 


60 


65 


70 


75 


80 


85 


90 


95 


100 


faerie. 


2  Mirth. 


'  Price. 
^  More. 


*  Nonce. 
8  Mad. 


5  Morning. 
»  Bold. 


•  Grafted  tree. 


38 


THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 


Alas!  thy  cheeks  which  were  so  red  105 

Are  now  all  wan  and  grey  as  lead, 
And  thy  dainty  fingers  fair, 
Pallid  now  and  bloody  are. 
Alas!  thy  lovely  eyen  too 
Look  on  me  as  on  a  foe.  110 

Lady  dear,  I  crave  mercie, 
L6t  be  all  this  rueful  cry. 
And  tell  to  me  what  thing,  and  how, 
If  any  thing, — may  help  thee  now." 
Still  grows  the  lady  at  the  last,  115 

While  she  began  to  weep  full  fast, 
Saying,  while  yet  the  tears  would  flow, 
"Alas!  my  lord,  Sir  Orpheo, 
Never  since  we  two  plighted  troth 
Was  either  with  the  other  wroth,  120 

Yet  ever  hast  thou  loved  me,  * 

With  all  mine  heart  so  have  I  thee; 
And  now  we  twain  shall  part  in  two, 
Do  thy  best,  yet  I  must  go." 
"Alas!"  he  said,  "my  life  is  bare,  125 

Unto  whom  goest  thou  and  where? 
Where  thou  comest  thou  shalt  with  me, 
Whither  thou  goest  I  will  with  thee." 
"Sir,"  said  she,  "it  may  not  be  thus, 
I'll  tell  thee  how  it  is  with  us.  130 

As  I  lay  this  undertide 
Asleep  upon  the  orchard-side. 
Two  gallant  knights  came  to  me  there, 
Arrayed  in  richest  garments  fair. 
And  bade  me  come  without  letting,  135 

To  speak  unto  their  lord  the  king. 
Right  boldly  then  I  answered  there — 
*  Nor  will  I  come,  nor  do  I  dare.' 
At  the  word  they  did  depart. 
Then  came  their  King  so  blithe  of  heart,      140 
With  a  thousand  knights  and  mo 
And  fifty  fair  ladles  als6, 
A-riding  all  on  snow-white  steeds, 
And  snow-white  also  were  their  weeds, '^'^ 
Never,  in  faith,  since  I  was  bom  145 

Knights  so  fair  came  me  befom. 
The  King  a  crown  had  on  his  head, 
'Twas  not  of  silver,  nor  gold  so  red, 
All  it  was  of  precious  stone. 
As  bright  as  sun  forsooth  it  shone.  150 

He  stayed  for  naught  but  straight  me  sought. 
And  willy,  nilly,  me  he  caught, 
And  me  he  made  with  him  to  ride 
On  a  white  palfrey  by  his  side, 
And  brought  me  in  to  his  pal^s,"  155 

Right  well  bedight  it  was  I  wis. 
He  showed  me  castles,  halls  and  towers, 
Rivers,  meadows,  fields  and  flowers, 
And  his  forests  every  one; 
And  after,  back  he  brought  me  home,  160 

Back  into  our  own  orchdrd, 
And  said  to  me  this  afterward: 
'Look  tomorrow  that  thou  be 
Here  beneath  this  ympe  tree; 
And  if  thou  makest  any  let,  165 

Where'er  thou  be  thou  shalt  be  fet,^* 
And  to  tear  thy  limbes  all, 
Shall  help  thee  naught  whate'er  befall. 
And  although  thou  be  all  torn 
"  Garments.  "  Palace.  »  Fetched. 


Yet  away  shalt  thou  be  borne.' "  170 

When  the  King  he  heard  this  case, 
"Out!"  he  said,  "alace!  alacei^' 
I  had  rather  lose  my  life 
Than  to  lose  the  Queen  my  wife!" 
Counsel  he  asked  of  many  man  175 

But  of  them  all  none  help  him  can. 
The  hour  came,  the  morrow's  sun. 
The  King  hath  put  his  armour  on. 
Two  hundred  knights  he  takes  with  him, 
Fully  armed,  stout  and  grim:  180 

Out  then  with  the  Queen  went  he 
Into  the  orchard  'neath  the  tree; 
Then  did  they  watch  on  every  side, 
And  planned  that  there  they  would  abide. 
Resolved  to  suffer  death  and  woe,  185 

E'er  that  the  Queen  should  from  them  go. 
But  shortly  then  did  it  befall. 
As  the  Queen  sat  among  them  all. 
The  fairy  took  that  lady  fair 
And  she  was  gone — no  man  wist  where.        190 
Crying  and  weeping  there  was  als6. 
The  King  gan  to  his  chamber  go, 
He  fell  adown  upon  the  stone, 
And  made  great  dole  and  mickle  moan, 
Well  nigh  he  had  himself  yschent^*  195 

He  saw  there  was  no  dmendement. 
He  sent  for  earl  and  for  bar6un. 
And  other  lords  of  great  renown. 
And,  when  they  all  together  were, 
"Lordes,"  he  said,  "assembled  here,  200 

I  set  mine  steward  of  mine  hall 
To  keep  my  landes  over  all. 
Now  my  Queen  is  left  forlorn. 
The  best  ladle  that  e'er  was  bom; 
No  more  will  I  woman  see,  205 

In  wilderness  now  will  I  be. 
And  there  abide  in  woodlands  hoar 
And  in  the  wilds  forevermore. 
Then  when  ye  know  I  have  left  all, 
Ye  straight  a  parliament  shall  call,  210 

And  ye  shall  chose  you  a  new  King, 
And  do  your  best  in  everything." 
Great  sorrow  then  was  in  the  hall, 
Weeping  and  crying  'mongst  them  all, 
And  there  might  neither  old  nor  young         215 
For  weeping  speak  a  word  with  tongue. 
They  kneeled  all  a-down  i-fere," 
And  begged  him  if  his  will  it  were, 


That  he  would  never  from  them 


W^ 


220 


"Away!"  he  said,  "I  will  not  so.' 

Then  all  his  kindred  he  forsook 

And  unto  him  a  sclaveyn^^  took. 

He  would  have  no  other  hood; 

Hose,  nor  shoe,  nor  other  good; 

Only  his  harp  he  took,  and  straight 

He  journeyed  barefoot  through  the  gate. 

No  man  there  must  with  him  go, 

Alas!  there  weeping  was  and  woe. 

He  that  was  King  and  bare  the  crown. 

Went  out  so  poorly  from  the  town. 

Into  the  wild  he  takes  his  road, 

Both  through  the  heath  and  through  the  wood.     . 

Nothing  he  hath  to  give  him  ease,  \( 


225 


230 


"  Alas! 
»  Together. 


"  Disgraced. 
"  Hair-shirt. 


But  evei 


SIR  ORPHEO 


39 


ut  ever  lives  in  great  malaise." 
In  the  rough  wood  he  nights  must  pass, 
And  cover  him  with  herb  and  grass; 
He  that  had  a  great  plentfe, 
Meat,  and  drink,  and  dignitie, 
Now  must  dig  and  grub  full  sair, 
Ere  of  roots  he  gets  his  fare. 
In  summer  on  the  haws  he  lives, 
That  midst  her  leaves  the  hawthome  gives; 
In  winter,  by  the  root  and  rind. 
For  other  thing  he  may  not  find. 
He  was  all  shrunken,  shriveled,  pale, 
With  beating  rain,  and  cutting  hail; 
No  man  could  tell  the  travail  sore 
He  had  endured  ten  years  or  more. 
He  that  had  castles,  halls  and  towers, 
Forests,  rivers,  fields,  and  flowers. 
Nothing  that  likes  him^^  now  had  he. 
But  savage  beasts  that  from  him  flee. 
His  matted  beard  has  shaggy  grown, 
Below  his  girdle  has  it  gone. 
He  taketh  harp  and  maketh  glee, 
And  lies  all  night  beneath  a  tree. 
When  bright  and  clear  there  dawns  the  day, 
He  takes  his  harp  and  makes  no  stay, 
Amidst  the  wood  he  sits  him  down 
And  tunes  his  harp  with  a  merry  soun, 
And  harps  all  after  his  own  will; 
Through  all  the  wood  it  ringeth  shrill. 
The  savage  beasts  that  there  are  found, 
For  joy  about  him  gather  round. 
And  all  the  little  birds  that  were. 
For  joy  they  come  about  him  there 
To  listen  to  that  harping  fine. 
So  mickle  joy  there  was  therein. 
His  harping  when  he  laid  aside. 
Nor  bird,  nor  beast  would  then  abide, 
But  all  together  they  are  flown. 
And  leave  him  there  to  sit  alone. 
Often  saw  he  him  beside. 
In  the  heat  of  summer-tide, 
The  Fairy  King  with  all  his  rout, 
Come  a-hunting  all  about. 
With  shout  and  merry  din  they  go 
And  noise  of  hound  and  horn  als6; 
And  yet  forsooth,  no  beast  they  slay. 
Nor  knows  he  where  they  take  their  way. 
And  other  whiles  he  may  espye, 
A  mighty  hunt  go  passing  by, 
Full  two  hundred  knights  of  pride 
Armed  through  the  forest  ride. 
Somewhile  he  saw  other  thing,  285 

Knights  and  ladies  come  riding 
With  raiment  bright  and  courtly  grace, 
Moving  all  with  easy  pace; 
Tabors  and  pipes  with  them  there  be, 
And  every  kind  of  minstrelsy  .  290 

And  ladies  too  there  come  riding, 
Jolie^'  they  were  in  everything. 
Gentle  and  gay  they  were  I  wis. 
Nor  no  man  there  among  them  is. 
Hawk  on  hand  did  each  one  bear,  295 

And  hawking  went  by  the  riv^re. 
Of  game  they  found  the  favorite  haunt. 
Pheasant,  hem,  and  cormorant. 

Discomfort.  »*  Pleases  him.  w  Pretty. 


235 


240 


245 


250 


255 


260 


265 


270 


275 


280 


300 


305 


310 


315 


320 


325 


i 


The  birds  from  out  the  river  flew. 

And  every  hawk  his  quarry  slew. 

That  Orpheo  saw  in  merry  mood. 

As  underneath  the  bough  he  stood; 

"Parfay,"  he  said,  "there  is  good  game. 

Thither  will  I,  in  Goddes  name." 

Such  sport  was  he  wont  to  see. 

So  up  he  rose  and  there  came  he 

One  lady  there  he  came  unt6. 

He  searched  her  face  and  form  als6, 

Right  well  he  knew  it  was,  I  wis, 

His  own  ladle.  Dame  Erodys. 

He  saw  her  plain  and  she  him  eke. 

Yet  ne'er  a  word  did  either  speak. 

For  him  she  did  so  poor  espy 

That  sometime  was  so  rich  and  high. 

The  tears  ran  down  her  face,  I  wis. 

And  looking  on  her  so  did  his. 

And  then  away  they  made  her  ride. 

For  there  no  longer  she  might  bide. 

"Alas!"  he  said,  "and  woe  is  me! 

Why  will  not  death  come  suddenly! 

Wretch  that  I  am!    O,  that  I  might 

Die  now,  when  I  have  seen  this  sight! 

Alas!  too  long  lasteth  my  life. 

Since  I  may  speak  not  with  my  wife, 

Nor  she  with  me  a  word  may  speak! 

Alas!  why  will  my  heart  not  break! 

Parfay! "  he  said,  "  whate'er  betide, 

I  will  see  where  those  ladies  ride. 

And  in  that  way  I  too  will  go — 

I  care  not  for  my  life  a  sloe." 

His  sclavyne  put  he  on  his  back 

And  took  his  harp  right  as  he  spak. 

And  swiftly  after  them  is  gone. 

Over  stock  and  over  stone. 

In  at  the  rock  the  ladies  ride. 

He  went  straight  after,  he  would  not  bide. 

When  he  was  into  the  rock  y-go^o 

Full  three  mile  and  some  deal  mo,*! 

He  came  unto  a  fair  countrdy. 

It  was  as  bright  as  any  day.  340 

Neither  hill  nor  dale  was  seen. 

All  was  lawn  full  fair  and  green, 

Midst  it  a  castle  met  his  eye. 

Noble  and  rich,  and  wondrous  high, 

Over  all  the  topmost  wall  345 

Shone  as  doth  the  clear  crystal. 

And  the  towers  that  were  there 

Were  gaily  set  with  pearles  fair; 

The  farthest,  rising  from  the  ditch. 

Was  all  of  gold  and  silver  rich;  350 

The  froift,  that  stood  amidst  them  brade,** 

Was  all  of  divers  metals  made; 

Within,  a  wondrous  dwelling  wide, 

With  gold  and  gems  all  glorified, 

The  pillars  fair  thereon,  were  dight  355 

With  precious  stones  and  sapphires  bright. 

So  fair  the  palace  shone  by  night 

That  all  the  town  was  full  of  light. 

Those  riche  stones  so  fairly  shone 

They  were  as  bright  as  any  sun,  360 

No  man  might  tell,  nor  think  in  thought. 

The  riches  that  therein  were  wrought. 

The  ladies  at  the  castle  light, 

20  Gone.  «iMor«.  "Broad. 


335 


40 


THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 


365 


370 


He  followed  swiftly  as  he  might; 

Orpheo  knocked  at  the  gate, 

Ready  the  porter  was  thereat, 

And  asked  him  "what  wilt  thou  so?" 

"Parfay!    I  am  a  minstrallo, 

I  bring  thee  solace  with  my  glee, 

That  thou  the  merrier  may  be." 

He  then  undid  the  castle  gate, 

And  let  him  in  the  palace  straight. 

About  looked  Orpheo  over  all, 

He  saw  folk  sit  beneath  the  wall; 

And  some  that  had  been  brought  thereto,    375 

They  seemed  dead  yet  were  not  so. 

And  there  among  them  lay  his  wife. 

That  he  loved  as  his  own  life; 

She  lay  beneath  an  ympe  tree. 

By  her  look  he  wist  'twas  she.  380 

Then  forth  he  went  into  the  hall, 

There  was  great  joy  amongst  them  all. 

The  riche  King  was  seated  there, 

And  Orpheo  gave  him  greeting  fair; 

Beside  him  sate  a  Queene  bright,  385 

Hardly  of  her  he  had  a  sight. 

When  he  had  looked  on  all  this  thing. 

He  kneeled  down  before  the  King, 

And  asked  him  if  his  will  it  were 

That  he  his  minstrelsy  would  hear.  390 

Then  said  the  King:  "And  what  art  thou, 

Who  come  into  my  presence  now? 

Myself  nor  none  that  is  with  me. 

Have  ever  yet  sent  after  thee. 

Since  I  this  kingdom  first  began  395 

I  have  not  found  so  brave  a  man 

Who  hither  dared  to  come  or  wend, 


Save  that  I  after  him  should  send. 


"Sir,"  he  said,  "I  trow  full  weel, 
I  hold  it  sooth,  sir,  every  deal,  400 

It  is  the  custom  of  us  all 
To  come  to  every  lordes  hall. 
And  though  we  may  not  welcome  be, 
Proffer  we  must  our  game  or  glee." 
Before  the  King  he  sat  him  down,  405 

And  took  his  harp  of  merry  soun. 
And  straightway  as  full  well  he  can. 
Many  blithe  notes  he  then  began. 
The  King  looked  up  and  sat  full  still, 
To  hear  his  harping  he  had  good  will.  410 

When  he  had  ceased  from  his  harping. 
Then  said  to  him  that  riche  King: 
"Minstrel,  me  liketh  well  thy  glee; 
Whatever  thing  thou  ask  of  me. 
Freely  now  I  will  thee  pay,  415 

Therefore,  ask  now,  and  assay." 
"Lord,"  he  said,  "I  beg  of  thee, 
If  that  it  shall  your  pleasure  be. 
Give  me  that  lady  bright  of  ble,^' 
That  Hes  beneath  yon  ympe  tree."  420 

"Nay,"  he  said,  "that  may  I  ne'er, 
For  ye  would  be  a  sorry  pair; 
Thou  art  all  shaggy,  rough,  and  black. 
And  she  is  made  withouten  lack. 
A  foule  thing  it  were  to  see,  426 

To  put  her  in  thy  companle." 
"Lord,"  he  said,  "thou  riche  King, 
It  were  yet  a  fouler  thing, 
"Hue. 


To  hear  a  lying  word  from  thee. 

As  though  thou  promised  nought  to  me,         430 

Saying  thou'd  give  me  what  I  would ! 

A  Kinges  word  must  needs  hold  good." 

"Thou  sayest  sooth,"  the  King  said  than, 

"  Forsooth  thou  art  a  true  man. 

I  will  well  that  it  be  so,  435 

Take  her  by  the  hand,  and  go. 

I  will  that  thou  of  her  be  blithe." 

And  him  he  thanked  many  a  sythe.^* 

He  took  her  by  the  hand  anon. 

With  right  good  will  they  out  are  gone,        440 

And  fast  they  hied  from  that  paldce. 

And  went  their  way  through  Goddes  grace; 

Into  the  wilds  they  both  are  gone, 

O'er  holt  and  heath  they  journey  on. 

And  so  they  take  their  way  full  fast,  445 

And  to  Crass^ns  they  come  at  last, 

That  sometime  was  her  own  citie. 

But  no  man  wist  that  it  was  he. 

With  beggar  poor  of  humblest  life 

A  space  he  tarried  with  his  wife.  450 

He  asked  tidings  of  the  land. 

And  who  the  kingdom  had  in  hand. 

The  humble  beggar  in  his  cote, 

Answering,  told  him  every  grote; 

How  that  the  Queen  was  fetched  away         455 

To  the  land  of  faerie  on  a  day. 

And  how  the  King  did  after  go. 

But  to  what  place  no  man  can  know. 

The  Steward,  he  says,  the  land  doth  hold; 

So,  many  tidings  he  them  told.  460 

The  morrow  at  the  noone  tide 

Sir  Orpheo  bade  his  Queen  there  bide, 

He  took  his  harp  and  right  anon 

Into  the  town  he  straight  is  gone. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  citle,  465 

Many  a  man  him  came  to  see. 

Men  and  wives  and  maidens  fair, 

Gathered  fast  to  see  him  there; 

And  marvelled  much  as  him  they  view, 

How  thick  the  moss  upon  him  grew;  470 

"His  beard  is  grown  right  to  his  knee, 

His  body  is  withered  as  a  tree." 

Then  his  own  Steward  did  he  meet, 

Passing  in  state  adown  the  street. 

And  Orpheo  fell  upon  his  knee  475 

And  said:  "Lord  help,  for  charitle, 

A  minstrel  I  of  Heathenesse, 

Lord  help  me  now  in  this  distress." 

The  Steward  said:  "With  me  come  home, 

And  of  my  goods  thou  shalt  have  some,       480 

For  Orpheo's  sake  once  Lord  to  me, 

All  minestralles  shall  welcome  be." 

Anon  they  went  into  the  hall, 

The  Steward  and  the  lordes  aU. 

The  Steward  washed,  and  went  to  meat,      485 

And  all  the  lordes  down  were  set. 

Then  was  there  music  in  the  hall, 

But  Orpheo  sat  against  the  wall. 

When  all  are  still,  the  music  done. 

He  took  his  harp  of  sounding  tone,  490 

And  fast  on  it  he  played  the  glee; 

The  Steward  looked,  and  'gan  to  see, 

For  well  he  knew  that  harp  belive;^^  \ 

2«  Many  times.  m  Quickly.  ' 


EARLY  SONGS 


41 


"Minstrel,"  he  said,  "as  thou  mayst  thrive. 

How  gottest  thou  that  harp,  and  where?         495 

Now  for  thine  honor  tell  me  fair." 

"Lord,  in  an  uncouth  '^^  land,"  he  said, 

"1  found  it  in  a  forest  glade; 

I  saw  a  man  grown  thin  and  pale, 

It  lay  beside  him  in  a  dale,  500 

Now  it  must  be  ten  winters  gone." 

The  Steward  cried,  and  made  great  moan, 

"It  was  my  Lord,  Sir  Orpheo, 

Ah!  that  he  e'er  did  from  us  go." 

The  King  beheld  the  Steward  than,  505 

And  wist  he  was  a  right  true  man; 

To  him  he  said  without  lying, 

"Sir,  I  am  Orpheo,  the  King. 

Here  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 

I've  brought  my  gentle  lady  down."  510 

The  lords  all  start  that  sit  around, 

Then  wist  they  that  the  King  was  found. 

With  music  and  processi6un, 

They  fetched  the  Queen  into  the  town. 

A  good  life  lived  they  afterward,  515 

And  after  them  reigned  the  Steward. 

Thus  came  they  out  of  all  their  care, 

God  give  us  grace  as  well  to  fare! 

And  all  that  list  to  this  talking 

In  heaven's  bliss  be  their  dwelling!  520 

Amen,  amen,  for  charitle, 

Lord  grant  us  that  it  so  may  be. 


EARLY  SONGS 

CUCKOO  SONG 
(c.  1250) 

Summer  is  icumen^  in, 

Sing  loud  Cuckoo! 
Groweth  seed,  and  bloweth  mead 
And  springeth  the  woode  noo^ 

Sing  Cuckoo!  6 

Ewe  bleateth  after  lamb, 

Lows  for  her  calf 6  coo; 
Bullock  sterteth,^  buck  verteth,* 

Merry  sing  Cuckoo! 

Cuckoo,  Cuckoo,  well  sing'st  thou  Cuckoo:    lo 

So  cease  thou  never  noo. 
Sing  Cuckoo,  noo,  sing  Cuckoo! 


UBI  SUNT  QUI  ANTE  NOS  FUERUNT?i 

(c.  1280) 

Where  are  they  that  lived  before. 
Hounds  they  led  and  hawks  they  bore 
And  had  both  field  and  chase? 
Ladies  rich  in  bowers  fair, 
Nets  of  gold  bind  up  the  hair,  5 

Rosy-bright  of  face. 

"  Unknown. 

*  Has  come  in.  »  Now. 

»  Starts,  springs.  «  Harbors  in  the  green. 

1  Where  are  those  who  lived  before  us? 


They  ate  and  drank  and  made  them  glad, 
Their  life  was  all  with  pleasure  led, 
Men  kneeled  them  befom, 

They  bore  thernselves  full  proud  and  high, 
And,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  ii 

Their  souls  were  all  forlorn. 

Where  is  that  laughing  and  that  song. 
The  pride  with  which  they  passed  along. 
The  hawk,  and  hound,  and  bower?  15 

All  that  joy  is  gone  away. 
That  weal  is  come  to  welaway. 
To  many  a  bitter  hour. 

They  took  their  heaven  while  they  were  here. 
And  now  in  hell  they  lie  in  fere;^  20 

The  fire  it  burneth  ever. 
Long  is  ay,  and  long  is  o, 
Long  is  wy,  and  long  is  wo. 
From  thence  come  they  never. 


Endure  here,  then,  if  thou  agree, 
A  little  pain,  I  pray  of  thee; 
Withdraw  from  pleasure  oft. 

Though  thy  pain  be  sore  indeed. 
And  thou  thinkest  on  thy  meed. 
It  shall  to  thee  seem  soft. 


25 


30 


If  that  fiend,  that  foulest  thing. 
Through  wicked  spell,  through  false  luring, 
Here  and  there  hath  thee  down  cast. 
Up  and  be  a  champiodn! 
Stand,  and  fall  no  more  adoun  35 

For  a  Httle  blast! 

Take  thou  the  rood-tree'  for  thy  staff; 
Think  thou  on  Him,  in  thy  behalf 
Who  gave  up  life  so  lief! 

For  thee  He  gave  it;  for  His  sake  40 

Against  His  foe  that  staff  now  take, 
And  Venge  Him  of  that  thief! 


i 


Of  faith  in  Christ  take  thou  the  shield. 
The  while  thou  art  within  the  field. 
And  e'er  make  strong  thy  hand! 

Keep  off  the  foe  at  thy  staff's  length, 
And  humble  low  that  traitor's  strength. 
And  win  the  blessed  land! 

Therein  is  day  without  a  night. 
Without  an  end  are  strength  and  might. 
Chastised  is  every  foe; 

With  God  himself  eternal  life. 
And  peace  and  rest  without  all  strife. 
And  weal  without  a  woe. 

Queen  of  heaven,  mother,  maid. 
Thou  may'st  and  canst  to  us  be  aid 
And  shield.    From  wrong  us  fend; 
Help  us  from  sin  and  shame  to  flee. 
That  we  thy  Son  at  last  may  see. 
In  joy  without  an  end! 

Amen! 
*  Together.  »  Cross. 


45 


50 


'1 


55 


SO 


i2 


THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 


SPRING  SONG 

(c.  1300) 

Spring  is  come  to  town  with  love 
With  blossom  and  with  bird  in  grove, 

That  all  this  bliss  now  bringeth. 
There  are  daisies  in  the  dales; 
Notes  full  sweet  of  nightingales; 

Each  bird  song  singeth. 
The  throstlecock  out-sings  them  all; 
Away  is  fled  the  Winter's  thrall, 

W^hen  woodrow^  springeth. 
Then  chanting  birds  in  wondrous  throng 
Thrill  out  their  joy  the  glades  among 

Till  all  the  woodland  ringeth. 

The  crimson  rose  is  seen, 
New  leaves  of  tender  green 

With  good-will  grow, 
The  moon  shines  white  and  clear, 
Fennel  and  thyme  are  here, 

Fair  lilies  blow. 
Their  mates  the  wild  drakes  find. 
Each  creature  seeks  his  kind. 

As  stream  that  trickles  slow, 
We  plain  when  life  is  drear. 
For  cruel  love  the  tear 

Unchecked  must  flow. 

The  moon  sends  forth  her  light. 
The  goodly  sun  shines  bright, 

And  birds  sing  well. 
Dews  drench  the  soft  young  grass, 
And  whispering  lovers  pass. 

Then-  tale  to  tell; 
Snakes  woo  beneath  the  clod, 
Women  grow  wondrous  proud 

On  field  and  fell. 
If  one  shall  say  me  no 
Spring  joy  I  will  forgo 

And  banished  dwell. 

ALYSOUN 

(c.  1300) 

In  days  of  March  and  Averil  i 
When  the  spray  begins  to  spring, 
Each  little  bird  hath  her  own  mH 
In  her  own  speech  to  sing. 
And  I — I  live  in  love  longing 
For  one  most  fair  of  everytlung. 
To  me  she  bliss  may  bring: 
To  serve  her  is  my  boon. 
A  happy  lot  to  me  is  sent, 
I  know  from  heaven  'tis  to  me  lent, 
From  women  all  my  love  is  bent 
And  fixed  on  Alysoun. 

In  hue  her  hair  is  fair  to  see. 

Her  brows  are  brown,  her  eyes  are  black, 

With  loving  laugh  she  looked  at  me! — 

Her  waist  is  small,  of  slender  make, 

Unless  as  hers  she  will  me  take 

To  be  her  mate,  my  life  I'll  break, 

My  Ufe  itself  I  will  forsake 

1 A  spring  flower;  the  woodruff. 

1  April. 


10 


15 


25 


30 


35 


10 


15 


And  fey  2  I'll  fall  adoun. 

A  happy  lot  to  me  is  sent,  etc. 

Nights  I  toss  and  watch  and  wake, 

Until  my  visage  waxeth  wan; 

Lady,  all  is  for  thy  sake 

Longing  comes  to  me  alone. 

On  earth  there's  none  so  learned  grown 

That  he  her  virtues  can  make  known. 

Her  neck  is  whiter  than  the  swan, 

Or  fairest  maid  in  town. 

A  happy  lot  to  me  is  sent,  etc. 

With  love  I'm  worn  and  watchings  late, 

Weary  as  water  in  a  weir, 

Lest  any  rob  me  of  my  mate. 

I  have  heard  it  said  of  yore, 

Better  to  bear  awhile  a  sore 

Than  mourn  forevermore. 

Fairest  earth  e'er  bore. 

Hearken  to  my  rune: 

A  happy  lot  to  me  is  sent, 

I  know  from  heaven  'tis  to  me  lent. 

From  women  all  my  love  is  bent 

And  fixed  on  Alysoun. 


20 


25 


30 


35 


4C 


BLOW,  NORTHERN  WIND 
(c.  1300) 

I  know  a  maid  in  bow^r  bright, 

That  full  seemly  is  to  sight. 

Maid  of  majesty  and  might. 

Of  loyal  heart  and  hand. 

'Midst  many  a  nobler  one  6 

A  maid  of  blood  and  bone, 

I  know  not  ever  none 

So  fair  in  all  the  land. 

Blow,  Northern  Wind, 

Send  thou  me  my  sweeting  10 

Blow,  Northern  Wind,  blow,  blow,  blow. 

With  her  long  and  lovely  tresses. 

Forehead  and  face  fair  for  caresses. 

Blest  be  the  joy  my  lady  blesses. 

That  bird  so  bright  in  bour,i  15 

With  lovesome  eyes  so  large  ard  good 

With  blissful  brows  beneath  her  hood, 

He  that  once  hung  upon  the  lUwd 

Her  life  holds  in  hon6ur. 

Blow,  Northern  Wind,  20 

Send  thou  me  my  sweeting 

Blow,  Northern  Wind,  blow,  t»k)w,  blow. 

Her  face  is  full  of  light. 

As  a  lantern  in  the  night 

She  sheds  a  radiance  bright,  26 

So  fair  is  she  and  fine. 

Her  neck  is  slender  to  enfold. 

Her  loving  arms  bring  joy  untold, 

Her  little  hands  are  soft  to  hold. 

Would  God  that  she  were  mine.  so 

Blow,  Northern  Wind, 

Send  thou  me  my  sweeting 

Blow,  Northern  Wind,  blow,  blow,  blow. 

*  Distracted,  mad. 

*  Bower. 


EARLY  SONGS 


43 


35 


40 


She  is  coral  of  goodn^sse, 
Ruby  she  of  rightfuln^sse, 
She  is  crystal  of  cleann^sse, 
Beauty's  banner  she. 
She  is  lily  of  largesse, 
Periwinkle  of  promesse, 
She  the  sunflower  of  sweetnesse, 
Lady  of  loyalty. 

Blow,  Northern  Wind, 

Send  thou  me  my  sweeting 

Blow,  Northern  Wind,  blow,  blow,  blow. 


For  her  love  I  mourn  and  moan,  45 

For  her  love  I  grieve  and  groan, 

For  her  love  my  good  is  gone 

And  I  wax  all  wan. 

For  her  love  in  sleep  I  sigh, 

For  her  love  I  wakeful  lie,  50 

For  her  love  I  droop  and  cry, 

More  than  any  man. 

Blow,  Northern  Wind, 

Send  thou  me  my  sweeting  54 

Blow,  Northern  Wind,  blow,  blow,  blow. 

WHEN  THE  NIGHTINGALE  SINGS 
(Early  14th  Century) 

When  the  nightingale  sings,  the  woodes  waxen 

greene, 
Leaf  and  grass  and  blossom  springs,  in  Averil  I 

weene, 
And  love  is  to  my  hearte  gone,  with  a  spear  so 

keene. 
Night   and   day   my   blood   it   drinks,    mine 

heartes  death  to  teene.^ 

I  have  loved  all  this  year,  that  I  can  love  no 
more,  5 

I  have  sighed  many  sighs,  Lady,  for  thine  ore,^ 

Ne'er  my  love  comes  near  to  thee,  and  that  me 
grieveth  sore. 

Sweetest  Lady  think  on  me,  I  loved  thee  of  yore. 

Sweetest  Lady,  speak  I  pray,  one  word  of  love 

to  me, 
While  in  this  wide  world  I  stay,  I'll  seek  for 

none  but  thee,  10 

Your  kind  love  might  give  me  bliss,  from  pain 

might  set  me  free, 
A  sweet  kiss  of  thy  dear  mouth,  might  my 

surgeon  be. 

Sweetest  Lady,  here  I  pray,  one  boon  of  love 

bestowe, 
If  you  love  me,  as  men  say,  as  I,  dearest, 

knowe, 
If  you  will  it,  look  on  me,  just  a  look  will 

showe,  15 

So  much  have  I  thought  of  thee,  I  all  ghastly 

growe 

Between  Linc61n  and  Lindesey,  North-Hamp- 

toun  and  L6ndoune, 
I  wot  not  of  so  fair  a  may,'  by  tower,  dale,  or 

toune, 
■'  Trouble.  2  Grace.  »  Maid. 


Dearest  one,  I  humbly  pray,  love  me  a  Uttle 
soone. 

I  now  will  plain  my  song,  20 

To  her  to  whom  it  doth  belong. 

JOAN 

There's  a  maid  in  a  bower,  as  beryl  most  bright, 

As  sapphire  in  silver  set  seemly  in  sight. 

As  jasper  the  gracious  that  gleameth  with  light. 

As  garnet  in  gold,  and  as  ruby  most  right; 

As  onyx  she  is  held  up  at  a  height;  5 

As  diamond  the  clear  when  in  day  she  is  dight; 

She  is  coral,  well  kenned  of  Kaiser  and  Knight, 

As  emerald  at  morning  this  maid  beareth  might, 

The  power  of  the  pearl  hath  she  in  her  grace 

For  carbuncle  I  choose  her,  by  form  and  by 

face.  10 

Her  bloom  is  as  red  as  the  rose  on  the  tree, 
With  the  white  of  the  lily  most  lovesome  is  she: 
Than  periwinkle  more  pleasing,  or  primrose  of 

price, 
Alexanders,  or  parsley,  or  fragrant  anice. 
Quaint  as  a  columbine,  graceful  and  gay,  15 

Clad  in  rich  furs  and  in  garment  of  grey; 
Her  face  is  a  flower,  she's  fairest  in  blue. 
As  celandine  or  sage, — you  yourself  know  it's 

true. 
Who  looks  on  her  beauty  to  bliss  he  is 

brought. 
He  follows  the  sun,  to  tell  all  words  are 

naught.  20 

She  is  popinjay  abaiting  my  torment  and  bale. 
True  dove  in  a  tower,  I  tell  thee  my  tale;     ^ 
She  is  throstle  so  gentle  that  singeth  in  hall. 
She  is  the  wild  laverock  and  the  witwall; 
She  is  falcon  in  forest,  dearest  in  dale:  25 

With  every  man  gladdest  in  song  and  in  tale : 
She  is  wisest  of  all  from  Wye  to  Wyrhale;  ^ 
The  nightingale's  note  tells  her  name  to  the 

vale; 
In  his  note  is  her  name,  nameth  it  none? 
Whoso  reads  it  aright, — let  him  whisper  to 

Joan.  30 

SONG  OF  THE  SCOTTISH  MAIDENS 
AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  BANNOCK- 
BURN  (1314)1 

Maidens  of  Engelande  sore  may  ye  mourn 
For  the  loss  of  your  true-loves  at  Bannockes 
burn! 

With  heve-a-loweP 

What?   Weened  the  King  of  Engelande 
To  have  gotten  Scotland?  5 

With  rumbylowe!^ 
1  The  Wirral,  the  land  between  the  rivers  Dee  and 
Mersey,  in  Cheshire. 

1  This  ballad  is  found  in  an  old  Chronicle,  The  Brut  of 
Engelonde,  (c.  1350)  where  we  are  told  that  "the  maid- 
ens made  a  songe  therefore  in  that  cuntre  of  Kynge 
Edwarde  of  Engelonde  and  in  this  manner  thei  songe." 
Then  follows  the  song. 

2  These  phrases  "probably  indicate  the  occurrence 
of  a  dance  movement  emphasized  by  special  gestures, 
or  the  beating  of  musical  instruments." 


44 


THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 


LULLABY 

(Early  14th  Century) 

LuUay,  lullay,  little  child! 

Why  weepest  thou  so  sore? 

Needes  must  thou  weep, 

Thou  wert  doomed  of  yore 

Ever  to  live  in  sorrow,  5 

Ever  to  sigh  and  strive. 

As  thy  fathers  did  ere  this 

Whilst  they  were  alive. 

Lullay,  hiUay,  little  child? 

Child  lullay,  lullow!  10 

To  this  world  unknown 

Sadly  come  art  thou. 

Beasts  and  birds  and  cattle, 

The  fishes  in  the  flood, 

And  each  thing  that  liveth  16 

Made  of  bone  and  blood. 

When  into  the  world  they  come 

They  do  themselves  some  good, 

All  but  that  poor  imp 

That  is  of  Adam's  blood.  20 

With  care  art  thou  beset; 

Thou  knowest  naught  of  this  world's  wild 

That  is  before  thee  set. 

Child,  if  it  betideth 

That  Time  'shall  prosper  thee,  23 

Think  how  thou  wert  fostered 

On  thy  mother's  knee; 

Ever  mind  thee  in  thine  heart 

Of  those  thinges  three, — 

Whence  thou  camest,  where  thou  art,  30 

And  what  shall  come  of  thee. 

Lullay,  lullay,  little  child! 

Child  luUai,  lullay! 

With  sorrow  thou  camest  to  this  world. 

With  sorrow  shalt  wend  away.  35 

O!  trust  not  to  this  world, 

It  is  thy  fell  foe. 

The  rich  it  maketh  poor, 

The  poor  man  sick  als6. 

It  turneth  woe  to  weal,  40 

And  also  weal  to  woe. 

Trust  not  man  this  changing  world 

While  it  tumeth  so. 

Lullay,  lullay,  httle  child! 

The  foot  is  on  the  wheel,  45 

How  'twill  turn  thou  knowest  not, 

Whether  to  woe  or  weal. 

Child,  thou  art  a  pilgrim 

In  wickedness  yborn; 

Thou  wanderest  in  this  false  world,  50 

Look  thou  well  beforn. 

Death  shall  come  with  sudden  blast 

Out  of  the  darkness  hoar, 

Adam's  children  down  to  cast, 

Adam  he  slew  before.  55 

Lullay,  lullay,  httle  child!  , 

Adam  did  woes  oppress 

In  the  land  of  Paradise, 

Through  Satan's  wickedness. 


Child,  thou'rt  not  a  pilgrim, 
But  a  helpless  guest. 
Thy  day  already  told, 
Thy  lot  already  cast. 
Whether  thou  shalt  wend 
North,  or  East,  or  West, 
Death  shall  thee  betide. 
With  bitter  bale  in  breast. 

Lullay,  lullay,  little  child! 

Child  lullay,  lullow! 

To  this  unknown  world 

Sadly  come  art  thou. 

AVE   MARIA 

Ave  maris  stella,^ 

The  star  upon  the  sea, 
Dei  mater  alma,^ 

Blessed  may  est  thou  be! 
Aique  semper  virgo,^ 

Pray  thy  son  for  me, 
Felix  cell  porta,^ 

That  I  may  come  to  thee. 
Gabriel,  that  archangel. 

He  was  messenger; 
So  fair  he  hailed  our  Lady, 

With  an  Ave  so  clear. 
Hail  be  thou,  Mary, 

Be  thou,  Mary, 
Full  of  Codes  grace, 

And  queen  of  all  mercy! 
All  that  are  to  greet^ 

Without  deadly  sin, 
Forty  dayes  of  pardoiin 

God  granteth  them. 


60 


65 


70 


10 


15 


20 


THE 


A    DESCRIPTION    OF    WILLIAM 
CONQUEROR 

(From  the  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle,  translated  by 
J.  A.  Giles) 

If  any  would  know  what  manner  of  man 
King  William  was,  the  glory  that  he  obtained, 
and  of  how  many  lands  he  was  lord;  then  will 
we  describe  him  as  we  have  known  him,  we, 
5  who  have  looked  upon  him,  and  who  once  lived 
in  his  court. ^  This  King  William,  of  whom  we 
are  speaking,  was  a  very  wise  and  a  great  man, 
and  more  honored  and  more  powerful  than  any 
of  his  predecessors.    He  was  mild  to  those  good 

10  men  who  loved  God,  but  severe  beyond  measure 
towards  those  who  withstood  his  will.  He 
founded  a  noble  monastery  on  the  spot  where 
God  permitted  him  to  conquer  England,  and  he 
established  monks  in  it,  and  he  made  it  very 

15  rich.      In   his   days  the   great   monastery  at 

1  Hail  star  of  the  sea.  2  Dear  Mother  of  God. 

3  Yet  ever  a  virgin.  *  Blessed  gate  of  heaven. 

6  To  supplicate,  to  greet  Mary  with  an  Ave. 
The  portion  of  the  Chronicle  given  here  is  included 


111  iiie  eiiLry  lor  luo/ ;  iiie  year  01  tiie  aeatn  01    wuiiamy 
the  Conqueror.     The  passage  is   presumably  the  work  \, 
of  a  contemporary  who  writes  (as  he  declares)  from  per-    ; 
sonal  knowledge.  ' 


I 


WILLIAM  OF  MALMSBURY  45 


Canterbury  was  built,  and  many  others  also  given  to  avarice  and  greedily  loved  gain.    He 

throughout  England.    Moreover,  this  land  was  made  large  forests  for  the  deer  and  enacted  laws 

filled  with  monks  who  lived  after  the  rule  of  therewith,  so  that  whoever  killed  a  hart  or  a 

St.  Benedict;  and  such  was  the  state  of  religion  hind  should  be  blinded.    As  he  forbade  killing 

in  his  days  that  all  that  would  might  observe  5  the  deer,  so  also  the  boars;  and  he  loved  the  tall 

that  which  was  prescribed  by  their  respective  stags  as   if  he  were  their  father.     He   also 

orders.  appointed    concerning    the   hares,    that   they 

King  William  was  held  in  much  reverence,  should  go  free.    The  rich  complained  and  the 

He  wore  his  crown  three  times  every  year  when  poor  murmured,  but  he  was  so  sturdy  that  he 
he  was  in  England:  at  Easter  he  wore  it  at  10  recked  naught  of  them ;  they  must  will  all  that 

Winchester,  at  Pentecost  at  Westminster,  and  the  king  willed,  if  they  would  live,  or  would 

at  Christmas  at  Gloucester.     And   at  these  keep  their  lands,  or  would  hold  their  possessions 

times  all  the  men  of  England  were  with  him,  or  would  be  maintained  in  their  rights.  .  .  . 

archbishops,  bishops,  abbots,  and  earls,  thanes,  He  left  three  sons:  Robert,  the  eldest,  was 
and  knights.    So  also,  was  he  a  very  stern  and  a  15  duke   of   Normandy   after   him;   the   second, 

wrathful  man,  so  that  none  durst  do  anything  named  WiUiam,  wore  the  crown  of  England 

against  his  will,  and  he  kept  in  prison  those  after  his  father's  death;  and  his  third  son  was 

earls  who  acted  against  his  pleasure.  Henry,^   to   whom   he    bequeathed    immense 

He  removed  bishops  from  their  sees,  and  treasures, 
abbots  from  their  offices,  and  he  imprisoned  20 
thanes,  and  at  length  he  spared  not  his  own 

brother  Odo.    This  Odo  was  a  very  powerful  ^^^llUam   Of  ^PaltttfifbUt^ 
bishop  in  Normandy ;  his  see  was  that  of  Bayeux, 

and  he  was  foremost  to  serve  the  king.    He  had  c.  1095-c.  1142 
an  earldom  in  England,  and  when  William  was  25  .  ,  .  -  ,/rciT^TT-oAr,ct  a  i-.i-.i^TTTVTrr.  /^-n  ttttvtot^t  -c^ 

in  Normandy  he  was  the  first  man  in  this  MALMSBURY'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF 

country,  and  him  did  he  cast  into  prison.  (^j.^^  q^^^^  Regum  Anglorum,  c.  1120,  trans- 

Amongst  other  things  the  good  order  that  lated  by  J.  A.  Giles) 

William  estabhshed  is  not  to  be  forgotten;  it 

was  such  that  any  man,  who  was  himself  aught,  30  A  long  period  has  elapsed  since,  as  well 
might  travel  over  the  kingdom  with  a  bosomf ul  through  the  care  of  my  parents  as  my  own 
of  gold,  unmolested;  and  no  man  durst  kill  industry,  I  became  famiHar  with  books.  This 
another,  however  great  the  injury  he  might  pleasure  possessed  me  from  my  childhood: 
have  received  from  him.  He  reigned  over  this  source  of  dehght  has  grown  with  my  years. 
England,  and,  being  sharp-sighted  to  his  own  35  Indeed  I  was  so  instructed  by  my  father,  that 
interest,  he  surveyed  the  kingdom  so  thor-  had  I  turned  aside  to  other  pursuits,  I  should 
oughly  that  there  was  not  a  single  hide  of  land^  have  considered  it  as  jeopardy  to  my  soul  and 
throughout  the  whole,  of  which  he  knew  not  discredit  to  my  character.  Wherefore  mindful 
the  possessor,  and  how  much  it  was  worth,  of  the  adage  "covet  what  is  necessary,"  I 
and  this  he  afterwards  entered  in  his  register.'  40  constrained  my  early  age  to  desire  eagerly  that 
The  land  of  the  Welsh  was  under  his  sway,  which  it  was  disgraceful  not  to  possess.  I  gave, 
and  he  built  castles  therein;  moreover  he  had  indeed,  my  attention  to  various  branches  of 
full  dominion  over  the  Isle  of  Man;  Scotland  literature,  but  in  different  degrees.  Logic,  for 
also  was  subject  to  him,  from  his  great  strength;  instance,  which  gives  arms  to  eloquence,  I 
the  land  of  Normandy  was  his  inheritance,  and  45  contented  myseK  with  barely  hearing.  Med- 
he  possessed  the  earldom  of  Maine;  and  had  he  icine,  which  ministers  to  the  health  of  the  body, 
lived  two  years  longer  he  would  have  subdued  I  studied  with  somewhat  more  attention. 
Ireland  by  his  prowess,  and  that  without  a  But  now,  having  scrupulously  examined  the 
battle.  several  branches  of  Ethics,  I  bow  to  its  majesty, 

Truly  there  was  much  trouble  in  these  times,  50  because  it  spontaneously  unveils  itself  to  those 
and  very  great  distress;  he  caused  castles  to  be  who  study  it,  and  directs  their  minds  to  moral 
built,  and  oppressed  the  poor.  The  king  was  practice;  History  more  especially;  which,  by 
also  of  great  sternness,  and  he  took  from  his  an  agreeable  recapitulation  of  past  events, 
subjects  many  marks  of  gold  and  many  hun-  excites  its  readers,  by  example,  to  frame  their 
dred  pounds  of  silver,  and  this  either  with  or  55  lives  to  the  pursuit  of  good,  or  to  aversion  from 
without  right,  and  with  little  need.     He  was      evil.     When,  therefore,  at  my  own  expense, 

I   had   procured   some   historians   of   foreign 
2  The  hide,  or  family  portion,  was  the  old  unit  of  land,      nations     I    proceeded    during    my    domestic 

and  contained  from  100  to  120  acres.  '  \  j   ,,«„,, or 

«i.  e.,  the  famoua  Doom3da,y  Beok.  ♦Afterward,  Henry  I,  King  of  England,  llOO-lldo. 


46         THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 

leisure,  to  inquire  if  anything  concerning  our  On  the  other  side,  the  Normans  passed  the 

own  country  could  be  found  worthy  of  handing  whole  night  in  confessing  their  sins,  and  re- 
down  to  posterity.  Hence  it  arose,  that,  not  ceived  the  sacrament  in  the  morning:  their 
content  with  the  writings  of  ancient  times,  I  infantry,  with  bows  and  arrows,  formed  the 
began,  myseK,  to  compose;  not  indeed  to  dis-  5  vanguard,  while  their  cavalry,  divided  into 
play  my  learning,  which  is  comparatively  wings,  were  thrown  back.  The  earl,  with 
nothing,  but  to  bring  to  light  events  lying  serene  countenance,  declaring  aloud,  that  God 
concealed  in  a  confused  mass  of  antiquity,  would  favour  his,  as  being  the  righteous  side, 
In  consequence  rejecting  vague  opinions,  I  have  called  for  his  arms;  and  presently,  when, 
studiously  sought  for  chronicles  far  and  near,  10  through  the  hurry  of  his  attendants,  he  had 
though  I  confess  I  have  scarcely  profited  any-  put  on  his  hauberk  the  hind  part  before,  he 
thing  by  this  industry.  For  perusing  them  all,  corrected  the  mistake  with  a  laugh;  saying, 
I  still  remained  poor  in  information;  though  I  "My  dukedom  shall  be  turned  into  a  kingdom." 
ceased  not  my  researches  as  long  as  I  could  Then  beginning  the  song  of  Roland,  that  the 
find  any  thing  to  read.  However,  what  I  have  15  warlike  example  of  that  man  might  stimulate 
clearly  ascertained  concerning  the  four  king-  the  soldiers,  and  calling  on  God  for  assistance, 
doms,  I  have  inserted  in  my  first  book,  in  the  battle  commenced  on  both  sides.  They 
which  I  hope  truth  will  find  no  cause  to  blush,  fought  with  ardour,  neither  giving  ground,  for 
though  perhaps  a  degree  of  doubt  may  some-  great  part  of  the  day.  Finding  this,  William 
times  arise.  I  shall  now  trace  the  monarchy  of  20  gave  a  signal  to  his  party,  that,  by  a  feigned 
the  West  Saxon  kingdom,  through  the  line  of  flight,  they  should  retreat.  Through  this 
successive  princes,  down  to  the  coming  of  the  device,  the  close  body  of  English,  opening  for 
Normans:  which  if  any  person  will  condescend  the  purpose  of  cutting  down  the  straggling 
to  regard  with  complacency,  let  him  in  broth-  enemy,  brought  upon  itself  swift  destruction; 
erly  love  observe  the  following  rule:  "If  before  25 for  the  Normans,  facing  about,  attacked  them 
he  knew  only  these  things,  let  him  not  be  thus  disordered,  and  compelled  them  to  fly.  In 
disgusted  because  I  have  inserted  them;  if  he  this  manner,  deceived  by  a  stratagem,  they 
shall  know  more,  let  him  not  be  angry  that  I  met  an  honourable  death  in  avenging  their 
have  not  spoken  of  them;"  but  rather  let  him  country;  nor  indeed  were  they  at  all  wanting 
communicate  his  knowledge  to  me,  while  I  yet  30  to  their  own  revenge,  as,  by  frequently  making 
five,  that  at  least,  those  events  may  appear  in  a  stand,  they  slaughtered  their  pursuers  in 
the  margin  of  my  history,  which  do  not  occur  heaps:  for,  getting  possession  of  an  eminence, 
in  the  text.  they  drove  down  the  Normans,  when  roused 

with  indignation  and  anxiously  striving  to  gain 

THT?  RATTTT?  DV  TT X^TIKC^  Aivin  TTTT?  ^^  *^®  ^'^^^'"  ^^^und,   into  the  vaUey  beneath, 

hifhhji^T  Ol?    THi.  CONQUl^hr  down  stones  on  them  as  they  stood  below,  they 

(From  the  same)  destroyed  them  to  a  man.    Besides,  by  a  short 

passage,  with  which  they  were  acquainted. 
The  courageous  leaders  mutually  prepared  40  avoiding  a  deep  ditch,  they  trod  under  foot 
for  battle,  each  according  to  his  national  cus-  such  a  multitude  of  their  enemies  in  that  place, 
tom.  The  English,  as  we  have  heard,  passed  the  that  they  made  the  hollow  level  with  the  plain, 
night  without  sleep,  in  drinking,  and  singing,  by  the  heaps  of  carcases.  This  vicissitude  of 
and,  in  the  morning,  proceeded  without  delay  first  one  party  conquering,  and  then  the  other, 
toward  the  enemy;  all  were  on  foot,  armed  with  45  prevailed  as  long  as  the  life  of  Harold  con- 
battle  axes,  and  covering  themselves  in  front  tinned;  but  when  he  fell,  from  having  his  brain 
by  the  junction  of  their  shields,  they  formed  an  pierced  with  an  arrow,  the  flight  of  the  English 
impenetrable  body,  which  would  have  secured  ceased  not  until  night.  The  valour  of  both 
their  safety  that  day,  had  not  the  Normans,  by  leaders  was  here  eminently  conspicuous, 
a  feigned  flight,  induced  them  to  open  their  50  Harold,  not  merely  content  with  the  duty  of 
ranks,  which  till  that  time,  according  to  their  a  general  in  exhorting  others,  diligently  entered 
custom,  were  closely  compacted.  The  king  into  every  soldier-like  office;  often  would  he 
himself  on  foot,  stood,  with  his  brother,  near  strike  the  enemy  so  that  none  could  approach 
the  standard;  in  order  that,  while  all  shared  him  with  impunity;  for  immediately  the  same 
equal  danger,  none  might  think  of  retreating.  55  blow  levelled  both  horse  and  rider.  Wherefore, 
This  standard  Wilham  sent,  after  the  victory,  as  I  have  related,  receiving  the  fatal  arrow  from  v 
to  the  Pope;  it  was  sumptuously  embroidered,  a  distance,  he  yielded  to  death.  One  of  the  \' 
with  gold  and  precious  stones,  in  the  form  of  a  soldiers  with  a  sword  gashed  his  thigh,  as  he 
man  fighting.  lay  prostrate;  fcr  which  shameful  and  cowardly 


WILLIAM  OF  MALMSBURY  47 

action,  he  was  branded  with  ignominy  by  monks  mocked  the  rule  of  their  order  by  fine 
William,  and  dismissed  from  the  service.  vestments,  and  the  use  of  every  kind  of  food. 

William  too  was  equally  ready  to  encourage  The  nobility,  given  up  to  luxury  and  wanton- 
by  his  voice  and  by  his  presence;  to  be  the  ness,  went  not  to  church  in  the  morning  after 
first  to  rush  forward;  to  attack  the  thickest  of  5  the  manner  of  Christians,  but  merely,  in  a 
the  foe.  Thus  everywhere  raging,  everywhere  careless  manner,  heard  matins  and  masses  from 
furious,  he  lost  three  choice  horses,  which  were  a  hurrying  priest  in  theh-  chambers,  amid  the 
that  day  pierced  under  him.  The  dauntless  blandishments  of  their  wives.  The  common- 
spirit  and  vigour  of  the  intrepid  general,  alty,  left  unprotected,  became  a  prey  to  the 
however,  still  persisted,  though  often  called  lo  most  powerful,  who  amassed  fortunes,  by  either 
back  by  the  kind  remonstrance  of  his  body-  seizing  on  their  property,  or  by  selling  their 
guard;  he  still  persisted,  I  say,  till  approaching  persons  into  foreign  countries;  although  it  be 
night  crowned  him  with  complete  victory,  and  an  innate  quahty  of  this  people,  to  be  more 
no  doubt,  the  hand  of  God  so  protected  him,  inclined  to  revelling,  than  to  the  accumulation 
that  the  enemy  should  draw  no  blood  from  his  15  of  wealth.  .  .  . 

person,  though  they  aimed  so  many  javelins  at  Drinking  in  parties  was  a  universal  practise, 
him.  in  which  occupation  they  passed  entire  nights 

This  was  a  fatal  day  to  England,  a  mel-  as  well  as  days.  They  consumed  their  whole 
ancholy  havoc  of  our  dear  coimtry,  through  its  substance  in  mean  and  despicable  houses; 
change  of  masters.  For  it  had  long  since  20  unlike  the  Normans  and  French,  who,  in  noble 
adopted  the  manners  of  the  Angles,  which  had  and  splendid  mansions,  lived  with  frugality, 
been  very  various  according  to  the  times:  for  The  vices  attendant  on  drunkenness,  which 
in  the  first  years  of  their  arrival,  they  were  enervate  the  human  mind,  followed;  hence  it 
barbarians  in  their  look  and  manners,  warlike  arose  that  engaging  William,  more  with  rash- 
in  their  usages,  heathens  in  their  rites;  but,  25  ness  and  precipitate  fury  than  miUtary  skill, 
after  embracing  the  faith  of  Christ,  by  degrees,  they  doomed  themselves,  and  their  country  to 
and  in  process  of  time,  from  the  peace  they  slavery,  by  one,  and  that  an  easy,  victory, 
enjoyed,  regarding  arms  only  in  a  secondary  "For  nothing  is  less  effective  than  rashness; 
light,  they  gave  their  whole  attention  to  and  what  begins  with  violence,  quickly  ceases, 
religion.  I  say  nothing  of  the  poor,  the  mean-  30  or  is  repelled."  In  fine,  the  English  at  that 
ness  of  whose  fortune  often  restrains  them  from  time,  wore  short  garments  reaching  to  the 
overstepping  the  bounds  of  justice;  I  omit  men  mid-knee;  they  had  their  hair  cropped;  their 
of  ecclesiastical  rank,  whom  sometimes  respect  beards  shaven;  their  arms  laden  with  golden 
to  their  profession,  and  sometimes  the  fear  of  bracelets;  their  skin  adorned  with  punctured 
shame,  suffer  not  to  deviate  from  the  truth:  35  designs.  They  were  accustomed  to  eat  till 
I  speak  of  princes,  who  from  the  greatness  of  they  became  surfeited,  and  to  drink  till  they 
their  power  might  have  full  Hberty  to  indulge  in  were  sick.  These  latter  qualities  they  im- 
pleasure;  some  of  whom,  in  their  own  country,  parted  to  their  conquerors;  as  to  the  rest,  they 
and  others  at  Rome,  changing  their  habit,  adopted  their  manners.  I  would  not,  however, 
obtained  a  heavenly  kingdom,  and  a  saintly  40  have  these  bad  propensities  universally  as- 
intercourse.  Many  during  their  whole  Uves  in  cribed  to  the  English.  I  know  that  many  of 
outward  appearance  only  embraced  the  present  the  clergy,  at  that  day,  trod  the  path  of  sane- 
world,  in  order  that  they  might  exhaust  their  tity,  by  a  blameless  Ufe;  I  know  that  many  of 
treasures  on  the  poor,  or  divide  them  amongst  the  laity,  of  all  ranks  and  conditions,  in  this 
monasteries.  What  shall  I  say  of  the  multi-  45  nation,  were  well-pleasing  to  God.  Be  injustice 
tudes  of  bishops,  hermits,  and  abbots?  Does  far  from  this  account;  the  accusation  does  not 
not  the  whole  island  blaze  with  such  numerous  involve  the  whole  indiscriminately.  ''But, 
relics  of  its  natives  that  you  can  scarcely  pass  a  as  in  peace,  the  mercy  of  God  often  cherishes 
village  of  any  consequence  but  you  hear  the  the  bad  and  the  good  together;  so,  equally,  does 
name  of  some  new  saint,  besides  the  numbers  50  His  severity,  sometimes,  include  them  both  in 
of  whom  all  notices  have  perished  through  the      captivity." 

want  of  records?     Nevertheless,  in  process  of  Moreover,  the  Normans,  that  I  may  speak  of 

time,  the  desire  after  Uterature  and  religion  had  them  also,  were  at  that  time,  and  are  even  now, 
decayed,  for  several  years  before  the  arrival  of  proudly  apparelled,  delicate  in  their  food,  but 
the  Normans.  The  clergy,  contented  with  a  55  not  excessive.  They  are  a  race  inured  to  war, 
very  slight  degree  of  learning,  could  scarcely  and  can  hardly  live  without  it;  fierce  in  rushing 
stammer  out  the  words  of  the  sacraments;  against  the  enemy;  and  where  strength  fails  of 
and  a  person  who  understood  grammar,  was  success,  ready  to  use  stratagem,  or  to  corrupt  by 
an  object  of  wonder  and  astonishment.     The      bribery.    As  I  have  related,  they  live  in  large 


48         THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 

edifices  with  economy;  envy  their  equals;  wish  his  eyes  toward  the  church,  which  stood  out 
to  excell  their  superiors;  and  plunder  their  distinctly  on  the  summit  of  a  rock,  he  heard 
subjects,  though  they  defend  them  from  others:  upon  all  sides  a  sound  of  great  sweetness;  and 
they  are  faithful  to  their  lords,  though  a  slight  listening  intently,  the  better  to  hear  the  melody 
offense  renders  them  perfidious.  They  weigh  sin  all  its  fulness,  he  began  to  sigh.  He  per- 
treachery  by  its  chance  of  success,  and  change  ceived  that  it  was  the  monks  singing  in  the 
their  sentiments  with  money.  They  are,  dining-hall,  and  chanting  the  hours.  There- 
however,  the  kindest  of  nations,  and  they  upon,  he  requested  certain  ones  in  the  boats  to 
esteem  strangers  worthy  of  equal  honour  with  come  round  to  him  and  to  sing  with  him.  Then 
themselves.  They  also  intermarry  with  their  10  the  king  himself,  expressing  with  his  own 
vassals.  They  revived,  by  their  arrival,  the  mouth  the  gladness  of  his  heart,  composed  a 
observances  of  religion,  which  were  everywhere  song  in  English  in  these  words: 
grown  lifeless  in   England.     You  might  see  o       i.i  xi.  ^     -  'Vi 

churches  riae  in  every  village  and  monasteries  ^^^%S:'iLr^\Z^ly, 

m  the  towns  and  cities,  built  after  a  style  un-  15  ..  j^^^^  Knights,  near  the  land 

known  before;  you  might  behold  the  country  And  hear  the  monks'  sweet  song." 

flourishing  with  renovated  rights;  so  that  each 

wealthy  man  accounted  that  day  lost  to  him,  which,  even  to-day,  are  sung  publicly  in  chorus 
which  he  had  neglected  to  signahze  by  some  and  are  remembered  in  proverbs.  The  king 
munificent  action.  But  having  enlarged  suf- 20  beginning  thus,  did  not  cease  to  sing  piously 
ficiently  on  these  points,  let  us  pursue  the  and  sweetly  in  chorus  with  the  venerable 
transactions  of  William.  college,   until  he   came  to  land,   and,   being 

When  his  victory  was  complete  he  caused  his  worthily  received  by  the  brothers  in  procession, 
dead  to  be  interred  with  great  pomp;  granting  as  their  custom  is  with  the  most  distinguished 
the  enemy  the  liberty  of  doing  the  like,  if  they  25  person,  was  led  into  the  church.  Presently,  by 
thought  proper.  He  sent  the  body  of  Harold  his  privilege  and  authority  he  confirmed  in 
to  his  mother,  who  begged  it,  unransomed;  perpetuity  the  rights  and  benefits  granted  to 
though  she  proffered  large  sums  by  her  mes-  the  church  by  his  predecessors,  the  kings  of  the 
sengers.  She  buried  it,  when  thus  obtained,  at  English;  and  before  the  high  altar,  where 
Waltham;  a  church  which  he  had  built  at  his  so  rests  the  sacred  body  of  the  virgin  and  spouse  of 
own  expense,  in  honour  of  the  Holy  Cross,  and  Christ,  Aetheldreda,  he  declared,  in  the 
had  endowed  for  canons.  William  then,  by  presence  of  the  church  and  of  the  world,  that 
degrees  proceeding,  as  became  a  conqueror,  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  place  should  be 
with  his  army,  not  after  an  hostile,  but  a  royal  free  in  perpetuity, 
manner,  journeyed  towards  London,  the  35 
principal  city   of  the  kingdom;   and  shortly 

after,  all  the  citizens  came  out  to  meet  him  with  ^tOftttV    Of  ^BOtttnOUtll 

gratulations.  t  P 

d.  1154? 

tEI^liomaflf  of  €1^  dedicatory  epistle 

a.  c.  11U7  (From  Historia  Regum  BritaniGe,  1147,  trans- 

CANUTE   and   the    monks   of   ELY  lated  by  J.  A.  Giles) 

(From  Historia  Eliensis,  12th  century,  trans-  ^^     Whilst  occupied  on  many  and  various  studies 
lated  by  P.  V.  D.  Shelly)  I  happened  to  light  upon  the  History  of  the 

Kings  of  Britain,  and  wondered  that  in  the 
On  a  certain  occasion,  king  Canute,  accom-  account  which  Gildas  and  Bede,  in  their  elegant 
panied  by  his  queen  Emma,  and  by  magnates  treatises,  have  given  of  them,  I  found  nothing 
of  the  reahn,  was  proceeding  to  Ely  by  boat,  50  said  of  those  kings  who  lived  here  before  the  In- 
intending  there  to  celebrate,  according  to  carnation  of  Christ,  nor  of  Arthur,  and  many 
custom,  the  purification  of  Saint  Mary;  for,  others  who  succeeded  after  the  Incarnation; 
since  the  beginning  of  their  order,  the  abbots  of  though  their  actions  both  deserved  immortal 
Ely  have  held  the  ceremony  in  the  presence  of  fame,  and  were  also  celebrated  by  many  people 
the  king's  court.  As  they  were  approaching  55  in  a  pleasant  manner  and  by  heart,  as  if  they 
the  bank,  the  king,  rising  in  the  midst  of  his  had  been  written.  Whilst  I  was  intent  upon 
men,  signalled  to  the  boatmen  to  pull  more  these  and  such  like  thoughts,  Walter,^  arch-  \ 
swiftly  to  the  little  gate,  and  commanded  them         ,  t,,       ux      u    ^^r  ,      ,,  r^  ,       ,        i 

,  iu  u    -x     1       1  rnu  T/rx'  1  Thought  to  be  Walter  Mapes,  the  poet  and  author 

to  pass  through  it  slowly.     1  hereupon,  lifting       of  several  ludicrous  and  satirical  compositions.     (Gile«.) 


I 


GEOFFREY  OF  MONMOUTH  49 


eacon  of  Oxford,  a  man  of  great  eloquence,  soever  you  shall  make  choice  of,  and  give  with 
and  learned  in  foreign  histories,  offered  me  a  you  the  third  part  of  my  kingdom."  Then 
/ory  ancient  book  in  the  British  tongue,  which,  Regau,  the  second  daughter,  willing,  after  the 
in  a  continued  regular  story  and  elegant  style,  example  of  her  sister,  to  prevail  upon  her 
related  the  actions  of  them  all,  from  Brutus^  5  father's  good  nature,  answered  with  an  oath, 
the  first  king  of  the  Britons,  dovm  to  Cadwal-  "That  she  could  not  otherwise  express  her 
lader^  the  son  of  Cadwallo.  At  his  request,  thoughts,  but  that  she  loved  him  above  all 
therefore,  though  I  had  not  made  fine  language  creatures."  The  credulous  father  upon  this 
my  study,  by  collecting  florid  expressions  from  made  her  the  same  promise  that  he  did  to  her 
other  authors,  yet  contented  with  my  own  10  eldest  sister,  that  is,  the  choice  of  a  husband, 
homely  style,  I  undertook  the  translation  of  with  the  third  part  of  his  kingdom.  But 
that  book  into  Latin.  For  if  I  had  swelled  the  Cordeilla,  the  youngest,  understanding  how 
pages  with  rhetorical  flourishes,  I  must  have  easily  he  was  satisfied  with  the  flattering  ex- 
tired  my  readers  by  employing  their  attention  pressions  of  her  sisters,  was  desirous  to  make 
more  upon  my  words  than  upon  the  history.  15  trial  of  his  affection  after  a  different  manner. 
To  you,  therefore,  Robert  earl  of  Gloucester,^  "My  father,"  said  she,  "is  there  any  daughter 
this  work  humbly  sues  for  the  favour  of  being  that  can  love  her  father  more  than  duty  re- 
so  corrected  by  your  advice,  that  it  may  not  be  quires?  In  my  opinion,  who  ever  pretends 
thought  to  be  the  poor  offspring  of  Geoffrey  to  it,  must  disguise  her  real  sentiments  under 
of  Monmouth,  but  when  polished  by  your  re-  20  the  veil  of  flattery.  I  have  always  loved  you 
fined  wit  and  judgment,  the  production  of  him  as  a  father,  nor  do  I  yet  depart  from  my  pur- 
who  had  Henry  the  glorious  king  of  England  posed  duty;  and  if  you  insist  to  have  some- 
for  his  father,  and  whom  we  see  an  accom-  thing  more  extorted  from  me,  hear  now  the 
plished  scholar  and  philosopher,  as  well  as  a  greatness  of  my  affection,  which  I  always  bear 
brave  soldier  and  expert  commander;  so  that  25  you,  and  take  this  for  a  short  answer  to  all 
Britain  with  joy  acknowledges,  that  in  you  she  your  questions;  look  how  much  you  have,  so 
possesses  another  Henry.  much  is  your  value,  and  so  much  do  I  love 

you."     The  father,  supposing  that  she  spoke 

rpTTT:!  orprk-Dv-  r\T?  TZTXTrt  T-n^TD  *^^®  ^^^  ^^  *^®  abundance  of  her  heart,  was 

THE  STORY  OF  KING  LEIR  30  highly    provoked,   and    immediately    repHed, 

(From   the   same)  "  Since  you  have  so  far  despised  my  old  age  as 

not  to  thmk  me  worthy  the  love  that  your 
After  this  unhappy  fate  of  Bladud,  Leir,  his  sisters  express  for  me,  you  shall  have  from  me 
son  was  advanced  to  the  throne,  and  nobly  the  like  regard,  and  shall  be  excluded  from  any 
governed  his  country  sixty  years.  He  built  35  share  with  your  sisters  in  my  kingdom.  Not- 
upon  the  river  Sore  a  city  called  in  the  British  withstanding,  I  do  not  say  but  that  since  you 
tongue,  Kaerleir,  in  the  Saxon,  Leircestre.^  are  my  daughter,  I  will  marry  you  to  some 
He  was  without  male  issue,  but  had  three  foreigner,  if  fortune  offers  you  any  such  hus- 
daughters,  whose  names  were  Gonorilla,  Regau,  band;  but  will  never,  I  do  assure  you,  make  it 
and  Cordeilla,  of  whom  he  was  dotingly  fond,  40  my  business  to  procure  so  honourable  a  match 
but  especially  of  his  youngest,  Cordeilla.  When  for  you  as  for  your  sisters;  because,  though 
he  began  to  grow  old,  he  had  thoughts  of  divid-  I  have  hitherto  loved  you  more  than  them, 
ing  his  kingdom  among  them,  and  of  bestowing  you  have  in  requital  thought  me  less  worthy 
them  on  such  husbands  as  were  fit  to  be  ad-  of  your  affection  than  they."  And,  without 
vanced  to  the  government  with  them.  But  to  45  further  delay,  after  consultation  with  his  no- 
make  trial  who  was  worthy  to  have  the  best  bility,  he  bestowed  his  two  other  daughters 
part  of  his  kingdom,  he  went  to  each  of  them  upon  the  dukes  of  Cornwall  and  Albania,  with 
to  ask  which  of  them  loved  him  most.  The  half  the  island  at  present,  but  after  his  death, 
question  being  proposed,  Gonorilla,  the  eldest,  the  inheritance  of  the  whole  monarchy  of  Brit- 
made  answer,  "That  she  called  heaven  to  wit-50ain. 

ness,  she  loved  him  more  than  her  own  soul."  It   happened    after   this,    that   Aganippus, 

The  father  replied,  "Since  you  have  preferred      king  of  the  Franks,  having  heard  of  the  fame 
my  declining  age  before  your  own  life,  I  will      of  Cordeilla's  beauty,  forthwith  sent  his  am- 
marry  you,  my  dearest  daughter,  to  whom-      bassadors  to  the  king  to  demand  her  in  mar- 
2  The  reputed  founder  of  Britain  according  to  the  old  leg-  55  riage.     The  father,   retaining  yet  his  anger 

ends,  was  supposed  to  have  been  the  descendant  of  iEneas.       x  j     u  j  «rpu   *u         „        ^-,, 

8  A  British  king,  died  about  664.  towards  her,  made  answer,  "That  he  was  very 

*  The  bastard  son  of  Henry  I,  who. was  famous  as  a  pa-       willing    tO    bestoW    his    daughter,    but    without 
tron  of  learning  and  as  a  leaderin  the  civil  wars  following  .,,  x       -j.      •      .    u  u      v,„^ 

the  death  of  h^  father.  either  money  or  territories;  because  he  had 

1  Leicester.  already  given  away  his  kingdom  with  all  his 


60         THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 

treasure  to  his  eldest  daughters,  Gonorilla  and  move  her  commiseration,  because  (as  related 
Regau."  When  this  was  told  Aganippus,  he,  above)  he  had  treated  her  so  unworthily, 
being  very  much  in  love  with  the  lady,  sent  However,  disdaining  to  bear  any  longer  such 
again  to  king  Leir,  to  tell  him,  "That  he  had  base  usage,  he  took  ship  for  Gaul.  In  his  pas- 
money  and  territories  enough,  as  he  possessed  5  sage  he  observed  that  he  had  only  the  third 
the  third  part  of  Gaul,  and  desired  no  more  place  given  him  among  the  princes  that  were 
than  his  daughter  only,  that  he  might  have  with  him  in  the  ship,  at  which,  with  deep  sighs 
heirs  by  her."  At  last  the  match  was  con-  and  tears,  he  burst  forth  into  the  following 
eluded;    Cordeilla    was    sent    to    Gaul,    and      complaint: — 

married  to  Aganippus.  10     "O  irreversible  decrees  of  the  Fates,  that 

A  long  time  after  this,  when  Leir  came  to  never  swerve  from  yoiu*  stated  course!  why 
be  infirm  through  old  age,  the  two  dukes,  on  did  you  ever  advance  me  to  an  unstable  feli- 
whom  he  had  bestowed  Britain  with  his  two  city,  since  the  punishment  of  lost  happiness  is 
daughters,  fostered  an  insurrection  against  greater  than  the  sense  of  present  misery? 
him,  and  deprived  him  of  his  kingdom,  and  15  The  remembrance  of  the  time  when  vast 
of  all  regal  authority,  which  he  had  hitherto  numbers  of  men  obsequiously  attended  me  in 
exercised  with  great  power  and  glory.  At  the  taking  the  cities  and  wasting  the  enemy's 
length,  by  mutual  agreement,  Maglaunus,  countries,  more  deeply  pierces  my  heart  than 
duke  of  Albania,  one  of  his  sons-in-law,  was  the  view  of  my  present  calamity,  which  has 
to  allow  him  maintenance  at  his  own  house,  20  exposed  me  to  the  derision  of  those  who  were 
together  with  sixty  soldiers,  who  were  to  be  formerly  prostrate  at  my  feet.  Oh!  the  enmity 
kept  for  state.  After  two  years'  Stay  with  of  fortune!  Shall  I  ever  again  see  the  day  when 
his  son-in-law,  his  daughter  Gonorilla,  grudged  I  may  be  able  to  reward  those  according  to 
the  number  of  his  men,  who  began  to  upbraid  their  deserts  who  have  forsaken  me  in  my 
the  ministers  of  the  court  with  their  scanty  25  distress?  How  true  was  thy  answer,  CordeiUa, 
allowance;  and,  having  spoken  to  her  husband  when  I  asked  thee  concerning  thy  love  to  me, 
about  it,  she  gave  orders  that  the  numbers  of  "As  much  as  you  have,  so  much  is  your  value, 
her  father's  followers  should  be  reduced  to  and  so  much  do  I  love  you."  While  I  had  any- 
thirty,  and  the  rest  discharged.  The  father,  thing  to  give  they  valued  me,  being  friends, 
resetting  this  treatment,  left  Maglaunus,  and  30  not  to  me,  but  to  my  gifts;  they  loved  me  then, 
went  to  Henuinus,  duke  of  Cornwall,  to  whom  but  they  loved  my  gifts  much  more:  when  my 
he  had  married  his  daughter  Regau.  Here  he  gifts  ceased,  my  friends  vanished.  But  with 
met  with  an  honourable  reception,  but  before  what  face  shall  I  presume  to  see  you,  my 
the  year  was  at  an  end,  a  quarrel  happened  dearest  daughter,  since  in  my  anger  I  married 
between  the  two  families,  which  raised  Regan's  35  you  upon  worse  terms  than  your  sisters,  who, 
indignation;  so  that  he  commanded  her  father  after  all  the  mighty  favours  they  have  received 
to  discharge  all  his  attendants  but  five,  and  to  from  me,  suffer  me  to  be  in  banishment  and 
be  contented  with  their  service.    This  second      poverty?" 

affliction  was  insupportable  to  him,  and  made  As  he  was  lamenting  his  condition  in  these 
him  return  again  to  his  former  daughter,  with  40  and  the  like  expressions,  he  arrived  at  Karitia,^ 
hopes  that  the  misery  of  his  condition  might  where  his  daughter  was,  and  waited  before  the 
move  in  her  some  sentiments  of  filial  piety,  city  while  he  sent  a  messenger  to  inform  her 
and  that  he,  wiiii  his  family,  might  find  a  sub-  of  the  misery  he  was  fallen  into,  and  to  desire 
sistence  with  her.  But  she,  not  forgetting  her  her  relief  for  a  father  who  suffered  both  hunger 
resentment,  swore  by  the  gods  he  should  not  45  and  nakedness.  Cordeilla  was  startled  at 
stay  with  her,  unless  he  would  dismiss  his  ret-  the  news,  and  wept  bitterly,  and  with  tears 
inue,  and  be  contented  with  the  attendance  of  asked  how  mary  men  her  father  had  with  him. 
one  man;  and  with  bitter  reproaches  she  told  The  messenger  answered,  he  had  none  but  one 
him  how  iU  his  desire  of  vain-glorious  pomp  man,  who  had  been  his  armour-bearer,  and  was 
suited  his  age  and  poverty.  When  he  found  50  staying  with  him  without  the  town.  Then  she 
that  she  was  by  no  means  to  be  prevailed  upon,  took  what  money  she  thought  might  be  suffi- 
he  was  at  last  forced  to  comply,  and,  dismissing  cient,  and  gave  it  to  the  messenger,  with  orders 
the  rest,  to  take  up  with  one  man  only.  But  to  carry  her  father  to  another  city,  and  there 
by  this  time  he  began  to  reflect  more  sensibly  give  out  that  he  was  sick,  and  to  provide  for 
with  himself  upon  the  grandeur  from  which  55  him  bathing,  clothes,  and  all  other  nourish- 
he  had  fallen,  and  the  miserable  state  to  which  ment.  She  likewise  gave  orders  that  he  should 
he  was  now  reduced,  and  to  enter  upon  thoughts  take  into  his  service  forty  men,  well  clothedv 
of  going  beyond  sea  to  his  youngest  daughter,  and  accoutred,  and  when  all  things  were  thus  , 
Yet  he  doubted  whether  he  should  be  able  to  2  Calais. 


I 


GEOFFREY  OF  MONMOUTH  51 


irepared  he  should  notify  his  arrival  to  king  quite  still,  that,  when  he  parteth  from  you,  he 
Aganippus  and  his  daughter.  The  messenger  may  not  know  either  good  or  evil  of  you,  nor 
quickly  returning,  carried  Leir  to  another  city,  know  anything  either  to  praise  or  to  blame  in 
and  there  kept  him  concealed,  till  he  had  done  you.  Some  one  is  so  learned  and  of  such  wise 
everything  that  Cordeilla  had  commanded.       5  speech,  that  she  would  have  him  to  know  it, 

As  soon  as  he  was  provided  with  his  royal  who  sits  and  talks  to  him  and  gives  him  word 
apparel,  ornaments,  and  retinue,  he  sent  word  for  word,  and  becomes  a  preceptor  who  should 
to  Aganippus  and  his  daughter,  that  he  was  be  an  anchoress,  and  teaches  him  who  is  come 
driven  out  of  his  kingdom  of  Britain  by  his  to  teach  her;  and  would^  by  her  own  account, 
sons-in-law,  and  was  come  to  them  to  procure  10  soon  be  celebrated  and  known  among  the  wise, 
their  assistance  for  recovering  his  dominions.  Known  she  is  well;  for,  from  the  very  circum- 
Upon  which  they,  attended  with  their  chief  stance  that  she  thinketh  herself  to  be  reputed 
ministers  of  state  and  the  nobility  of  the  king-  wise,  he  understands  that 'she  is  a  fool;  for  she 
dom,  went  out  to  meet  him,  and  received  him  hunteth  after  praise  and  catches  reproach, 
honourably,  and  gave  into  his  management  the  15  For,  at  last,  when  he  is  gone  away  he  will  say, 
whole  power  of  Gaul,  till  such  time  as  he  should  "This  anchoress  is  a  great  talker."  Eve,  in 
be  restored  to  his  former  dignity.  Paradise,  held  a  long  conversation  with  the 

In  the  meantime  Aganippus  sent  oflficers  all  serpent,  and  told  him  all  the  lesson  that  God 
over  Gaul  to  raise  an  army,  to  restore  his  had  taught  her  and  Adam  concerning  the  apple;' 
father-in-law  to  his  kingdom  of  Britain.  Which  20  and  thus  the  fiend,  by  her  talk,  understood  at 
done,  Leir  returned  to  Britain  with  his  son  and  once,  her  weakness,  and  found  out  the  way  to 
daughter  and  the  forces  which  they  had  raised,  ruin  her.  Our  lady.  Saint  Mary,  acted  in  a 
where  he  fought  with  his  sons-in-law  and  routed  quite  different  manner.  She  told  the  angel  no 
them.  Having  thus  reduced  the  whole  king-  tale,  but  asked  him  briefly  that  which  she 
dom  to  his  power,  he  died  the  third  year  after.  25  wanted  to  know.  Do  you,  my  dear  sisters, 
Aganippus  also  died;  and  Cordeilla  obtained  imitate  our  lady,  and  not  the  cackling  Eve. 
the  government  of  the  kingdom,  buried  her  Wherefore,  let  an  anchoress,  whatsoever  she 
father  in  a  certain  vault,  which  she  ordered  to  be,  keep  silence  as  much  as  ever  she  can  and 
be  made  for  him  under  the  river  Sore,  in  Lei-  may.  Let  her  not  have  the  hen's  nature, 
cester,  and  which  had  been  built  originally  30  When  the  hen  has  laid,  she  must  needs  cackle, 
under  the  ground  to  the  honour  of  the  god  And  what  does  she  get  by  it?  Straightway 
Janus.  And  here  all  the  workmen  of  the  city,  comes  the  chough  and  robs  her  of  her  eggs  and 
upon  the  anniversary  solemnity  of  that  fes-  devours  all  that  of  which  she  should  have 
tival,  used  to  begin  their  yearly  labours.  brought  forth  hve  birds.     And  just  so  the 

35  wicked  chough,  the  devil,  beareth  away  from 

From  ANCREN  RIWLE^  ^^^  cackling  anchoress,   and  swalloweth  up, 

n_i ooK  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^  have  brought  forth,  and  which 

c.  1210-1225  ought,  as  birds,  to  bear  them  up  toward  heaven, 

(Modernized  by  Rev.  James  Morton)  if  it  had  not  been  cackled.     The  poor  pedler 

^    ^  40  makes  more  noise  to  cry  his  soap  than  a  rich 

F    PEECH  mercer  all  his  valuable  wares.     Of  a  spiritual 

Speaking  and  tasting  are  both  in  the  mouth,  man  in  whom  you  place  confidence,  as  you  may 
as  sight  is  in  the  eyes;  but  we  shall  let  tasting  do,  it  is  good  that  you  ask  counsel,  and  that  he 
alone  until  we  speak  of  your  food,  and  treat,  teach  you  a  safe  remedy  against  temptations; 
at  pre^nt,  of  speaking,  and  thereafter  of  hear-  45  and  in  confession  shew  him,  if  he  will  hear  you, 
ing,  of  both  in  common,  in  some  measure,  as  your  greatest  and  vilest  sins,  that  he  may  pity 
they  go  together.  you,  and  out  of  compassion  cry  internally  to 

First  of  aU,  when  you  have  to  go  to  your  Christ  to  have  mercy  upon  you,  and  have  you 
parlour  window,  learn  froih  your  maid  who  it  is  often  in  his  mind  and  in  his  prayers.  "Sed 
that  is  come;  for  it  may  be  some  one  whom  you  50  multi  veniunt  ad  vos  in  vestimentis  ovium, 
ought  to  shun;  and,  when  you  must  needs  go  intrinsecus  autem  sunt  lupi  rapaces."^  "But 
forth,  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  carefuUy  on  be  aware  and  on  your  guard,"  saith  our  Lord, 
your  mouth,  ears,  and  eyes,  and  on  your  breast  "for  many  come  to  you  clothed  in  lambs'  fleece 
also,  and  go  forth  in  the  fear  of  God  to  a  priest.  '  and  are  raging  wolves."  Beheve  secular  men 
Say  first,  "Confiteor,"  and  then  " Benedicite."  55  little,  religious  still  less.  Desire  not  too  much 
which  he  ought  to  say;  hear  his  words  and  sit      their  acquaintance.     Eve  spoke  with  the  ser- 

iThe   Rule  of  the  Anchoresses,    (or  nuns).      It  has  pent    without    fear.      Our   lady    was    afraid    of 

been  claimed  that  the  Ancren  Riwle  was  the  work  of  ar^aaVincr  wi'+Vi   rioViriol 

Richard  Poore.   Bishop  of   Chichester,   SaUsbury,   and  sP^aKing  Wltn  Uabriel. 
Durham.  a  St.  Matt.  vii.  15. 


52         THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER 

Watchfulness  and  Diligence  any  one  were  to  offer  to  buy  one  of  these 

from  you  at  the  day  of  Judgment;  that  is,  if 

Eight  things  especially  admonish  and  invite  one  were  to  offer  to  buy  from  you  the  reward 
us  to  be  watchful  and  diligent  in  some  good  that  ariseth  from  it,  ye  would  not  sell  it  for  all 
work — the  shortness  of  this  life — the  difficulty  5  the  gold  in  the  world.  For  this  shall  be  your 
of  our  way — the  small  amount  of  our  merits —  song  before  the  Lord:  "Laetati  sumus  pro 
the  great  number  of  our  sins — the  certainty  of  diebus  quibus  nos  humiliasti — annis  quibus 
death,  and  the  uncertainty  of  the  time — the  vidimus  mala;"^  that  is.  We  are  glad  now, 
severe  doom  of  the  day  of  judgment,  which  is  O  Lord,  for  the  days  in  which  thou  didst  hum- 
also  so  strict.  Oiu-  Lord  saith  in  the  gospel:  loble  us  with  the  wrongs  we  suffered  from  other 
"De  omniverbo  otioso,"^  etc.  Item  "Capillus  men;  and,  we  are  glad  now,  O  Lord,  for  the 
de  capite  vestro  non  peribit;"*  that  is,  no  years  in  which  we  were  sick  and  saw  pain  and 
thought  shall  be  impunished.  These  are  God's  sorrow.  Every  worldly  affliction  is  God's 
words:  that  every  idle  word  shall  be  there  ambassador.  Men  will  receive  honourably  the 
brought  forth,  and  idle  thoughts  that  were  not  15  messenger  of  a  man  of  rank,  and  make  him 
previously  amended.  Consider  now  what  gladly  welcome;  and  so  much  the  more  if  he  is 
Cometh  of  depraved  affections  and  sinful  intimately  acquainted  with  the  King  of 
works.  Again,  the  seventh  thing  which  warns  Heaven.  (And  who  was  more  intimate  with 
us  to  be  vigilant  is  the  pains  of  hell,  in  which  the  heavenly  King)  while  He  dwelt  here,  than 
consider  three  things — the  innumerable  tor-  20  was  this  ambassador? — that  is,  worldly  suffer- 
ments  which  no  tongue  may  tell — the  eternity  ing,  which  never  left  him  until  his  life's  end. 
of  each,  which  lasteth  without  end — and  their  This  messenger  that  I  am  speaking  of  to  you — 
vast  bitterness.  The  eighth  thing  is  the  great-  what  doth  he  say  to  you?  He  comforteth  you 
ness  of  the  reward  in  the  blessedness  of  heaven,  in  this  manner.  As  God  loved  me,  saith  he,  he 
world  without  end.  Whoso  watcheth  well  here  25  sent  me  to  his  dear  friend.  My  coming,  and 
a  Uttle  while — whoso  hath  these  eight  things  my  abiding,  though  it  may  seem  bitter,  is  yet 
in  her  heart,  will  shake  off  her  sleep  of  vicious  salutary.  Must  not  that  thing  be  dreadful,  the 
sloth  in  the  still  night,  when  nothing  is  to  be  shadow  of  which  you  could  not  look  upon  for 
seen  to  hinder  prayer.  The  heart  is  often  at  dread?  And  if  the  very  shadow  were  so  sharp 
such  a  season  so  sincere;  for  there  is  then  no  wit-  30  and  so  hot,  that  ye  might  not  feel  it  without 
ness  of  any  good  that  we  do  but  God  only,  and  pain,  what  would  you  say  of  the  very  awful 
his  angel,  who  is  busily  employed  in  inciting  us  thing  itself,  from  which  it  comes?  Know  ye 
to  good.  For  then,  nothing  is  lost,  as  there  this  for  certain,  that  all  the  misery  of  this  world 
often  is  in  the  day.  is  only  as  a  shadow  in  comparison  with  the 

Hear  now,  my  dear  sisters,  how  evil  it  is  to  35  misery  of  hell.  I  am  the  shadow,  saith  this 
be  vain  and  boast  of  good  deeds,  and  how  good  messenger,  that  is,  this  world's  suffering:  ye 
it  is  to  conceal  our  good  works,  and  to  fly  by  must  needs  receive  me,  or  that  dreadful  misery 
night,  like  the  night  fowl,  and  to  gather  in  the  of  which  I  am  the  shadow.  Whoso  receiveth 
darkness,  that  is,  privately  and  secretly,  food  me  gladly,  and  maketh  me  cheerfully  welcome, 
for  the  soul.  40  my  Lord  sends  her  word  that  she  is  freed  from 

the  thing  of  which  I  am  the  shadow.    Lo!  thus 
Joy  in  buFFERiNG  speaketh    God's    messenger;    and    therefore 

Go  ye  now,  then,  along  the  hard  and  toilsome  saith  St.  James,  "Omne  gaudium  existimate 
way  toward  the  great  feast  of  heaven,  where  fratres,  cum  in  temptationes  varias  incider- 
your  glad  friend  expecteth  your  coming,  more  45  itis."^  Count  it  all  joy  to  fall  into  divers  of 
joyfully  than  foolish  worldly  men  go  by  the  these  temptations  that  are  called  outward;  and 
green  way  toward  the  gallows-tree,  and  to  the  St.  Paul  saith,  "Omnis  disciplina  in  praesenti 
death  of  hell.  It  is  better  to  go  toward  heaven  videtur  esse  non  gaudii,  sed  moeroris;  postmo- 
sick,  than  in  health  toward  hell,  and  to  mirth  dum  vero,"  etc.*  All  those  temptations  where- 
with want,  than  to  woe  with  abundance.  Not  50  with  we  are  now  beaten,  seem  sorrow  and  not 
however,  but  that  WTetched  worldly  men  buy  joy;  but  they  turn  afterwards  to  prosperity  and 
hell  dearer  than  ye  do  heaven.  Solomon  saith,  eternal  blessedness. 
"The  way  of  sinners  is  planted  over  with 

stones:"^  that  is,  with  severe  afflictions.     Of  Iemptations 

one  thing  be  ye  well  assured — that  a  harsh  55  Holy  meditations  are  comprehended  in  a 
word  that  ye  bear  with  patience,  or  a  single  verse  that  was  long  since  taught  you,  my  dear 
day's  weariness,  or  a  sickness  of  an  hour — if      sisters: 

'St.  Matt.  :^.  36.  «^c<8wvu.34.  ^  Psl.  :ic.  15.  ^  St.  James  i.  2. 

^Eccles.  xxi.  10.  s  Heh    xxii.  11. 


I 


MATTHEW  PARIS  53 


i 


Mors  tua,  mors  Domini,  nota  culpae,  gaudia     me,  saith  he,  and  cast  away  from  me  all  my 
T  j-^^^}^'        n       X  .    r.  1  ,.  ofifences,    that   I   may  be   lightened   of  their 

Judicu  terror,  figantur  mente  fideh.  weight,  and  may  mount  up  lightly  to  heaven 

rpu  4.  •  by  the  arms  of  this  ladder, 

ihat  is, 

o 

Think  oft,  with  sorrow  of  heart,  of  thy  sins.  90Utt^t\S}    IBBXis 

Think  also  of  the  pains  of  hell,  and  of  the  joys  of  j   ^ « 

heaven.  d-  1259 

Think  ajso^of  thine  own  death,  and  of  the  cross  ^^  ^^  IRRUPTION  OF  THE  TARTARS 

Have  oft  in  thy  mind  the  fearful  doom  of  the      (From     Historia     Anglorum,     translated     by 
judgment  day.  J.  A.   Giles) 

^"""^its^ewards^^^'^  ^^'^  ^''''^^  '"'  ^""^  ^^""^  ^'^  ^^  ^^'^  y^^^"  *^^*  ^^^^^  j^^^  ^^g^*  ^«t 

Think  also  what  thou  owest  God  for  his  good-     ^^^8  continue,  and  that  the  delights  of  thi^ 
ness.  15  world    might    not    last    long    unmixed    with 

lamentation,  an  immense  horde  of  that  detest- 
t  would  require  a  long  while  to  explain  fully  able  race  of  Satan,  the  Tartars,  burst  forth 
every  one  of  these  words.  But,  if  I  hasten  from  their  mountain-bound  regions,  and  mak- 
quickly  onward,  tarry  ye  the  longer.  I  say  ing  their  way  through  rocks  apparently  im- 
one  word  in  regard  to  your  sins:  that  when  20 penetrable,  rushed  forth,  Uke  demons  loosed 
ye  think  of  the  pains  of  hell  and  the  joys  of  from  Tartarus  (so  that  they  are  well  called 
heaven,  ye  must  understand  that  God  designed  Tartars,  as  it  were  inhabitants  of  Tartarus); 
to  exhibit  them,  in  some  manner,  to  men  in  and  overrunning  the  country,  covering  the  face 
this  world,  by  worldly  pains  and  worldly  joys;  of  the  earth  like  locusts,  they  ravaged  the 
and  he  showed  them  as  it  were  a  shadow —  25  eastern  countries  with  lamentable  destruction, 
for  the  hkeness  to  them  is  no  greater.  Ye  are  spreading  fire  and  slaughter  wherever  they 
above  the  sea  of  this  world,  upon  the  bridge  went.  Roving  through  the  Saracen  territories 
of  heaven.  See  that  ye  be  not  hke  the  horse  they  razed  cities  to  the  ground,  burnt  woods, 
that  is  shy,  and  blencheth  at  a  shadow  upon  pulled  down  castles,  tore  up  the  vine-trees, 
the  high  bridge,  and  falleth  down  into  the  30  destroyed  gardens,  and  massacred  the  citizens 
water  from  the  high  bf-idge.  They  are,  indeed,  and  husbandmen;  if  by  chance  they  did  spare 
too  shy  who  flee  through  fear  of  a  picture  that  any  who  begged  their  lives,  they  compelled 
seemeth  to  them  ghastly  and  terrible  to  behold,  them,  as  slaves  of  the  lowest  condition,  to 
All  pain  and  pleasure  in  this  world  is  only  like  fight  in  front  of  them  against  their  own  kindred, 
a  shadow — it  is  all  only  as  a  picture.  35  And  if  they  only  pretended  to  fight,  or  perhaps 

warned  their  countrymen  to  fly,  the  Tartars 
The  Ladder  of  Pain  following  in  then-  rear,  slew  them;  and  if  they 

"Vilitas  et  asperitas,"  contempt  and  ill  fought  bravely  and  conquered,  they  gained  no 
usage;  these  two  things,  ignominy  and  pain,  as  thanks  by  way  of  recompense,  and  thus  these 
St.  Bernard  saith,  are  the  two  arms  of  the  40  savages  ill-treated  their  captives  as  though  they 
ladder  which  reach  up  to  heaven,  and  between  were  horses.  The  men  are  inhuman  and  of  the 
those  arms  are  fixed  the  staves  (or  steps)  of  nature  of  beasts,  rather  to  be  called  monsters 
all  the  virtues  by  which  men  climb  up  to  the  than  men,  thirsting  after  and  drinking  blood, 
blessedness  of  heaven.  And  because  David  and  tearing  and  devouring  the  flesh  of  dogs  and 
had  the  two  arms  of  this  ladder,  though  he  45  human  beings;  they  clothe  themselves  in  the 
was  king,  he  climbed  upward,  and  said  boldly  skins  of  bulls,  and  are  armed  with  iron  lances; 
to  our  Lord,  "Vide  humilitatem  meam  et  la-  they  are  short  in  stature  and  thickset,  compact 
borem  meum,  et  dimitte  universa  delicta  mea."^  in  their  bodies,  and  of  great  strength;  invincible 
"Behold," said  he,  "and  see  my  humility  and  in  battle,  indefatigable  in  labour;  they  wear  no 
my  labour,  and  forgive  me  all  my  sins."  Mark  50  armour  on  the  back  part  of  their  bodies,  but 
well  these  two  words  which  David  joineth  are  protected  by  it  in  front;  they  drink  the 
together — labour  and  humility:  labour,  in  blood  which  flows  from  their  flocks,  and  con- 
pain  and  grief,  in  anxiety  and  sorrow;  humility,  sider  it  a  delicacy;  they  have  large  and  powerful 
against  the  unjust  ignominy  which  a  man  horses,  which  eat  leaves  and  even  the  trees 
endures  who  is  despised.  "Behold  in  me  both  55  themselves,  and  which,  owing  to  the  shortness 
of  these,"  saith  David  the  beloved  of  God,  of  their  legs,  they  mount  by  three  steps  instead 
"I  have  these  two  arms  of  the  ladder."  "Di-  of  stirrups.  They  have  no  human  laws,  know 
mitte  universa  delicta  mea:"  Leave  behind  no  mercy,  and  are  more  cruel  than  lions  or 
sPsL  XXV.  18.  li.  e„1243. 


54         THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST'  TO  CHAUCER 

bears;  they  have  boats  made  of  the  hides  of  in  its  first  quarter,  there  appeared  a  new  moon 

oxen,  ten  or  twelve  having  one  amongst  them;  swollen  and  red  in  appearance,  as  a  sign  of 

they  are  skilful  in  sailing  or  swimming,  hence  coming  tempests;  according  to  the  experimental 

they  cross  the  largest  and  most  rapid  rivers  writings  of  the  philosopher  and  poet : 

without  any  delay  or  trouble;  and  when  they  5^^       •.-•-.  j  u  r>     i-i.-  j. 

I  ui     J    4.U  j-1     J  •  1    ^-  +    Ur^A      Promittit  de  more  rubens  nova  Cynthia  ventos, 

have  no  blood  they  greedily  drmk  disturbed  Caumate  vel  Borea  valido  nisi  prsepediatur: 
and  even  muddy  water.  They  have  swords  Turgida  dat  nimbos,  seu  pallida  clara  serenum. 
and  daggers  with  one  edge,  they  are  excellent 

archers,  and  they  spare  neither  sex,  age,  or      (When  Cynthia  yet  is  new,  and  ruddy  tints 
rank;  they  know  no  other  country's  language  loO'erspread  her  face,  it  threatens  gusts  of  wind, 
except  thkt  of  their  own,  and  of  this  all  other      Unless  excess  of  heat  or  cold  prevent 
nations  are  ignorant.    F^r  never  till  this  time      Her  fa^e,  if  swollen,  portendeth  storms;  but, 
has  there  been  any  mode  of  access  to  them,  nor     j^^  |3j.jgjj^^   ^-^^  ^-^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^f  heaven.) 
have  they  themselves  come  forth,  so  as  to  allow 

any  knowledge  of  their  customs  or  persons  to  15  The  sky  then,  in  the  first  week  of  the  increase 
be  gained  through  common  intercourse  with  of  the  moon,  was  covered  with  a  thick  mist,  and 
other  men;  they  take  their  herds  with  them,  began  to  be  much  disturbed  by  the  violence  of 
as  also  their  wives,  who  are  brought  up  to  war,  the  winds,  which  tore  away  the  branches  and 
the  same  as  the  men;  and  they  came  with  the  the  leaves  which  were  then  dying  away  on  the 
force  of  lightning  into  the  territories  of  the  20  trees,  and  carried  them  to  a  great  distance 
Christians,  laying  waste  the  country,  com-  through  the  air.  What  was  more  destructive, 
mitting  great  slaughter,  and  striking  inexpress-  the  disturbed  sea  transgressed  its  usual  bounds, 
ible  terror  and  alarm  into  every  one.  the  tide  flowing  twice  without  any  ebb,  and 

emitted  such  a  frightful  roaring  sound,  that. 
The  founders  of  their  tribes  are  called  gods,  25  even  in  parts  remote  from  it,  it  created  amaze- 
and  they  celebrate  their  solemnities  at  certain  ment  in  those  who  heard  it;  even  old  men,  and 
seasons;  they  have  many  especial  celebrations,  indeed  none  of  modern  times,  remembered  ever 
but  only  four  regular  ones.  They  think  that  to  have  seen  the  like  before.  In  the  darkness  of 
everything  was  made  for  them  alone,  and  they  the  night  too  the  sea  appeared  to  burn  like  a 
think  that  there  is  no  cruelty  in  practising  every  30  fire,  and  the  billows  seemed  to  crowd  together, 
kind  of  severity  on  those  who  rebel  against  as  though  fighting  with  one  another,  in  such 
them.  They  have  hard  and  robust  breasts,  fury,  that  the  skill  of  sailors  could  not  save 
lean  and  pale  faces,  stifif,  high  shoulders,  and  their  sinking  ships,  and  large  and  firmly-built 
short  distorted  noses;  their  chins  are  sharp  and  vessels  were  sunk  and  lost.  Not  to  mention 
prominent,  the  upper  jaw  low  and  deep,  the  35  other  cases,  at  the  port  of  Hertbourne  alone 
teeth  long  and  few,  their  eyebrows  stretch  from  three  noble  ships  were  swallowed  up  by  the 
the  hair  to  the  nose,  their  eyes  are  black  and  raging  billows,  besides  small  ones  and  others 
restless,  their  countenances  long  and  grim,  of  moderate  size.  At  Winchelsea,  a  port  on  the 
their  extremities  bony  and  nervous,  their  legs  eastern  coast,  besides  the  salt-houses,  and  the 
thick  but  short  below  the  knee.  In  stature  40  abodes  of  fishermen,  the  bridges,  and  mills 
they  are  equal  to  us,  for  what  they  lose  below  which  were  destroyed,  more  than  three  hun- 
the  knee  is  made  up  for  in  the  greater  length  of  dred  houses  in  that  village,  with  some  churches, 
their  upper  parts.  Their  native  country  is  were  thrown  down  by  the  impetuous  rise  of  the 
that  great  waste,  formerly  a  desert,  lying  be-  sea.  Holland  in  England, ^  and  Holland  on  the 
yond  the  Chaldees,  from  which  they  expelled  45  continent  also,  as  well  as  Flanders  and  other 
the  lions,  bears,  and  other  beasts,  with  their  level  countries  adjoining  the  sea,  sustained 
bows  and  other  warlike  weapons.  Out  of  the  irreparable  damage.  The  rivers  falling  into 
tanned  hides  of  these  animals,  they  made  for  the  sea  were  forced  back  and  swelled  to  such  a 
themselves  armour  of  a  light  description,  but  degree  that  they  overflowed  meadows,  de- 
impenetrable.  50  stroyed  mills,  bridges,  and  the  houses  adjacent 

^  to  them,  and,  invading  the  fields,  carried  away 

r\Tl^  A  XT  TTXTTTCfTT  A  T  cfTTTTiT  T  TXT/-t  A  TVTT-w  /-./-wTv /T       ^^^  ^^^u  whlch  had  not  bceu  stored  away  in  the 

MUilON    Oh    iHil.  bH^A  to  mortals  in  the  sea  as  well  as  on  land,  and  the 

A.  D.  1250  55  punishment    of    sinners    appeared    imminent, 

n?r.r.rr.  +v,«  oot,.«>  according    to    the    prophecy    of    Habakkuk: 

(iTom  tne  same;  u^^^  ^1^^^  angered  in  the  rivers,  oh  Lord,  or  is 

About  the  same  time,  namely  on  the  first      thy  indignation  in  the  sea? " 

day  of  the  month  of  October,  the  moon  being  i  i.  e.  the  fen-land  in  south-eastern  Lincohishire. 


III.   CHAUCER  TO  WYATT^AND  SURREY 


c.  1350-c.  1557 


THE  AGE  OF  CHAUCER 
Sotjn  llBarbouri 

c.  131&-1396 

FREEDOM 

(From  The  Bruce,''  c.  1375) 


225 


Ah!  Freedom  is  a  noble  thing! 

Freedom  makes  man  to  have  liking ;3 

Freedom  all  solace  to  man  giveth, 

He  liveth  at  ease  that  freely  liveth. 

A  noble  heart  may  have  no  ease,  229 

May  have  naught  else  that  may  him  please, 

If  freedom  fail'th;  for  free  liking 

Is  yearned  for  o'er  all  other  thing. 

Nay,  he  that  aye  has  lived  free 

May  not  know  well  the  propertie, 

The  anger,  nay,  the  wretched  doom  235 

That  coupled  is  to  foul  thrald6me, 

But  if  he  had  assayed  it 

Then  all  perforce  he  should  it  wit;* 

And  should  think  freedom  more  to  prize 

Than  all  the  gold  in  world  that  is.  240 

Thus  contrar  thinges  evermore 

Disclosers  of  the  other  are. 


THE  PEARLi 
(c.  1370) 


Pearl,  princes  prize,  and  men  essay 

To  safely  close  in  gold  most  clear! 

Of  Orient  pearls,  I  surely  say, 

Never  was  found  its  precious  peer; 

So  round,  so  radiant  in  array,  3 

So  small,  so  smooth  its  surface  fair. 

Whenever  I  judged  of  jewels  gay 

I  set  it  singly  in  singlere.^ 

Alas!  I  lost  it  in  an  arb^re:  ^ 
Through  grass  to  ground  it  from  me  got.  10 
I  droop,  death-stricken  by  love-daungere,* 
For  my  own  pearl  without  a  spot. 


Since  in  that  spot  it  from  me  sprung, 

Oft  have  I  waited,  wishing  that  weaP 

That  once  was  wont  dispel  my  wrong,  15 

Lift  up  my  lot,  my  spirit  heal. 

1  John  Barbour,  a  Scottish  contemporary  of  Chaucer, 
was  Archdeacon  of  Aberdeen. 

^The  Bruce,  a  poem  in  twenty  books,  celebrates  the 
deUverance  of  Scotland  from  her  foreign  oppressor, 
under  the  leadership  of  her  national  hero  Robert  Bruce. 

3  His  wish.  i  Know. 

1  The  Pearl  was  written  by  an  unknown  poet  in  the 
West  of  England.  A  number  of  stanzas,  dealing  chiefly 
with  matters  of  reUgious  doctrine,  have  been  omitted. 

2  Apart.  3  Arbor.  « Bondage.  5  Bliss. 


But  now,  struck  through  with  sorrows  strong, 

Its  loss  my  burning  breast  must  feel. 

Yet  heard  I  ne'er  so  sweet  a  song 

As  the  still  hour  let  to  me  steal.  20 

Strange  thoughts   their   shapes  but  half 
reveal, 

As  I  muse  on  its  colour,  all  clad  in  clay. 

O  mould!  thou  marrest  a  wondrous  jew41. 

My  precious  pearl  that  hath  slipped  away. 


Ill 


25 


Lo!  there  sweet  spices  needs  must  spread 
Where  so  much  wealth  to  earth  has  run; 
Flowers  golden,  blue,  and  red. 
Shine  full  sheen  against  the  sun. 
Never  may  fruit  and  flower  fade 
Where  my  pearl  sank  down  in  the  earth-mould 
^dun;  30 

For  each  grass  must  grow  from  seed-grain  dead, 
No  wheat  were  else  for  harvest  won; 

From  good  each  good  is  aye  begun; 

So  precious  a  seed  must  perish  not; 

Spices  must  spring  from  this  chosen  one,  35 

From  this  precious  pearl  without  a  spot. 


To  this  spot  that  I  in  speech  expoun  * 

I  entered,  in  that  arbour  gi*een, 

In  August,  in  a  high  ses6un, 

When  corn  is  cut  with  sickle  keen.  40 

On  a  mound  where  once  my  pearl  rolled  down 

Fell  shadows  of  flowers  shining  and  sheen, — 

Gillyfleur,  ginger,  and  gromyloun,^ 

And  peonies  powdered  all  between. 
If  it  were  seemly  but  to  be  seen, 
Still  sweeter  the  scent  it  gave,  I  wot, 
Where  dwells  that  blessed  one  I  ween. 
My  precious  pearl  without  a  spot. 


45 


Prone  in  that  place,  wild  hands  1  pressed, 
Clutched  as  with  freezing  cold,  I  fought;       50 
Grief  grew  to  tumult  in  my  breast, 
Reason  nor  calm,  nor  comfort  brought. 
I  plained  my  pearl  that  earth  possessed. 
And  vainly  strove  with  struggling  thought. 
Though  Christ's  compassion  offered  rest,       55 
My  wretched  will  against  it  wrought. 
I  fell  upon  the  flowery  ground. 
Sweet  odours  o'er  my  senses  streamed. 
Till,  sunk  in  depths  of  sleep  profound. 
About  my  spotless  pearl  I  dreamed.        60 


From  thence  my  soul  sprang  far  in  space, 
My  body  on  ground  abode  in  sweven.* 
My  ghost  is  gone  by  Goddes  grace, 
Through  ways  unknown  and  wondrous  driven, 

«  Declare.  ^  Gromwell,  a  small  plant. 


55 


66 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


65 


I  wist  not  in  this  world  the  place, 
But  I  felt  me  rapt  past  great  rocks  riven: 
Towards  a  forest  I  turned  my  face 
Where  splendid  cliffs  soared  high  to  heaven; 
Their  light  no  man  may  well  believen, 
For  a  glistering  glory  from  them  gleamed; 
The  loom  no  silks  has  ever  given  71 

With    colours    so    clear    as   from    them 
streamed. 

VII 

Adorned  was  each  hilly  side 
With  crystal  cliffs  of  clearest  kind. 
The  forests  fair  about  them  bide  75 

With  tree-bolls  blue  as  blue  of  Ind; 
Their  leaves,  like  silver's  burnished  pride, 
A-flutter  in  the  fragrant  wind 
With  glinting  gleams  show  glorified. 
In  shimmering  splendors  half-defined.  80 

The  gravel,  that  each  foot  may  grind. 
Was  precious  pearl  of  Orient, 
Sunlight  itself  seemed  dull  and  blind 
Beside  that  land  of  wonderment. 


The  splendor  of  those  hill-sides  rare  85 

Made  my  glad  heart  its  grief  forgete; 

The  fruits  so  fresh  of  fragrance  were 

I  was  fed-full  with  odours  sweet. 

Birds  flitted  through  that  forest  fair 

Of  flaming  hues,  both  small  and  grete;  90 

No  citole's  ^  string  nor  gitternere  ^° 

Their  mirthful  music  might  repeat. 

For,  when  these  birds  their  winges  beat, 
Then  sing  they  all  with  sweet  concent. 
No  man  knows  rapture  so  complete        95 
As  sight  and  sound  together  lent. 


The  woods  are  rich  in  radiant  guise, 
Where'er  by  Fortune  led,  I  fare, 
And  shining  glories  glad  mine  eyes. 
That  no  man  may  with  tongue  declare.        100 
I  wander  on  in  happy  wise. 
For  steepest  cliff  seems  harmless  there. 
The  farther  I  fared  the  fairer  'gan  rise 
Meads  bright  with  bloom,  and  spice,  and  pear. 
Green-bordered  brooks,  and  river  fair,     105 
Its  banks  as  thread  of  finest  gold. 
Win  I  at  last  to  a  water  rare; — 
Dear  Lord!  'twas  lovely  to  behold. 


The  margent  of  that  wondrous  deep 

Was  shining  baak  of  beryl  bright.  110 

Sweetly  the  sliding  waters  sweep. 

With  a  murmurous  music  they  take  their  flight. 

The  bottom,  gleaming  stones  doth  keep. 

That  glow  through  the  lucent  depths  like  light. 

Or  shining  stars,  which,  while  men  sleep,         1 1 5 

Wink  in  the  welkin  on  Winter's  night. 

»  Citole,  a  small  dulcimer;  a  stringed  instrument,  re- 
sembling a  zither. 

10  Gitternere,  a  player  on  the  gittem,  or  cithern  (zither). 


Each  shining  stone  that  shimmered  to 

sight 
Was  sapphire,  or  some  jewel  rare, 
They  lit  the  deep  with  living  might. 
So  clear  that  lovely  land  and  fair. 


120 


The  rich  array  of  down  and  dales, 
Of  wood  and  water  and  wide  plains, 
Bred  in  me  bliss,  abated  bales. 
Released  my  stress,  destroyed  my  pains. 
Along  the  stream  that  strongly  hales  ^^         125 
All  rapt  I  roved,  brimfull  my  brains. 
The  farther  I  followed  those  wat'ry  vales 
The  greater  the  joy  at  my  glad  heart  strains. 
Though  Fortune's  gifts  no  force  constrains. 
Lend  she  solace  or  sorrows  sore,  130 

The  wight  who  once  her  favour  gains 
Strives  ever  to  win  more  and  more. 

XII 

Far  more  of  bliss  glowed  in  such  guise 
Than  I  could  tell  if  time  I  had; 
For  mortal  heart  may  not  suffice  135 

For  tenth  part  of  that  rapture  glad. 
I  thought  in  truth  that  Paradise 
Lay  just  beyond  those  bright  banks  brade.^^ 
The  waters,  methought,  as  boimds  arise 
Twixt  garden  and  garden,  between  them  made. 
Beyond  the  brook,  bjTslope  and  shade,    141 
Stands  the  Holy  City,  beyond  the  shore. 
But  the  water  was  deep,  I  durst  not  wade. 
And  ever  my  longing  grew  more  and  more. 


Mair  and  mair,  and  yet  much  mair  145 

I  longed  beyond  that  stream  to  stand; 
For  if  'twas  fair  where  I  did  fare 
Far  fairer  gleamed  that  farther  land. 
Stumbling  I  strove,  looked  here  and  there 
To  find  a  ford,  on  every  hand;  150 

But  of  greater  perils  I  grew  aware 
The  longer  I  searched  that  shining  strand. 

And  yet,  it  seemed  I  must  burst  the  band. 

So  strong  was  the  call  of  that  distant  shore. 

When  lo!  the  sight  mine  eyes  next  scan- 
ned 155 

Stirred  my  strained  spirit  more  and  more. 

XIV 

A  marvel  'gan  my  ghost  confound; 

I  saw,  beyond  that  merry  mere, 

A  cliff,  from  whose  clear  depths  profound 

Streamed  lights  that  lit  the  golden  air.  160 

Beneath,  a  child  sate  on  the  ground, 

A  maid  of  mien  full  debonair; 

White,  shining  garments  girt  her  round; — 

I  knew, — I  had  seen  her  other- where. 

As  gold  in  threads  that  men  may  shear,   165 
So  sheen  she  shone  upon  that  shore. 
The  longer  I  looked  upon  her  there 
The  surer  I  knew  her,  more  and  more. 


Flows. 


"  Broad. 


THE  PEARL 


57 


XV 

And  as  I  fed  on  her  fair  face, 

And  searched  her  child-like  figure  o'er,  170 

Pure  gladness  did  my  soul  embrace, 

That!  had  lacked  so  long  before. 

To  call  her  would  I  fain  find  grace, 

But  stunned  I  stood,  bewildered  sore; 

I  saw  her  in  so  strange  a  place,  175 

That  dazed  the  sight  no  meaning  bore. 

She  lifts  her  brow,  well-known  of  yore, 

Her  face  as  smooth  as  ivory; 

My  wild  dismay  grows  more  and  more. 

My  soul  is  stung  with  what  1  see.  180 


Stronger  than  longing,  fear  arose; 

I  stood  quite  still  and  durst  not  call; 

Wide-eyed  I  wait,  my  lips  I  close. 

As  mute  as  hooded  hawk  in  hall. 

That  sight  so  strange,  so  spectral  rose,  185 

1  feared  the  end  that  might  befall; 

The  dread  lest  she  escape  me  grows. 

Or  vanish  ere  I  could  forestall. 

Then  she,  whose  shining  lightened  all, 
So  soft,  so  smooth,  so  pure,  so  slight,     190 
Rose  up  robed  in  array  roydl, 
A  pearl,  in  precious  pearles  dight. 

XVII 

Pearls  that  would  grace  a  kingly  power, 
A  man  might  there  by  grace  have  seen. 
When  fresh  and  fair  as  lily-flower,  195 

Adown  the  shore  she  stepped,  I  ween. 
Her  linen  robe,  a  royal  dower, 
Flowed  free;  its  lustrous  borders  been 
Purfled  with  pearls:  before  that  horn- 
Such  sight  mine  eyes  had  never  seen.  200 
Her  flowing  sleeve-laps  showed  full  sheen 
With  pearls,  in  double  border  dight: 
Her  kirtle,  where  it  showed  between. 
With  precious  pearls  gleamed  pure  and 
bright.  ...  204 


All  rich  in  pearls  that  rare  one  bright  229 

Drew  near  the  shore  beyond  the  flood; 

From  here  to  Greece  no  gladder  wight 

Than  I,  when  by  the  brink  she  stood. 

Nearer  than  niece  or  aunt,  of  right 

I  found  in  her  my  joy  and  good. 

Then  low  she  bowed  her  figure  slight,  235 

Cast  by  her  crown  in  happy  mood, 
And  as  I  looked,  I  understood. 
And  heard  her  greet  me  full  of  grace. 
Dear  Lord!  who  me  with  life  endued 
'Twas  worth  it  all  to  see  her  face.  240 

XXI 

"O  Pearl,"  I  cried,  ''in  pearles  dight, 
Art  thou  that  pearl  that  I  have  plained ^^ 
Much  missed  by  me  alone,  at  night? 
What  longing  have  I  long  sustained 

13  Bewailed. 


Since  into  grass  you  slipped  from  sight.        245 
Pensive,  oppressed,  I  pine  sore  pained, 
While  you,  at  rest  in  realm  of  light, 
In  Paradise  a  home  have  gained. 

What   Weird  has  thither  my  gem   con- 
strained, 

And  brought  me  this  grief  and  great  daun- 
g^re!  250 

Since  we  in  twain  were  torn  and  twained, 

I  have  been  a  joyless  jeweler." 

XXII 

That  jewel  there,  with  jewels  graced, 

Lifted  her  face  with  eyes  of  grey. 

Her  crown  of  orient  pearl  replaced,  255 

And  grave  and  slow  did  sweetly  say: — 

"Sir,  you  mistake  and  speak  in  haste 

To  say  your  pearl  is  all  away; 

In  coffer  is  it  safely  placed. 

Shut  safe  within  this  garden  gay,  260 

To  dwell  forever  there,  and  play 
Where  sin  and  sorrow  come  never  near, 
This  spot  were  thy  treasure  house,  parfay, 
If  thou  wert  a  gentle  jeweler. 


XXIII 


265 


"But  jeweler  gentle,  if  thou  dost  give 
Thy  joy  for  a  gem  thou  deemed'st  dear. 
In  sooth  thou  dost  but  thyself  deceive, 
Vexed  in  vain  with  a  foolish  fear. 
For  you  lost  but  a  rose,  you  may  well  believe. 
That  must  flower  and  fade  with  the  fading  year, 
Yet  so  wondrous  a  dust  did  that  rose  receive  271 
That  it  proved  a  pearl  in  this  shining  sphere. 

Though  thou  called'st  thy  Weird  a  thief, 
'tis  clear 

From  nought  it  has  gained  the  great  treas- 
ure; 

To  blame  the  hand  that  has  helped  thee 
here 

Shows  thee  a  thankless  jeweler."  276 

[After  the  Dreamer  has  been  urged  to  be 
patient,  he  sees  the  Maiden  in  Heaven  and  is 
filled  with  a  great  longing  to  join  her.] 


XCVII 


1153 


Drawn  by  delight  of  eye  and  ear, 
My  yearning  mood  to  madness  grows; 
I  would  be  with  my  dear  one  there,  1155 

Though  swift  the  severing  current  flows. 
Nothing  will  harm  me  if  on  I  fare. 
Or  lame  me,  methought,  by  baffling  blows; 
If  I  only  the  plunge  in  the  stream  can  dare 
I  will  swim  the  space  though  the  waves  oppose, 
Or  die  in  the  deed.  Yet  a  thought  arose  1 161 
Ere  I  plunged  perverse  in  that  water  chill, 
That  stilled  my  impatience  and  brought  re- 
pose 
For  I  knew  it  was  not  my  Prmce's  will. 

XCVIII 

It  pleased  Him  not  that  I  should  break       i  I6ff 
Through  those  marvellous  marches  unafraid, 


58 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


As  rash  and  rude  my  course  I  take 

My  daring  onset  is  sudden  stayed: 

For  as  to  the  brink  my  way  I  make 

With  a  start  I  find  my  vision  fade,  1170 

And  lo!  in  that  arbour  fair  I  wake, 

My  head  on  that  selfsame  hillock  laid 

On  that  spot  where  my  pearl  into  earth 

once  strayed. 
Awe-strucken,  silent,  I  sate  alone, 
Then  sighing  deep  to  myself  I  said:       1175 
"May  the  Prince's  will  in  all  be  done." 

THE  SEASONS 

(From  Sir  Gawayne  and  the  Green  Knight,^ 
c.  1370) 

For  the  Yule-tide  had  yielded,  and  the  year 
after,  500 

And  each  several  season  ensued  after  other. 
Thus  after  Christmas  came  crabbed  Lent-time, 
That  affords  fish  for  flesh,  and  food  the  most 

simple. 
But  then  the  world's  weather  with  winter  is 
warring;  504 

Winter  withdraws  himself,  white  clouds  uplift; 
Soft  descendeth  the  rain  in  showers  full  warm. 
They  fall  on  fair  fields  and  the  flowers  are  show- 
ing* 
Both  the  ground  and  the  grove  now  with  green 

are  arrayed. 
Birds  bestir  them  to  build,  and  bravely  are  sing- 
ing 
For  solace  of  summer  ensuing  thereafter        510 
On  bank, 
And  blossoms  bud  and  blow 
On  hedge-rows  rich  and  rank, 
And  noble  notes  enow 
Are  heard  in  woodlands  dank.  515 

Then  comes  the  season  of  summer,  bathed  in 

soft  breezes. 
Breezes  that  breathe  themselves  into  seedling 

and  herbage, 
Blithesome,  in  truth,  is  the  blossom  that  bloom- 

eth  therefrom, 
When  the  drenching  dews  drip  down  from  the 

leaves,  519 

Biding  the  blissful  beams  of  the  bright  sunne. 
Next  harvest  hies  him,  and  hardens  the  grain, 
He  warns  it  ere  winter  to  wax  full  ripe; 
The  dust  of  the  drought  he  driveth  aloft. 
From  the  face  of  the  fields  it  flies  full  high;  524 
Wild  winds  of  the  welkin  war  with  the  sunne, 
The  leaves  of  the  woodland  lie  low  on  the 

ground. 
And  all  grey  is  the  grass  that  all  green  was  so 

lately. 
Then  all  ripens  and  rotteth  that  rose  up  in 

flower,  528 

And  thus  yieldeth  the  year  to  yesterdays  many: 
To  know  winter  is  nearing,  now  need  we  to  tell  us 

» Sir  Gawayne  and  the  Green  Knight,  one  of  the  many 
romances  dealing  with  King  Arthur  and  his  Knights, 
is  a  poem  of  oyer  2,500  Unes.  In  it,  as  in  other  early 
Arthurian  Stories,  Sir  Gawayne  is  a  noble  and  knightly 
figure,  very  different  from  the  despicable  Sir  Gawayne 
of  Malory's  Morle  d'  Arthur,  or  Tennyson's  Idylls, 


No  sage. 
When  Michaelmas's  moon 
Was  come  with  winter's  gage. 
Then  thought  Gawayne  full  soon 
Of  his  dread  pilgrimage.  635 


SIR  GAWAYNE'S  JOURNEY 

(From  the  same) 

Now  wends  he  his  way  through  the  wild  tracts 

of  Logres,^ 
Sir  Gawayne  on  God's  hest,  and  no  game  he 

thought  it. 
Oft  alone  he  alights,  and  lies  down  at  night-fall 
Where  he  found  not  before  him  fare  to  his  liking. 
O'er  field  and  in  forest,  no  friend  but  his  horse, 
No  comrade  but  God  for  counsel  had  he,         696 
Till  at  length  he  (Iraws  near  to  the  land  of 

North  Wales. 
All  Anglesey's  isles  on  the  left  hand  he  leaves, 
And  fares  o'er  the  fording  hard  by  the  foreland, 
Over  at  Holy-head,  till  he  had  journeyed       700 
To  Wirral's^  wilderness,  where  few  are  dwelling 
Who  God  or  man  with  good  hearts  regard. 
Fain  would  he  find  from  men  that  he  met  with 
News  of  a  Knight  in  that  neighborhood  dwelling 
Who  garbed  him  in  green,  or  of  a  green  chapel. " 
All  denied  him  with  "nay,"  saying  not  in  a 

lifetime  706 

Wist  they  ever  a  wight  that  was  of  such  hues 
Of  green. 
The  Knight  rode  ways  most  strange, 
The  rocky  banks  between,  710 

And  oft  his  cheer^  doth  change, 
Ere  he  that  church  hath  seen. 

Many  cliffs  he  climbed  over  in  countries  far 

distant; 
As  out-cast,  cut  off  from  companions,  he  rides. 
At  each  way  through  the  water  where  he  crossed 

over,  715 

He  a  foe  found  before  him, — ^but  phantom  it 

was, — 
So  foul  and  so  fell  that  to  fight  it  behoved  him. 
So  many   a   marvel   in   these   mountains  he 

findeth, 
'Twere  tedious  to  tell  the  tenth  of  those  wonders. 
Now  with  serpents  he  struggles,  and  strives 

with  wolves  also,  720 

Satyrs  sometimes  assail  him,  strange  shapes 

from  the  rocks, 
Both  with  bulls  and  with  bears,  and  with  boars 

otherwhiles. 
Or  with  monsters  that  meet  him,  huge  men  of 

the  fells. 
He  was  fearless,  unfalt'ring  and  faithful  to  God, 
Or  he  doubtless  had  died,  for  death  threatened 

him  oft.  725 

1  Logres,  here=  England.  According  to  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth,  Brutus  divided  Britain  among  his  three 
sons.  The  portion  (afterwards  England)  which  fell  to 
the  eldest  son  Locrine,  was  "called  afterwards  from  his 
name  Loegria  (or  Logres)."  History  of  Britain,  Bk.  II, 
ch.  I.  V 

2  Wirral  (Wirhael)  old  English  name  of  the  land  be-  ^  * 
tween  the  Dee  and  the  Mersey. 

*  Expression. 


JOHN  GOWER 


59 


But  war  he  could  wage,  yet  the  winter  was 

worse, 
When  the  cold  chilling  waters,  from  storm- 
clouds  down  pouring. 
Would  freeze  ere  they  fell  on  the  fallow  beneath. 
Near  slain  with  the  sleet,  he  slept  in  his  armour, 
More  nights  than  enough  on  the  naked  rocks. 
While  clattering  o'er  the  cliff  the  cold  brook 
comes  down,  ^  731 

And  high  o'er  his  head  hard  icicles  hang. 
Thus  in  perils  and  pains  and  plights  the  most 

hard, 
Till  Christmas  eve  cometh,  he  keepeth  alone 

His  quest.  735 

Humbly  the  Knight,  that  tide, 
Besought  of  Mary  Blest, 
That  she  his  way  would  guide 
Unto  some  place  of  rest. 

At  morn  by  a  mountain  he  merrily  rideth,    740 
Through  a  woodland  full  wild  that  was  won- 
drous and  deep. 
High  hills  on  each  hand,  with  a  holt  stretching 

under 
Of  hoar  oaks  full  huge,  a  hundred  together; 
And  tangled  thickets  of  thorn  and  of  hazel. 
With  shaggy  robes  of  rough  ragged  mosses;  745 
Many  birds  sit  unblithely  on  the  bare  twigs. 
And  piteously  pipe  for  pain  of  the  cold. 
The  rider  on  Gringolet  rideth  beneath  them 
Through  mire  and  marshes,  a  man  all  alone,  749 
Perturbed  in  his  toil  lest  to  him  'twere  forbidden 
To  share  in  His  service,  who,  on  that  same 

night, 
Was  born  of  a  maid,  all  our  sorrows  to  cure. 
Therefore  sighing  he  said:  "I  beseech  Thee,  O 

Lord, 
And  Mary,  mildest  mother  so  dear. 
Some  shelter  to  show  me,  some  spot  to  hear 

mass  755 

And  thy  matins  at  mom,  this  meekly  I  beg, 
And  thus  promptly  I  pray,  my  Pater,  and  Ave, 
And  Creedr 

)  So  as  he  rode  he  prayed, 

I   And  mourned  for  his  misdeed,  760 

'    The  holy  sign  he  made,    - 
And  said:  "Christ's  Cross  me  speed." 

c.  1325-1408 
THE  PRAISE  OF  PEACE^ 

Unto  the  Worthy  and  Noble  Kinge  Henry  the 
Fourth 

(c.  1399) 

O  noble  worthy  king,  Henry  the  ferthe. 
In  whom  the  gladde  fortune  is  befalle 
The  people  to  gov^rne  here  upon  erthe,    » 
God  hath  thee  chose,  in  comfort  of  us  alle; 

1  The  Praise  of  Peace  (or  De  Pads  Commendatione, 
as  Gower  entitled  it)  was  a  poem  of  welcome  to  Henry  IV., 
on  his  accession  to  the  throne  in  1399.  Gower  had  been 
distressed  and  disappointed  by  the  misgovernment  of 
Richard  II.;  in  this  poem  he  greets  the  new  King,  as 
one  who,  he  truats,  will  bring  in  a  better  time. 


The  worship  of  this  land,  which  was  doun  f  alle,  5 
Now  stant  upright,  through  grace  of  thy  good- 

nesse. 
Which  every  man  is  holde  for  to  blesse. 

The  highe  God,  of  his  justice  alone. 
The  right  which  longeth  to  thy  regalye 
Declared  hath  to  stande  in  thy  persone ;  10 

And  more  than  God  may  no  man  justify^. 
Thy  title  is  knowe  upon  thyn  auncestrye; 
The  londes  folk  hath  eek  thy  right  affermed; 
So  stant  thy  regne,  of  God  and  man  confirmed. 

There  is  no  man  may  say  in  other  wise  15 

That  God  him-self  ne  hath  the  right  declared; 
Whereof  the  land  is  boun  to  thy  srvyse, 
Which  for  default  of  help  hath  longe  caii^ed. 
But  now  there  is  no  mannes  hearte  sparM 
To  love  and  sei-ve,  and  worke  thy  pleasaunce; 
And  all  this  is  through  Goddes  purveyance.    21 

In  alle  thing  which  is  of  God  begonne 
There  followeth  grace,  if  it  be  well  governed; 
Thus  tellen  they  which  olde  bokes  conne, 
Whereof,  my  lord,  I  wot  well  thou  art  lerned.  25 
Ask  of  thy  God;  so  shalt  thou  not  be  werned 
Of  no  request  (the)  which  is  reasonable; 
For  God  unto  the  good  is  favorable.  .  .  . 

Peace  is  the  chief  of  all  the  worldes  welthe. 
And  to  the  heaven  it  leadeth  eek  the  way ;        30 
Peace  is  of  soul  and  life  the  mannes  helthe 
Of  pestilence,  and  doth  the  war  away. 
My  liege  lord,  tak  heed  of  what  I  say, 
If  werre  may  be  left,  tak  peace  on  honde. 
Which  may  not  be  withoute  Goddes  sonde.   35 

With  peace  stands  every  creature  in  reste, 
Withoute  peace  there  may  no  life  be  glad; 
Above  all  other  good,  peace  is  the  beste; 
Peace  hath  him-self,  whan  war  is  all  bestad;^ 
The  peace  is  safe,  the  war  is  ever  adrad.  40 

Peace  is  of  alle  charitie  the  keye. 
Which  hath  the  life  and  soule  for  to  weigh. 

My  liege  lord,  if  that  thee  list  to  seche 

The   sooth   ensamples,    what   the   war   hath 

wrought. 
Thou  shalt  well  hear,  of  wise  mennes  speche,  45 
That  deadly  werre  tourneth  in-to  nought. 
For  if  these  olde  bokes  be  well  sought. 
There  might  thou  see  what  thing  the  war  hath 

do 
Both  of  conquest  and  conqueror  als6. 

For  vain  hon6ur,  or  for  the  worldes  good,  50 
They  that  whilom  the  stronge  werres  made. 
Where  be  they  now?  Bethink  well,  in  thy  mood. 
The  day  is  goon,  the  night  is  dark  and  fade; 
Her  cruelte,  which  made  them  thanne  glade, 
They  sorrow  now,  and  yet  have  naught  the 
more;  55 

The  blood  is  shed,  which  no  man  may  restore. 
>  Beset. 


60 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


The  war  is  mother  of  the  wronges  alle; 

It  sleeth  the  priest  in  holy  church  at  masse, 

Forlyth  the  mayde,  and  doth  her  flour  to  falle. 

The  war  maketh  the  grete  citee  lasse,^  60 

And  doth  the  law  his  reules  overpasse. 

There  is  nothing,  whereof  mischief  may  growe 

Which  is  not  caused  of  the  war,  I  trowe. 

The  war  bringeth  in  poverte  at  his  heeles, 
Whereof  the  common  people  is  sore  grieved ;    65 
The  war  hath  set  his  cart  on  thilke  wheeles 
Where  that  fortune  may  not  be  believed. 
For  when  men  wene  best  to  have  acheved, 
Fulloftit  isallnewe  tobeginne;  69 

The  war  hath  nothing  siker,*  though  he  winne. 

Therefore,  my  worthy  prince,  in  Christes  halve,  ^ 

As  for  a  part  whose  faith  thou  hast  to  guide, 

Lay  to  this  olde  sore  a  newe  salve, 

And  do  the  war  away,  what-so  betide. 

Purchase  peace,  and  set  it  by  thy  syde,  75 

And  suffre  not  thy  people  be  devoured; 

So  shall  thy  name  ever  after  stand  hon6ured! .  .  . 

My  worthy  liege  lord,  Henry  by  name. 

Which  Engelond  hast  to  govern  and  righte, 

Men  oughten  well  thy  pity  to  proclame,  80 

Which  openly,  in  all  the  worldes  sighte, 

Is  shewed,  with  the  help  of  God  Almighte, 

To  yeve  us  peace,  which  long  hath  be  debated, 

Whereof  thy  prys^  shal  never  be  abated. 

My  lord,  in  whom  hath  ever  yet  be  founde       85 

Pity,  withoute  spot  of  violence. 

Keep  thilke  peace  alwdy,  withinne  bounde. 

Which  God  hath  planted  in  thy  conscience. 

So  shall  the  cronique  of  thy  pacience 

Among  the  saints  be  taken  in-to  mem6rie         90 

To  the  loenge^  of  perdurable  glorie. 

And  to  thine  earthly  prys,  so  as  I  can, 

Which  every  man  is  holde  to  commende, 

I  Gower,  which  am  all  thy  liege  man. 

This  lettre  unto  thine  excellence  I  sende,  95 

As  I,  which  ever  unto  my  lyves  ende 

Will  praye  for  the  stat  of  thy  persone. 

In  worship  of  thy  sceptre  and  of  thy  throne. 

Not  only  to  my  king  of  peace  I  write, 

But  to  these  othre  princes  Christen  alle,         lOO 

That  each  of  them  his  owne  heart  endite 

And  cease  the  war,  or  more  mescheef  falle. 

Set  eek  the  rightful  pope  upon  his  stalle; 

Keep  charite,  and  draw  pite  to  honde,  104 

Maintaine  law;  and  so  the  peace  shall  stonde. 

William  tlanglanD 

c.  1332-1400 
PIERS  THE  PLOUGHMAN 

PROLOGUE 

In  the  season  of  summer,  when  soft  was  the 

sunne, 
I  clad  myself  coarsely  in  a  cloak  as  a  shepherd; 
In  habit  as  an  hermit  unholy  of  workes, 
Went  I  wide  in  this  world  wonders  to  heare. 
•Less.       *Sure.       » Behalf.        « Glory.       'Praise. 


And  on  a  May  morning  on  Malverne  hilles,       6 

A  marvel  amazed  me,  of  magic  methought. 

I  was  weary,  for-wandered,  and  went  me  to 
reste 

Under  a  broad  bank,  by  a  burn-side; 

And  as  I  lay  and  leaned,  and  looked  in  the 
waters,  9 

I  slumbered  in  a  sleeping,  it  sounded  so  merry. 

Then  did  I  dream  there  a  dream  full  of  wonder; 

In  the  wilds  I  was  wandering,  wist  I  not  where. 

As  I  looked  to  the  Eastward  a-lof t  to  the  sunnC; 

I  saw  set  on  a  summit  a  seemly  tower; 

A  deep  dale  beneath  and  a  dungeon  thereinne, 

With  deep  ditches  and  dark,  and  dreadful  to 
sight.  16 

A  fair  field  full  of  folk  found  I  there  between 
them. 

With  all  manner  of  men  the  mean  and  the  riche. 

Working  and  wandering  as  the  world  asketh. 
Some  put  them  to  ploughing,  playing  full 
seldom,  20 

In  setting  and  sowing  swinking  ^  full  hard, 

And  winning  what  wasters  with  gluttony  des- 
troy. 
And  some  put  to  pride,  appareled  them  there- 
after. 

In  fancies  of  fashion  finely  arrayed. 
To  prayers  and  to  penance  put  themselves 
many,  25 

All  for  love  of  our  Lord  living  full  strict, 

In  the  hope  for  to  have  heavenly  blisse ; 

As  anchorets  and  hermits  that  hold  in  their 
celles. 

In  the  world  never  wishing  to  wander  about. 

Or  with  bounteous  abundance  their  bodies  to 
please.  30 

And  some  chose  to  chaffer,  their  chances  to 
better, 

For  it  seems  to  our  sight  that  such  men  are 
most  thriving. 

And  some  to  make  meny,  as  minstrels  are  able, 

And  get  gold  with  their  glees,  guiltless  I  deem 
them. 

But  jesters  and  jugglers,  Judas's  children,       35 

Found  out  false  fantasies  and  feigned  them- 
selves foolish, 

Yet  have  wit  at  their  will,  to  work  were  they 
willing. 

That  Paul  preacheth  ^  of  them  prove  now  I  dare 
not; 

Qui  loquitur  turpiloquium  is  Lucifer's  slave. 
There  bidders  and  beggars  right  busily  wan- 
dered, 40 

Their  bags  and  their  bellies  with  bread  fully 
crammed; 

They  feigned  want  of  food,  and  fought  o'er  the 
ale-cups, 

In  gluttony,  God  wot,  go  they  to  bedde, 

And  rise  up  with  ribaldry,  these  Robert's  men.' 

So  sleeping  and  sloth  pursue  them  forever.      45 
Pilgrims  and  palmer^  plighted  them  together 

1  Toiling. 

2 1  might  prove  that  St.  Paul's  words  "if  a  man  does 

not  work  neither  shall  he  eat,"  apply  to  these  children  of  t  i 

Judas,  but  I  dare  not,  because  he  who  speaks  evil  (Qui  \j 

turpiloquium  loquiter)  is  Lucifer's  servant.  f^ 

'  Vagabonds.  ^i 


WILLIAM  LANGLAND 


61 


To  seek  for  Saint  James*  and  the  saintes  at 

Rome, 
Went  forth  in  their  way  with  many  wise  stories, 
And  had  leave  for  to  lie,  all  their  life  after, 
I  saw  some  that  said  they  had  sought  out  the 

saintes;  50 

With  tongues  tempered  to  lie  in  each  tale  that 

they  tolde, 
More  than  to  say  sooth  it  seemed  by  their 

speech. 
Hermits  in  an  heap,  with  hooked  staves 
To  Walsingham^  wended, — their  wenches  came 

after. 
Great   lubbers   and   lazy   that   loth   were   to 

swinke,  55 

Clothed  them  in  copes  to  be  counted  as  "breth- 
ren," 
In  habit  of  hermit  their  ease  for  to  have. 
(  I   found   there  the  friars   of  all  the   four 

orders. 
They  preached  to  the  people  to  profit  them- 
selves. 
Glossing  the  Gospel  as  was  their  good  pleasure. 
For,  coveting  copes,  they  construed  as  they 

would.  61 

For  many  of  these  masters  may  dress  as  it  likes 

them, 
For  their  money  and  merchandise  marchen  to- 
gether, 
For  since  Charity  hath  been  chapman  and  chief 

to  shrive  lordes, 
Many  ferlies^  have  fallen  in  a  few  yeares.  65 

If  Holy  Church  and  they  hold  not  better  to- 
gether, 
The  most  mischief  on  mold^  is  mounting  full 

fast. 
There  preached  a  Pardoner,  a  priest  as  he 

were, 
And  brought  forth  a  Bull  with  the  Bishopes 

scales, 
And  said  that  himself  might  assoilen^  them 

alle 
Of  falseness  in  fasting,  and  vows  they  had 

broken.  71 

The  unlettered  believed  him  and  liked  well  his 

wordes, 
Coming  up  to  him  kneeling  and  kissing  his 

Bulles, 
,Then  he  banged  them  with  his  brevet  and 
I         bleared  their  eyen,^  ...  74 

I  Thus  they  give  up  their  gold  these  gluttons  to 
I         help.  ...  76 

Were  the  Bishop  but  blessed  and  worth  both 

his  eares,  78 

He  would  send  not  his  seal  for  deceiving  the 

people. 
But    'tis   not   at   the    Bishop    that   the   boy 

preaches, 
For  Pardoner  and  priest  part  between  them  the 

silver, 

*  The  shrine  of  St.  James  the  Great,  at  Santiago 
(i.  e.  St.  James)  de  Compostella,  a  town  in  Spain,  was 
sought  for,  by  many  pilgrims. 

5  A  town  in  Northern  Suffolk,  a  famous  resort  for 
pilgrims. 

«  Marvels.  ^  Earth.  »  Pardon. 

9  Blinded  their  eyes,  i.  e.  Cheated  them. 


And  the  poor  of  the  parish  may  have  what  is 

left. 
Parsons  and  parish-priests  plained  to  the 

Bishop, 
As  their  parishes  were  poor  since  the  pestilence 

time,  84 

To  have  licence  and  leave  at  London  to  dwelle, 
And  they  sing  thus  for  simony, — ^for  silver  is 

sweet. 
Bishops  and   bachelors  both  masters  and 

doctors. 
That  hold  cures^**  under  Christ  and  have  crown- 
ings^ in  token 
And  sign  that  they  should  their  parishioners 

shrive, 
And  preach  and  to  pray  for  them,  and  the  poor 

feede,  90 

Are  living  in  London,  in  Lent-time  and  other. 
Some  are  serving  the  King,  and  his  silver  are 

taking. 
In    Exchequer   and    Chancery,    claiming   his 

debtes 
Due  from  wards  in  the  wardmote,  ^^  bQ^h  waifs 

and  estrays, 
And  some  serve  as  servants  the  lords  and  the 

ladies,  95 1 

And  instead  of  stewards  they  sit  and  condemnV 
Their  mass  and  their  matins  and  most  of  the 

hours  ' 

Are  done  undevoutly ;  dread  is  at  the  last 
That  Christ  in  His  Council  should  curse  very 

many.  ...  99 

There  hovered  an  hundred  in  hoodes  of  silke, 

Sergeants  it  seemed  that  served  at  the  barre, 

Pleading  for  pennies  and  poundes  the  laws,     212 

And  naught  for  love  of  our  Lord  unloose  their 

lips  ones.  S3 
Better  measure  the  mist  on  Malverne's  hilles. 
Than  get  a  mum  from  these  mouthes  till  money 

be  showed.  215 

Baron  and  burgesses  and  bond-men  also, 
I  saw  there  assembled,  as  ye  shall  hear  after. 
Bakers  and  brewers,  and  butchers  a-many. 
And  weavers  of  woolens,  and  weavers  of  linen. 
Tailors  and  tanners,  and  toilers  of  earth.       220 
Masons  and  miners,  and  many  a  craft. 
Of  all  living  labourers  leaped,  some  of  each 

kind. 
As  ditchers  and  delvers  that  do  their  deeds  ill, 
And  drag  out  the  long  day  with  "Dieu  vous 

sauve,  Dame,"s4  224 

Cooks  and  their  knaves  cried  "hote  pies,  hote! 
Good  gris^^  and  geese, — go  now  to  dine, — go!" 
And  unto  them  Taverners  tolde  the  same, 
"White  wine  of  Oseye,"  and  red  wine  of  Gas- 

coigne  228 

Of  the  Rhine  and  of  Rochelle  the  roast  to  defy ! " 
And  this  I  saw  sleeping  and  seven  times  more. 


i"  Parishes. 

11  Tonsured  crowns, 

12  Each  ward  of  London  had  its  ward-mote,  or  ward 
meeting  of  its  citizens. 

13  Once. 

""God  save  you,  lady,"  apparently  the   refrain  of 
an  old  song. 
13  Pigs. 
i«  Alsace. 


62 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


^wffrrg  Cijaucer 

c.  1340-1400 

From  THE  LEGEND  OF  GOOD  WOMEN^ 

c.  1385 

The  Prologue 

A  thousande  tyines  I  have  herd  men  telle, 
That  there  is  joy  in  hevene,  and  peyne  in  helle, 
And  I  accorde  wel  that  it  is  so; 
But,  natheles,  yet  wot  I  wel  also, 
That  ther  is  noon  dwellying  in  this  countree,     5 
That  eythir  hath  in  hevene  or  in  helle  y-be, 
Ne  may  of  hit  noon  other  weyes  witen, 
But  as  he  hath  herd  seyde,  or  founde  it  writen; 
For  by  assay  ther  may  no  man  it  preve. 

But  God  forbede  but  men  shulde  leve^  10 

Wel  more  thing  than  men  han  seen  with  eye! 
Men  shal  not  wenen  everything  a  lye 
But-if  hymseKe  it  seeth,  or  elles  dooth ; 
For,  God  wot,  thing  is  never  the  lasse  sooth, 
Thogh  every  wight  ne  may  it  not  y-see.  1 5 

Bernarde,^  the  monke,  ne  saugh  nat  al,  parde! 

Than  mote  we  to  bokes  that  we  fynde, — 
Thurgh  which  that  olde  thinges  ben  in  mynde. 
And  to  the  doctrine  of  these  olde  wyse, 
Yeve  credence,  in  every  skylful  wise,  20 

That  tellen  of  these  olde  appreved  stories, 
Of  holynesse,  of  regnes,  of  vict6ries, 
Of  love,  of  hate,  of  other  sondry  thynges 
Of  whiche  I  may  not  maken  rehers;^nges. 
And  if  that  olde  bokes  were  awey,  25 

Y-lorne^  were  of  r^membraunce  the  key. 
Wel  ought  us,  thanne,  hon6uren  and  beleve 
These  bokes,  ther  we  han  noon  other  preve. 

And  as  for  me,  though  that  I  konne  but  lyte. 
On  bokes  for  to  rede  I  me  delyte,  30 

And  to  hem  yive  I  f eyth  and  ful  credence, 
And  in  myn  herte  have  hem  in  reverence 
So  hertely,  that  ther  is  game^  noon 
That  from  my  bokes  maketh  me  to  goon, 
But  it  be  seldom  on  the  holyday,  35 

Save,  certeynly,  whan  that  the  month  of  May 
Is  comen,  and  that  I  here  the  foules^  synge, 
And  that  the  floures  gynnen  for  to  sprynge, — 
Farewel  my  boke,  and  my  devocion! 

Now  have  I  thanne  suche  a  condicion,  40 

Th^t  of  alle  the  floures  in  the  mede. 
Than  love  I  most  thise  floures  white  and  rede, 
Suche  as  men  callen  daysyes  in  our  toim. 
To  hem  have  I  so  grete  affeccioun, 
As  I  seyde  erst,  whan  comen  is  the  May,       45 
That  in  my  bed  ther  daweth  me  no  day, 
That  I  nam  up  and  walkyng  in  the  mede, 
To  seen  this  floure  agein  the  sonne  sprede, 

1  This  poem  (like  its  greater  successor,  The  Canterbury 
Tales),  consists  of  a  number  of  separate  stories,  intro- 
duced by  a  Prologue.  In  the  Legend,  however,  all  the 
stories  are  of  women  who  have  been  victims  or  martyrs 
to  love.  Chaucer  apparently  intended  to  tell  the  legends 
of  nineteen  good  women,  but  the  poem  is  unfinished. 

2  Believe 

3  Bernardo/ Clairvaux  (1091-1153).  Even  St.  Bernard, 
holy  and  wise  as  he  was,  did  not  see  everything.  The 
passage  is  founded  on  a  Latin  proverb  "  Bernardus 
monachus  non  videt  omnia." 

*  Lost.  » Amusement.  » Birds. 


Whan  it  uprysith  erly  by  the  morwe; 

That  blisful  sighte  softneth  al  my  sorwe,        50 

So  glad  am  I,  whan  that  I  have  presence 

Of  it,  to  doon  it  alle  reverence. 

As  she  that  is  of  alle  floures  flour, 

Fulfilled  of  al  vertu  and  honour, 

And  evere  ilike^  faire,  and  fresshe  of  hewe. 

And  I  love  it,  and  evere  ylike  newe,  56 

And  ever  shal,  til  that  myn  herte  dye; 

Al  swere  I  nat,  of  this  I  wol  nat  lye; 

Ther  loved  no  wight  hotter  in  his  lyve. 

And  whan  that  it  is  eve,  I  renne  blyve,*     60 
As  sone  as  evere  the  sonne  gynneth  weste, 
To  seen  this  flour,  how  it  wol  go  to  reste. 
For  fere  of  nyght,  so  hateth  she  derknesse! 
Hir  chere^  is  pleynly  sprad  in  the  brightnesse 
Of  the  sonne,  for  ther  it  wol  unclose.  65 

Alias,  that  I  ne  had  Englyssh,  ryme  or  prose 
Sdflfisant  this  flour  to  preyse  aright! 
But  helpeth  ye  that  han  konnyng^''  and  myght. 
Ye  lovers,  that  kan  make^^  of  sentement; 
In  this  case  oghte  ye  be  diligent  70 

To  forthren  me  somewhat  in  my  labour, 
Whethir  ye  ben  with  the  Leef  or  with  the  Flour; 
For  wel  I  wot,  that  ye  han  her-biforne^^ 
Of  makynge  ropen,^^  and  lad  awey  the  come; 
And  I  come  after,  glenyng  here  and  there,     75 
And  am  ful  glad  if  I  may  fynde  an  ere 
Of  any  goodly  word  that  ye  han  left. 
And  thogh  it  happen  me  rehercen  eft^* 
That  ye  han  in  your  fresshe  songes  sayede, 
Forbereth  me,  and  beth  not  evele  apayede,^^ 
Syn  that  ye  see  I  do  it  in  the  hon6ur  81 

Of  love,  and  eke  in  service  of  the  flour 
Whom  that  I  serve  as  I  have  witte  or  myght. 
She  is  the  clerenesse  and  the  verray  lyght, 
That  in  this  derke  worlde  me  wynt^^  and  ledyth. 
The    herte    in-with    my   eorwful    brest    yow 

dredith,i7 
And  loveth  so  sore,  that  ye  ben  verrayly       87 
The  maistresse  of  my  witte,  and  nothing  I. 
My  worde,  my  werk,  is  knyt  so  in  youre  bond 
That  as  an  harpe  obeith  to  the  hond,  90 

That  maketh  it  soune  after  his  fyngerynge, 
Ryght  so  mowe  ye  oute  of  myn  herte  bringe 
Swich  vois,  ryght  as  yow  lyst,  to  laughe  or 

pleyne; 
Be  ye  my  gide,  and  lady  sovereyne. 
As  to  my  erthely  god,  to  yowe  I  calle,  95 

Bothe  in  this  werke,  and  in  my  sorwes  alle. 

But  wherfore  that  I  spake  to  yive  credence 
To  olde  stories,  and  doon  hem  reverence, 
And  that  men  mosten  more  thyng  beleve 
Then  they  may  seen  at  eye  or  elles  preve,     100 
That  shal  I  seyn,  whanne  that  I  see  my  tyme — 
I  may  nat  al  attones^^  speke  in  ryme. 
My  besy^^  gost,  that  thursteth  alwey  newe. 
To  seen  this  flour  so  yong,  so  fresshe  of  hewe, 
Constreyned  me  with  so  gledy^o  desire,  105 

That  in  myn  herte  I  feele  yet  the  fire, 
That  made  me  to  ryse  er  it  wer  day, 
And  this  was  now  the  firste  morwe  of  May, 

^  Alike.  8  Quickly.  » Face. 

10  Skill.  "  Write  or  compose.  "  Before  this. 

13  Reaped  poetry,  i.  e.  cut  the  crop  of  poetry.  \ 

1*  Again.       is  i\\  pleased.   i»  Turns.  i^  Reveres. 

1*  At  once,    i'  Anxious.       20  Glowing. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


63 


With  dredfupi  hert,  and  glad  devocion 

For  to  ben  at  the  resurreccion  110 

Cf  this  flour,  whan  that  it  shulde  unclose 

Agayne  the  sonne,  that  roos  as  rede  as  rose, 

That  in  the  brest  was  of  the  beste,22  that  day, 

That  Agenores  doghtre^^  ladde  away. 

And  doun  on  knes  anon-ryght  I  me  sette,     115 

And  as  I  koude,  this  fresshe  flour  I  grette, 

Knelyng  alwey,  til  it  unclosed  was, 

Upon  the  smale,  softe,  swote^^  gras, 

That  was  with  floures  swote  enbrouded^^  al,    119 

Of  swich  swetnesse,  and  swich  od6ur  over-al, 

That  for  to  speke  of  gomme,2«  or  herbe,  or  tree, 

Comparisoun  may  noon  y-maked  be; 

For  it  surmounteth  pleynly  alle  odoures. 

And  of  riche  beaute  alle  floures. 

Forgeten  had  the  erthe  his  pore  estate  125 

Of  wyntir,  that  him  naked  made  and  mate,^^ 

And  with  his  swerd  of  colde  so  sore  greved; 

Now  hath  the  atempresonne^  al  that  releved 

That  naked  was,  and  clad  it  new  agayne. 

The  smale  foules,  of  the  sesoun  fayne,^^        130 

That  of  the  panter^'^  and  the  nette  ben  scaped. 

Upon  the  foweler,  that  hem  made  a-whaped*^ 

In  wynter,  and  distroyed  hadde  hire  broode. 

In  his  dispite  hem  thoghte  it  did  hem  goode 

To  synge  of  hym,  and  in  hir  songe  dispise    135 

The  foule  cherle,  that,  for  his  coveytise, 

Had  hem  betrayed  with  his  sophistrye. 

This  was  hir  songe, "The  foweler  we  deffye, 
\nd  al  his  crafte,"   And  somme  songen  clere 
Layes  of  love,  that  joye  it  was' to  here,         140 
In  worshipynge  and  in  preysing  of  hir  make;*" 
And,  for  the  newe  blisful  somers  sake. 
Upon  the  braunches  ful  of  blosmes  softe, 
In  hire  delyt,  they  turned  hem  ful  ofte, 
And  songen,  "Blessed  be  Seynt  Valentyne!   145 
For  on  his  day  I  chees  you  to  be  myne, 
Withouten  repentyng  myne  herte  swete!" 
And  therewithal  hire  bekes  gonnen  meete.  .  .  . 

And  tho^^  that  hadde  don  unkyndenesse, — 
As  doth  the  tydif,^'^  for  newfangelnesse, — 
Besoghte  mercy  of  hir  trespassynge,  155 

And  humblely  songen  hir  r^pentynge, 
And  sworen  on  the  blosmes  to  be  trewe, 
So  that  hire  makes  wolde  upon  hem  rewe,*^ 
And  at  the  laste  maden  hir  acorde. 
Al  f ounde  they  Daunger^^  for  a  tyme  a  lord,    1 60 
Yet  Pitee,  thurgh  his  stronge  gentil  myght, 
Foryaf,  and  made  Mercy  passen  Ryght, 
Thurgh  Innocence,  and  ruled  Curtesye. 
But  I  ne  clepe  it  innocence  folye, 
Ne  fals  pitee,  for  vertue  is  the  mene;"  165 

As  Ethike  seith,  in  swich  maner  I  mene. 
And  thus  thise  foweles,  voide  of  al  malice, 
Acordeden  to  love,  and  laften  vice 
Of  hate,  and  songen  alle  of  oon  acorde,         169 
*  Welcome,  Somer,  oure  governour  and  lorde.' 

And  Zepherus  and  Flora  gentilly 
Yaf  to  the  floures,  softe  and  tenderly. 

21  Reverent.  22  Beast  i.  e.  Taurus. 

23  Europa.  24  Sweet. 

25  Embroidered.  26  Gum.  27  Weak. 

28  Mild  temperature.  2»  Glad.  so  Snare. 

»i  Frightened.  32  Mate.  33  Those. 

»*  Titmouse.  36  Take  pity  on  them. 

«6  Love's  dominion.  «7  Average. 


His  swoote^'^  breth,  and  made  hem  for  to  sprede. 

As  god  and  goddesse  of  the  floury  mede.       174 

In  whiche  me  thoght  I  myghte,  day  by  day, 

Dwellen  alwey,  the  joly  month  of  May, 

Withouten  slepe,  withouten  mete  or  drynke. 

Adoun  ful  softely  I  gan  to  synke. 

And  lenynge  on  myn  elbowe  and  my  syde, 

The  longe  day,  I  shoop^^  me  for  to  abide,     180 

For  nothing  ellis,  and  I  shal  nat  lye. 

But  for  to  loke  upon  the  dayesie. 

That  men  by  resoun  wel  it  calle  may 

The  dayesie,  or  elles  the  ye  of  day. 

The  emperice,  and  floure  of  floures  alle.        185 

I  pray  to  God  that  faire  mote  she  falle,^ 

And  alle  that  loven  floures,  for  hire  sake! 

But,  natheles,  ne  wene  nat  that  I  make*'^ 

In  preysing  of  the  Flour  agayn  the  Leef,       189 

No  more  than  of  the  corne  agayn  the  sheef ; 

For  as  to  me  nys  lever  noon,  ne  lother, 

I  nam  witholden  yit  with  never  nother. 

Ne  I  not*"  who  serveth  Leef,  ne  who  the  Flour. 

Wel  browken*'  they  hir  service  or  labour! 

For  this  thing  is  al  of  another  tonne,**  195 

Of  olde  storye,  er  swiche  thinge  was  begonne. 

Whan  that  the  sonne  out  of  the  southe  gan 
weste, 
And  that  this  flour  gan  close,  and  goon  to  reste, 
For  derknesse  of  the  nyght,  the  which  she 
dredde,  199 

Home  to  myn  house  full  swiftly  I  me  spedde 
To  goon  to  reste,  and  erly  for  to  ryse, 
To  seen  this  flour  to-sprede,  as  I  devyse. 
And  in  a  litel  herber*^  that  I  have, 
That  benched  was  on  turves  fressh  y-grave, 
I  bad  men  sholde  me  my  couche  make;        205 
For  deyntee**  of  the  newe  someres  sake, 
I  had  hem  strawen  floures  on  my  bed. 

Whan  I  was  leyde,  and  hadde  myn  eyen  hed,*^ 
I  fel  on  slepe,  in-with  an  houre  or  two. 
Me  mette*8  how  I  lay  in  the  medewe  tho,     210 
To  seen  this  flour  that  I  love  so  and  drede;*' 
And  from  a-fer  come  walkyng  in  the  mede 
The  god  of  Love,  and  in  his  hand  a  quene, 
And  she  was  clad  in  reaP°  habite  grene; 
A  fret^i  of  gold  she  hadde  next  her  heer.       215 
And  upon  that  a  white  crowne  she  beer, 
With  flourouns^2  gmale,  and  I  shal  nat  lye, 
For  al  the  worlde  ryght  as  a  dayesye 
Y-c6rouned  is  with  white  leves  lyte,  219 

So  were  the  flourouns  of  hire  c6roune  white; 
For  of  0^3  perle,  fyne,  6rient^l, 
Hire  white  c6roune  was  i-maked  al, 
For^which  the  white  coroune  above  the  grene 
Mdde  hire  lyke  a  daysie  for  to  sene. 
Considered  eke  hir  fret  of  golde  above.         225 

Y-clothed  was  this  mighty  god  of  Love 
In  silke  enbrouded,  ful  of  grene  greves,^* 
In-with  a  fret  of  rede  rose  leves. 
The  fresshest  syn  the  worlde  was  first  bygonne. 

M  Sweet.  39  Planned.  «  Good  may  befall. 

*i  Make  poetry.  ^2  Ne  wot,  not  know. 

*3  May  they  enjoy.  **  Cask. 

«  Arbor,  or  resting  place,  a  plot  covered  with  grass 
or  herbage. 

4*  For  the  sake  of  enjoying.  *l  Hidden. 

48  Dreamt.       *^  Revere.       ^o  Royal.        *i  Ornament. 
''2  Small  flowers.  ^3  One.  ^^  Groves. 


64 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


His  gilte  here  was  corowned  with  a  sonne  230 
In  stede  of  golde,  for  hevynesse  and  wyghte; 
Therwith  me  thoght  his  face  shon  so  brighte 
That  wel  unnethes^^  myght  I  him  beholde; 
And  in  his  hande  me  thoght  I  saugh  him  holde 
Two  firy  dartes  as  the  gledes^  rede,  235 

And  aungelyke  his  wynges  saugh  I  sprede. 
And,  al  be  that  men  seyn  that  blynd  is  he, 
Algate^^  me  thoghte  that  he  myghte  se; 
For  sternely  on  me  he  gan  byholde, 
So  that  his  loking  doth  myn  herte  colde.      240 
And  by  the  hande  he  helde  this  noble  quene, 
Crowned  with  white,  and  clothed  al  in  grene. 
So  womanly,  so  benigne,  and  so  meke, 
That  in  this  world,  thogh  that  men  wolde  seke, 
Hdlf  hire  beute  shulde  men  nat  fynde  245 

In  creature  that  formed  is  by  Kynde.^* 
And  therfore  may  I  seyn,  as  thynketh  me, 
This  song  in  preysyng  of  this  lady  fre. 
Hyde  Absalon,  thy  gilte  tresses  clere; 
Ester,  ley  thou  thy  mekenesse  al  adoun;       250 
Hyde,  Jonathas,  al  thy  frendly  manere; 
Penalopee,  and  Marcia  Catoun, 
Make  of  youre  wifhode  no  comparysoun; 
Hyde  ye  youre  beautes,  Ysoude  and  Eleyne; 
My  lady  comith,  that  al  this  may  disteyne.^^ 

Thy  faire  body  lat  it  nat  appere,  256 

Lavyne;  and  thou  Lucresse  of  Rome  toun 
And  Polixene,  that  boghten  love  so  dere, 
And  Cloepatre,  with  all  thy  passyoun,  259 

Hyde  ye  your  trouthe  of  love,  and  your  renoun. 
And  thou,  Tesbe,  that  hast  of  love  suche  peyne; 
My  lady  comith,  that  al  this  may  disteyne. 

Hero,  Dido,  Laud6mia,  alle  yfere,^° 

And  Phillis,  hangying  for  thy  Demophon, 

And  Canace,  espied  by  thy  chere,  265 

Ysiphilie,  betraysed  with  Jason, 

Maketh  of  your  trouthe  neythir  boost  ne  soun, 

Nor  Ypermystre,  or  Adriane,  ye  tweyne; 

My  lady  cometh,  that  al  thys  may  dysteyne. 

This  balade  may  ful  wel  y-songen  be,        270 
As  I  have  seyde  erst,  by  my  lady  free; 
For  certeynly  al  thise  mowe  nat  suffice 
To  apperen  wyth  my  lady  in  no  wyse. 
For  as  the  sonne  wole  the  fire  disteyne, 
So  passeth  al  my  lady  sovereyne,  275 

That  is  so  good,  so  faire,  so  debonajT-e, 
I  prey  to  God  that  ever  falle  hire  faire. 
For  nadde^^  comfort  ben  of  hire  presence, 
I  hadde  ben  dede,  withouten  any  defence. 
For  drede  of  Loves  wordes,  and  his  chere,    280 
As,  when  t3mae  is,  herafter  ye  shal  here. 

THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 

(Begun  1386-1387) 

The  Prologue 

Whan  that  AprlUe  with  hise  shoures  soote^ 
The  droghte  of  March  hath  perced  to  the  roote, 
A.nd  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  licour^ 

55  Scarcely.  ^  Gleeds,  brands.         "  All  the  same. 

68  Nature.  69  stain,  dim.  « Together. 

«i  i.  e.  had  no. 
1  Sweet.  »  Moisture. 


Of  which  vertii  engendred  is  the  flour; 
Whan  Zephirus^  eek  with  his  swete  breeth       5 
Inspired  hath  in  every  holt*  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes^  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram^  his  halfe  cours  y-ronno. 
And  smale  foweles  maken  melodye. 
That  slepen  al  the  nyght  with  open  eye  10 

(So  priketh  hem  Nature  in  hir  cordges,)' 
Thanne  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages. 
And  palmeres  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes, 
To  feme  halwes,^  kowthe^  in  sondry  londes; 
And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende  15 

Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 
The  hooly  blissful  i°  martir  for  to  seke, 
That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were 
seeke.^^ 

Bifil  that  in  that  seson  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard^^  ^  i  j^y^  20 

Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrymage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage,^' 
At  nyght  were  come  into  that  hostelrye 
Wel  nyne-and-twenty  in  a  compaignye, 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure^*  y-falle  25 

In  felaweshipe,  and  pilgrimes  were  they  alle, 
That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde. 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde, 
And  wel  we  weren  esed^^  atte  beste. 
And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste,     30 
So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everychon, 
That  I  was  of  hir  felaweshipe  anon. 
And  made  forward  ^^  erly  for  to  ryse. 
To  take  oure  wey,  ther  as  I  yow  devyse. 

But  natheless,  whil  I  have  tyme  and  space, 
Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace,  36 

Me  thynketh  it  accordaunt  to  res6un 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 
Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me. 
And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degree. 
And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  inne; 
And  at  a  Knyght  than  wol  I  first  begynne.    42 

A  KNYGHT  ther  was  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 
To  riden  out,  he  loved  chivalrie,  45 

Trouthe  and  hon6ur,  fredom  and  curteisie. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre, 
And  thereto  hadde  he  riden,  no  man  ferre. 
As  wel  in  cristendom  as  in  hethenesse. 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthynesse.         50 
At  Alisaundre^^  he  was  whan  it  was  wonne; 
Ful  ofte  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bigonne^* 
Aboven  alle  nacions  in  Pruce.^- 

3  7>he  west  wind,  noted  for  its  mild  and  life-giving 
influence.    Cf.  Eng.  Zephyr. 

*  Wood.  6  Sprouts. 

6  Aries,  the  first  of  the  signs  of  the  zodiac.  The  young 
sun  (i.  e.  the  sun  just  beginning  its  annual  course),  passed 
through  the  Ram  from  March  12th  to  April  11th.  Hence, 
during  April,  half  the  sun's  course  was  "in  the  Ram." 
To  say  that  this  half  course  was  completed,  is  equivalent 
to  saying  that  the  time  was  after  April  11th. 

'  Hearts.  ^  Distant  Saints.  »  Known. 

•"  Thomas  a  Becket.  n  Sick. 

12  A  famous  Inn  in  Southwark,  across  the  Thames  from 
London. 

>'  Heart.        i*  By  chance.        i^  Entertained. 

16  Agreement.  "  Alexandria  in  Egypt.        \ 

i»  i.  e.  "he  had  been  placed  at  the  head  of  the  dais,  or 


table  (bord)  of  state." 


»  Prussia. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


65 


In  Lettow  hadde  he  reysed^  and  in  Ruce, — ^ 

No  cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degree.  55 

In  Gernade^  at  the  seege  eek  hadde  he  be 

Of  Algezir,^  and  riden  in  Belmarye.? 

At  Lyeys^  was  he,  and  at  Satalye/ 

Whan  they  were  wonne;  and  in  the  Grete  See 

At  many  a  noble  ary^e^  hadde  he  be.  60 

At  mortal  battailles  hadde  he  been  fiftene, 
And  foughten  for  oure  feithe  at  Tramyssene^ 
In  lystes  thries,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 
This  ilke  worthy  knyght  hadde  been  also 
Somtyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye^"  65 

Again  another  hethen  in  Turkye; 
And  evermoore  he  hadde  a  sovereyn  prys. 
And  though  that  he  were  worthy,  he  was  wys. 
And  of  his  port  as  meeke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  never  yet  no  vileynye^^  ne  sayde,  70 

In  al  his  lyfe,  unto  no  maner  wight. 
He  was  a  verray  parfit,  gentil  knyght. 

But  for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array, 
His  hors  weren  goode,  but  he  ne  was  nat  gay; 
Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gyp6n^2  75 

Al  bismotered^^  with  his  habergeon^* 
For  he  was  late  y-come  from  his  vidge, 
And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrymage. 

With  hym  ther  was  his  sone,  a  yong  SquiAr, 
A  lovyere  and  a  lusty  bacheler,^^  80 

With  lokkes  crulle^"  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse. 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  even  lengthe,^'^ 
And  wonderly  delyvere^^  and  greet  of  strengths ; 
And  he  hadde  been  somtyme  in  chyvachie,^*  85 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artoys  and  Pycardie, 
And  born  hym  weel,  as  of  so  litel  space, 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady  grace. 
Embrouded2^>  was  he,  as  it  were  a  meede 
Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures  whyte  and  reede;         90 
Syngynge  he  was,  or  floytynge,^!  al  the  day; 
He  was  as  fressh  as  is  the  monthe  of  May. 
Short  was  his  gowne,  with  sieves  longe  and 

wyde; 
Wei  koude  he  sitte  on  hors  and  faire  ryde; 
He  koude  songes  make  and  wel  endite,  95 

Juste  and  eek  daunce  and  weel  pui'treye^^  and 

write. 
So  hoote  he  lovede  that  by  nyghtertale^' 
He  sleep  namoore  than  dooth  a  nyghtyngale. 
Curteis  he  was,  lowely  and  servysdble, 
And  carf  biforn  his  fader  at  the  table.  100 

A  Yeman  hadde  he  and  servdntz  namo^* 
At  that  tyme,  for  hym  liste  ride  soo; 
And  he  was  clad  in  cote  and  hood  of  grene. 
A  sheef  of  pocock^^  arwes,  bright  and  kene, 

1  Travelled.  2  Russia.  3  Grenada. 

*The  Knight  had  been  in  Grenada  at  the  siege  of 
Algezir  (or  AlgeQira,H). 

^  A  Moorish  Kingdom  in  Africa. 

«  A  town  in  Armenia.        ^  A  town  in  Asiatic  Turkey. 

**  Sea-expedition. 

3  A  Moorish  Kingdom  in  Africa. 

1"  Anatohsi,  in  Asia  Minor.  Nearly  all  the  places  here, 
mentioned  had  been  held  by  the  heathen,  Moors,  Turks, 
and  Lithuanians.  The  Knight  has  been  the  champion 
uf  niiristian  Europe  in  distant  parts  of  the  world. 

' '  Rude  or  abusive  language.  12  Doublet. 

'^  Soiled,  stained.  1*  Hauberk,  coat  of  mail. 

'^  Candidate  for  Knighthood.  i«  Curled. 

1'  Average  size.  i*  Quick.  ''  Campaigns. 

20  Embroidered.  21  Fluting.         22  Draw  or  paint. 

"  Night-time.  21  No  more.       25  Peacock. 


Under  his  belt  he  bar  ful  thriftily  —  105 

Wel  koude  he  dresse  his  takel  yemanly ; 
His  arwes  drouped  noght  with  f etheres  lowe — 
And  in  his  hand  he  baar  a  myghty  bowe. 
A  not-heed28  hadde  he,  with  a  broun  visdge. 
Of  woodecraft  wel  koude^^  he  al  the  usdge.    110 
Upon  his  arm  he  baar  a  gay  brac^r,^^ 
And  by  his  syde  a  swerd  and  a  bokeler. 
And  on  that  oother  syde  a  gay  dagg6re, 
Harneised  wel  and  sharpe  as  point  of  spere; 
A  Cristophere^'  on  his  brest  of  silver  sheene; 
An  horn  he  bar,  the  bawdryk^"  was  of  grene.  1 16 
A  forster  was  he,  soothly  as  I  gesse. 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hir  smylyng  was  ful  symple  and  coy; 
Hire  grettest  00th  was  but  by  seinte  Loy,^^    120 
And  she  was  cleped^^  madame  Eglentyne. 
Ful  weel  she  soong  the  service  djrvyne, 
Entuned  in  hir  nose  ful  semely. 
And  Frenssh  she  spake  ful  faire  and  fetisly^^ 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford-atte-Bowe,^*        125 
For  Frenssh  of  Parys  was  to  hire  unknowe. 
At  mete  wel  y-taught  was  she  with-alle, 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hir  fyngres  in  hir  sauce  depe. 
Wel  koude  she  carie  a  morsel  and  wel  kepe,    130 
Thdt  no  drope  ne  fille^^  upon  hire  breste; 
In  curteisie  was  set  ful  muchel  hir  leste.^^ 
Hire  over-lippe  wyped  she  so  clene, 
That  in  hir  coppe  ther  was  no  ferthyng  sene 
Of  grece,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hir  draughte. 
Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  she  raughte."         136 
And  sikerly^*  she  was  of  greet  desport, 
And  ful  plesdunt  and  amyable  of  port, 
And  peyned  hire  to  countrefete  cheere 
Of  Court,^^  and  been  estatlich'"^  of  manure,     140 
And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence. 
But  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience,^^ 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pit6us 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saugh  a  mous 
Kaught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  hadde  she  that  she  fedde    146 
With  rosted  flessh,  or  milk  and  wastel  breed  ;*2 
But  soore  wepte  she  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed. 
Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte;*' 
And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte.        150 

Ful  semyly  hir  wympul*'*  pynched  was; 
Hire  nose  tretys,*^  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas, 
Hir  mouth  ful  smal  and  there-to  softe  and  reed, 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed; 
It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood  I  trowe,  155 

For,  hardily,^  she  was  not  undergrowe. 

»  Cropped  head.  27  Knew.  28  Arm  guard. 

29  A  brooch  with  a  figure  of  St.  Christopher. 

30  Shoulder  belt. 

31  St.  Eloy,  or  Eligius,  patron  saint  of  goldsmiths  and 

32  Called,  named.  33  Skilfully,  readily. 

3*  After  the  style  (scole)  of  those  in  or  about  Stratford- 
at-Bow;  i.  e.  the  Prioresse  spoke  the  provincial,  or  Anglo- 
Norman,  and  not  the  Parisian  French.  The  priory  over 
which  she  presided  is  supposed  to  have  been  near  Strat- 
ford-at-Bow,  then  a  village  only  a  few  miles  from  London. 

36  Fell.         30  Pleasure.  37  Reached.         38  Surely. 

39  Cheere  of  Court,  imitate  courtly  behaviour. 

40  Stately,  dignified.  4i  Sympathy. 

42  Fine  white  bread. 

43  Smote  it  sharply  with  a  stick  (yerde) . 

*4  Neck  cloth.  45  Shapely.  46  Surely 


66 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


Ful  fetys^  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war; 
Of  smal  cordl  aboute  hire  arm  she  bar 
A  peire  of  bedes,^  gauded  al  with  grene, 
And  ther-on  heng  a  brooch  of  gold  ful  sheens, 
On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A,'    161 
And  after  Amor  vincet  omnia. 

Another  Nonne  with  hire  hadde  she 
That  was  hir  Chapeleyne,  and  Preestes  thre. 

A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fair  for  the  maistrie,* 
An  outridere,  that  lovede  venerie;^  166 

A  manly  man,  to  been  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deyntee  hors  hadde  he  in  stable. 
And  whan  he  rood  men  myghte  his  brydel  heere 
Gynglen  in  a  whiatlynge  wynd  als  cleere,        170 
And  eeke  as  loude  as  dooth  the  chapel  belle. 
Ther  as  this  lord  was  keepere  of  the  celle. 
The  reule  of  seint  Maure*  or  of  seint  Beneit, 
By-cause  that  it  was  olde  and  som-del  streit,^ 
This  ilke  Monk  leet  olde  thynges  pace,*         175 
And  heeld  after  the  newe  world  a  space. 
He  yaf  nat  of  that  text^  a  pulled  hen^" 
That  seith  that  hunters  beth  nat  hooly  men, 
Ne  that  a  Monk  whan  he  is  reechelees^^ 
Is  likned  til  a  fissh  that  is  waterlees:  180 

This  is  to  seyn,  a  Monk  out  of  his  cloystre. 
But  thiUce^2  text  heeld  he  nat  worth  an  oystre; 
And  I  seyde  his  opinloun  was  good. 
What  sholde  he  studie  and  make  hymselven 

wood,^^ 
Upon  a  book  in  cloystre  alwey  to  poure,         185 
Or  swynken^*  with  his  handes  and  lab6ure, 
As  Austyn^s  bit?^^     How  shal  the  world  be 

served? 
Lat  Austyn  have  his  swynk^^  to  him  reserved. 
Therfore  he  was  a  prikasour^^  aright; 
Grehoundes  he  hadde;  as  swift  as  fowel  in  flight: 
Of  prikyng  and  of  hunting  for  the  hare  191 

Was  al  his  lust,  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 
I  seigh  his  sieves  y-purfiled^^  at  the  hond 
With  grys,2o  and  that  the  fyneste  of  a  lond; 
And  for  to  festne  his  hood  under  his  chyn       195 
He  hadde  of  gold  y-wrought  a  curious  pyn, 
A  love  knotte  in  the  gretter  ende  ther  was. 
His  heed  was  balled  that  shoon  as  any  glas. 
And  eek  his  face  as  he  hadde  been  enoynt. 
He  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  poynt;        200 
Hise  eyen  stepe^i  and  roUynge  in  his  heed, 
That  stcmed  as  a  forneys  of  a  leed;^^ 
His  bootes  souple,  his  hors  in  greet  estaat. 

1  Neat. 

2  A  string  of  beads.  Here  the  beads  were  coral,  gauded 
with  green,  i.  e.,  the  larger  beads  or  gawdies,  were  of  green. 

'  "A,"  probably  stood  for  Amor,  or  Charity,  crowned 
as  the  greatest  of  Christian  virtues. 

*  i.  e.  as  we  should  say,  one  well  fitted  to  succeed. 

6  Hunting. 

6  St.  Maur,  or  Maurus,  a  follower  and  successor  of 
St.  Benedict  who  was  founder  of  the  Benedictine  Order. 
His  rules  of  monastic  discipline  (nule.  of  Seint  Beneit), 
came  to  be  widely  followed  throughout  Europe. 

'  Somewhat  strict.  s  Pass. 

9  Not  necessarily  a  text  from  the  Bible.  Supposed 
here  to  refer  to  the  belief  or  legend  that  Nimrod,  the 
mighty  hunter,  was  a  bad  man. 

JO  Plucked  hen.  n  Cloisterless. 

'     12  That  same.  i3  Mad.  i*  Work.  toil. 

"  St.  Augustine,  Bishop  of  Hippo,  and  author  of  the 
Confessions. 

"Bid.  17  Work.  is  Hard  rider. 

"Trimmed.  20  Grey  fur.  2>  Protruding. 

"  Glowed  like  a  fire  under  a  cauldron. 


Now  certeinly  he  was  a  fair  prelaat. 
He  was  nat  pale,  as  a  forpyned^^  goost: 
A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  roost; 
His  palfrey  was  as  broun  as  is  a  berye. 


205 


A  Frere  ther  was,  a  wantowne  and  a  merye, 
A  lymytour,24  a  ful  solempne^^  man; 
In  alle  the  ordres  foure^^  is  noon  that  kan    210 
So  muchel  of  daliaunce  and  fair  langage; 
He  hadde  maad  ful  many  a  mariage 
Of  yonge  wommen  at  his  owene  cost: 
Unto  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 
Ful  wel  biloved  and  famuli^r  was  he  215 

With  frankeleyns27  over  al  in  his  contree; 
And  eek  with  worthy  wommen  of  the  toun, 
For  he  hadde  power  of  confessioun, 
As  seyde  hym-self ,  moore  than  a  curdt, 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licenciat.'^^  220 

Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessioun, 
And  pleasaunt  was  his  absolucioun. 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  yeve  pendunce 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  have  a  good  pitaunce; 
For  unto  a  poure  ordre  for  to  yive  225 

Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  y-shryve; 
For,  if  he  yaf,  he  dorste  make  avaunt^^ 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  r6pentaunt: 
For  many  a  man  so  harde  is  of  his  herte       229 
He  may  nat  wepe  al  thogh  hym  soore  smerte, 
Therefore  in  stede  of  wepynge  and  prey^res 
Men  moote  yeve  silver  to  the  poure  freres. 
His  typet^°  was  ay  farsed  fulP^  of  knyves 
And  pynnes  for  to  yeven  yonge  wyves; 
And  certeinly  he  hadde  a  murey  note;  235 

Wel  koude  he  synge  and  pleyen  on  a  rote:'^ 
Of  yeddynges^*  he  baar  outrely  the  pris; 
His  nekke  whit  was  as  the  flour-de-lys, 
Ther-to^^  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 
He  knew  the  tavernes  well  in  al  the  toun     240 
And  everich  hostiler  and  tappestere*^ 
Bet  than  a  lazar^°  or  a  beggestere;^'' 
For  unto  swich  a  worthy  man  as  he 
Acorded  nat,  as  by  his  facultee. 
To  have  with  sike  lazars  dqueyntdunce;        245 
It  is  nat  honeste,  it  may  nat  avaunce 
For  to  deelen  with  no  swiche  poraille;^^ 
But  al  with  riche  and  selleres  of  vitaille. 
And  over  al,  ther  as  profit  sholde  arise, 
Curteis  he  was  and  lowely  of  servyse,  250 

Ther  nas  no  man  nowher  so  vertuous! 
He  was  the  beste  beggere  in  his  hous, 
For  thogh  a  wydwe  hadde  noght  a  sho,'' 
So  plesaunt  was  his  In  -principio,^ 

2'  Tormented. 

24  A  friar  allowed  to  beg  within  a  certain  district,  or 
limit. 

25  Solemn. 

26  The  Dominican,  Franciscan,  Carmelite,  and  Augus- 
tin,  or  Austin  Friars. 

27  A  franklin  was  a  free  landed  proprietor  who  held 
directly  from  the  crown. 

.     f  He  had  been  licensed  by  the  Pope  to  perform  certain 
religious  offices.  29  Boast. 

*•>  Tippet,  hood  or  cowl,  which  seems  to  have  been  used 
as  a  pocket. 

31  Stuffed.  32  Small  harp.        33  Songs. 

3«  Wholly  or  entirely.  35  Barmaid.  36  Leper. 

37  Beggar.  38  Poor  people.      39  Shoe.       \ 

*°The  opening  words  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  John,  7n^ 
prinripio  erat  cerbum,  were  used  as  a  salutation  by  the  '(! 
friars  as  they  entered  a  house  on  their  rounds  of  niercy. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


67 


Yet  wolde  he  have  a  ferthyng  er  he  wente:  255 
His  purchase^  was  wel  bettre  than  his  rente. 
And  rage'^  he  koude,  as  it  were  right  a  whelpe. 
In  love-dayes'  ther  koude  he  muchel  helpe. 
For  ther  he  was  not  lyk  a  cloysterer 
With  a  thredbare  cope,  as  is  a  poure  scol^r,  260 
But  he  was  lyk  a  maister,  or  a  pope; 
Of  double  worstede  was  his  semycope/ 
That  rounded  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 
Somwhat  he  lipsed  for.  his  wantownesse, 
To  make  his  Englissh  sweet  upon  his  tonge, 
And  in   his   harpyng,   whan   that  he  hadde 
songe,  266 

His  eyen  twynkled  in  his  heed  aryght 
As  doon  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  nyght. 
This  worthy  lymytour  was  cleped  Huberd. 

A  Marchant  was  ther  with  a  forked  berd, 
In  motteleye,  and  hye  on  horse  he  sat;         271 
Upon  his  heed  a  Flaunderyssh  bevere  hat; 
His  bootes  clasped  faire  and  fetisly; 
His  resons  he  spake  ful  solempnely, 
Sowynge  alway  thencrees  of  his  wynn^g.     275 
He  wolde  the  see  were  kept  for  any  things 
Bitwixe  Middelburgh^  and  OrewelleJ 
Wel  koude  he  in  eschaunge  sheeldes^  sella. 
This  worthy  man  ful  wel  his  wit  bisette, 
Ther  wiste  no  wight  that  he  was  in  dette,       280 
So  estatly  was  he  of  his  governaunce 
With    his    bargaynes    and    with    his    chevys- 

saunce,^ 
For  sothe  he  was  a  worthy  man  with-alle, 
But  sooth  to  seyn  I  noot^°  how  men  hym  calle. 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also  285 

That  unto  logyk  hadde  long  y-go. 
As  leene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake. 
And  he  nas  nat  right  fat,  I  undertake, 
But  looked  hoi  we,  and  ther-to  sobrely; 
Ful  thredbare  was  his  overeste  courtepy;^^  290 
For  he  hadde  geten  hym  yet  no  benefice, 
Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  office; 
For  hym  was  levere  have  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  bookes  clad  in  blak  or  reed 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophie,  295 

Than  robes  riche,  or  fithele,^^  qj.  g^y  gautrie:^^ 
But  al  be^^  that  he  was  a  philos6phre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre; 
But  al  that  he  myghte  of  his  freendes  hente^^ 
On  bookes  and  his  lernynge  he  it  spente,         300 
And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 
Of  hem  that  yaf  hym  wher-with  to  scoleye.^* 
Of  studie  took  he  moost   cure^^   and  moost 

heed, 
Noght  o^^  word  spak  he  moore  than  was  neede, 

1  His  purchase  (or  gain  from  begging)  was  larger  than 
hia  rente  (or  income). 

2  Romp,  play. 

'  Days  set  apart  for  the  settlement  of  disputes  by  arbi- 
tration or  amicable  agreement. 

*  Short  cloak.  s  At  any  cost. 

«  A  port  on  the  island  of  Walcheren  in  the  Netherlands. 

^Orwell  (now  Harwich),  a  port  on  the  English  coast 
nearly  opposite  Middleburgh. 

8  A  French  coin,  so  called  because  they  had  a  shield 
stamped  on  one  side. 

»  Loans.  lo  Know  not.  ^^  Short  over-coat. 

1'^  Fiddle.  "  Harp.  » Although. 

15  Get.  i«  To  study.  i' Care.        is  One. 


And  that  was  seyd  in  forme  and  reverence,     305 
And  short  and  quyk  and  ful  of  hy  sentence.  ^^ 
Sownynge  ^o  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche. 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne  and  gladly  teche. 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe,  war  and  wys,2i 
That  often  hadde  been  at  the  Parvys,^^         310 
Ther  was  also,  ful  riche  of  excellence. 
Discreet  he  was,  and  of  greet  reverence; 
He  semed  swich,  hise  wordes  weren  so  wise. 
Justice  he  was  full  often  in  Assise, ^^ 
By  patente  and  by  pleyn  commissioun.         315 
For  his  science  and  for  his  heigh  renoun, 
Of  fees  and  robes  hadde  he  many  oon; 
So  greet  a  purchasour^'*  was  nowher  noon. 
Al  was  fee  symple  to  hym  in  effect, 
His  purchasying  myghte  nat  been  infect.       320 
Nowher  so  bisy  a  man  as  he  ther  nas, 
And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was. 
In  termes  hadde  he  caas  and  doomes^^  alle 
That  from  the  tyme  of  kyng  William  were  falle; 
Ther-to  he  coude  endite  and  make  a  thyng.  325 
Ther  koude  no  wight  pynchen^^  at  his  writ;9'i^g; 
And  every  statut  coude  he  pleyn  by  rote.^^ 
He  rood  but  hoomly  in  a  medlee  cote, 
Girt  with  a  ceint  of  silk  with  barres^  smale; 
Of  his  array  telle  I  no  lenger  tale.  330 

A  Frankeleyn^^  was  in  his  compaignye. 
Whit  was  his  berd  as  is  a  dayseye. 
Of  his  complexioun  he  was  sangw^. 
Wel  loved  he  by  the  morwe^°  a  sope  in  wyn; 
To  lyven  in  delit  was  evere  his  wone,'^  335 

For  he  was  Epicurus  owene  sone. 
That  heeld  opinioun  that  pleyn'^  delit 
Was  verraily  felicitee  parfit. 
An  householdere,  and  that  a  greet,  was  he: 
Seint  Julian^^  was  he  in  his  contree;  340 

His  breed,  his  ale,  was  alweys  after  oon; 
A  better  envyned^^  man  was  nowher  noon. 
Withoute  bake  mete  was  never  his  hous. 
Of  fissh  and  flessh,  and  that  so  plenteuous 
It  snewed  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drynke.      345 
Of  alle  deyntees  that  men  koude  thynke 

19  Meaning.  ^o  Tending  to. 

21  Wary  and  prudent. 

22  Here,  the  porch,  or  portico  in  front  of  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  London,  where  the  lawyers  were  accus- 
tomed to  meet  for  consultation. 

23  A  Session  (or  sitting)  of  the  Circuit  Court.  About 
forty  years  before  Chaucer  wrote  his  Prologue,  in  order 
to  provide  for  the  administration  of  justice  in  renaote 
places,  a  law  was  passed,  providing  that  an  assize  might 
be  held,  by  a  Judge  of  King's  Bench,  or  of  the  Common 
Pleas,  or  by  a  King's  Sergeant  sworn.  Chaucer's  sergeant 
held  this  high  office  "by  patent  and  by  plejm  (or  full) 
Commission." 

2*  A  money-maker,  or  perhaps  a  buyer  of  land.  The 
Sergeant  is  so  skilled  in  the  law  of  real  estate,  that  he 
is  able,  by  a  legal  process,  to  effect  the  conveyance  of 
land  held  under  restrictions  which  would  ordinarily 
interfere  with  its  sale  or  transfer.  Hence,  all  land  was 
in  fee  simple  to  him  i.  e.  as  though  free  from  such  re- 
strictions. 

25  Cases  and  judgments.  26  Find  fault. 

27  Knew  he  fully  by  heart. 

28  Ornaments  on  a  girdle. 

29  A  free  landed  proprietor  who  held  directly  from  the 
Crown. 

30  Morning.  "  Custom.  '2  Full. 
3»  St.  Julian  Hospitator,  patron  saint  of  hospitahty. 
34  Stored  with  wine. 


68 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yeer, 

So  chaunged  he  his  mete  and  his  sop6r, 

Ful  many  a  fat  partrich  hadde  he  in  muwe  ^ 

And  many  a  breem  and  many  a  luce  in  stuwe.^ 

Wo  was  his  cook  but  if  his  sauce  were  351 

Poynaunt  and  sharpe,  and  redy  al  his  geere. 

His  table  dormant'  in  his  halle  alway 

Stood  redy  covered  al  the  longe  day. 

At  sessiouns  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire;  355 

Ful  ofte  tyme  he  was  knyght  of  the  shire.* 

An  anlaas,^  and  a  gipser^  al  of  silk, 

Heeng  at  his  girdel,  whit  as  morne  milk; 

A  shirreve''  hadde  he  been,  and  a  countour.^ 

Was  nowher  such  a  worthy  vavasour.^  360 

An  Haberdasshere,  and  a  Carpenter, 

A  Webbe,*°  a  Dyere,  and  a  Tapycer," 

And  they  were  clothed  alle  in  o^^  lyveree 

Of  a  solempne  and  greet  fraternitee;  ^^ 

Ful  fressh  and  newe  hir  geere  apiked  was;^*    365 

Hir  knyves  were  chaped  noght  with  bras, 

But  al  with  silver,  wroght  ful  clene  and  weel, 

Hire  girdles  and  hir  pouches  everydeel.^^ 

Wei  semed  ech  of  hem  a  fair  burgeys 

To  sitten  in  a  yeldehalle,^^  on  a  deys."  370 

Everich^^  for  the  wisdom  that  he  kan^^ 

Was  shaply  for  to  been^o  an  alderman. 

For  catel  hadde  they  ynogh  and  rente,^! 

And  eek  hir  wyves  wolde  it  wel  assente; 

And  elles  certeyn  were  they  to  blame.  375 

It  is  ful  fair  to  been  y-cleped^^  Madame, 

And  goon  to  vigilies  al  bifore,^' 

And  have  a  mantel  roialliche  y-bore.^* 

A  Cook  they  hadde  with  hem  for  the  nones, 
To  boille  the  chiknes  with  the  marybones,^^ 
And  poudr^-marchant  tart  and  galyngale;^' 
Wel  koude  he  knowe  a  draughte  of  Londoun  ale; 
He  koude  rooste  and  sethe  and  boille  and  frye, 
Mdken  mortreux^^  and  wel  bake  a  pye. 
But  greet  harm  was  it,  as  it  thoughte  me,      385 
That  on  his  shyne  a  mormaP^  hadde  he. 
For  blankmanger,  that  made  he  with  the  beste. 

A  Shipman  was  ther,  wonyng^s  fer  by  weste; 
For  aught  I  woot  he  was  of  Dertemouthe. 
He  rood  upon  a  rouncy'"  as  he  kouthe,  390 

In  a  gowne  of  faldyng  to  the  knee. 
A  daggere  hangyng  on  a  laas'^  hadde  he 
Aboute  his  nekke  under  his  arm  adoun. 
The  hoote  somer  hadde  maad  his  hewe  al  broun ; 
And  certeinly  he  was  a  good  feldwe.  395 

Ful  many  a  draughte  of  wine  hadde  he  y-drawe 
Fro  Burdeuxward  whil  that  the  Chapman' 2 

sleepe. 
Of  nyce  conscience  took  he  no  keepe.'' 

1  Coop.  2  Fish  pond.  »  Fixed. 

*  Representative  of  his  shire,  or  county  in  Parliament. 
» Dagger.  « Pouch.  7  Sheriff. 

*  Auditor.                »  Land-holder.  i"  Weaver. 
"  Dealer  in  carpets  and  tapistry.  12  One. 
"A  guild.                  "Trimmed.  "Wholly. 
"  Guildhall.               "  Dais.  is  Each. 

"  He  knew.  20  Fit  to  be.  21  Income. 

22  Be  called.  23  Jn  front  of  all. 

21  Royally  carried — by  a  servant. 

2*  Marrow-bones.  28  \  tart  and  a  sweet  spice. 

2'  Mix  in  a  mortar.      28  An  open  sore.        29  Dwelling. 

»0Anag.      "Cord.      "Merchant.  "     Heed. 


If  that  he  faught,  and  hadde  the  hyer  hond. 
By  water34  he  sent  hem  hoom  to  every  lond. 
But  of  his  craft  to  rekene  wel  his  tydes,  401 

His  stremes  and  his  daungers  hym  bisides, 
His  herberwe  and  his  moone,  his  lode-menage,'^ 
Ther  nas  noon  swich  from  Hulle  to  Cartage. 
Hardy  he  was,  and  wys  to  undertake :  405 

With  many  a  tempest  hadde  his  berd  ben  shake; 
He  knew  wel  alle  the  havenes,  as  they  were, 
From  Gootland'^  to  the  Cape  of  Fynystere, 
And  every  cryke  in  Britaigne  and  in  Spayne. 
His  barge  y-cleped  was  the  Maudelayne.       410 

With  us  ther  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisik; 

In  all  this  world  ne  was  ther  noon  hym  lik 

To  speke  of  phisik  and  of  surgerye; 

For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomye. 

He  kepte"  his  pacient  a  ful  greet  deel  415 

In  houres,^  by  his  magyk  natureel. 

Wel  koude  he  fortunen  the  ascendent'^ 

Of  his  ymdges  for  his  pacient. 

He  knew  the  cause  of  everich  maladye, 

Were  it  of  hoot,  or  cold,  or  moyste,  or  drye,  420 

And  where  they  engendred  and  of  what  hum6ur; 

He  was  a  verray  parfit  praktisour. 

The  cause  y-knowe  and  of  his  harm  the  roote, 

Anon  he  yaf  the  sike  man  his  boote.*° 

Ful  redy  hadde  he  kis  apothecaries  425 

To  send  him  drogges  and  his  letuaries,^^ 

For  ech  of  hem  made  oother  for  to  wynne, 

Hir  friendshipe  nas  nat  newe  to  bigynne. 

Wel  knew  he  the  olde  Esculapius*^ 

And  Deyscorides,  and  eke  Rufus,  430 

Olde  Ypocras,  Haly  and  Galyen, 

Serapion,  Razis  and  Avycen, 

Averrois,  Damascien  and  Constantyn, 

Bernard  and  Gatesden  and  Gilbertyn. 

Of  his  di^te  mesurable  was  he.  435 

For  it  was  of  no  superfluitee, 

But  of  greet  norissyng  and  digestible. 

His  studie  was  but  litel  on  the  Bible. 

In  sangwyn  and  in  pers^'  he  clad  was  al, 

Lyned  with  tafifata  and  with  sendal.*^  440 

And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence,*^ 

He  kepte  that  he  wan  in  pestilence.'*^ 

For  gold  in  phisik  is  a  cordial, 

Therfore  he  lovede  gold  in  special. 

A  Good  Wif  was  ther  of  biside  Bathe,  445 

But  she  was  som-del  deef,  and  that  was  scathe." 
Of  clooth-makyng  she  hadde  swich  an  haunt** 
She  passed  hem  of  Ypres  and  of  Gaunt. 
In  al  the  parisshe  wif  ne  was  ther  noon 

**  i.  e.  he  pitched  them  over-board. 

36  Pilotage.  36  Jutland. 

3^  Watched.  38  Astrological  hours. 

39  He  knew  well  how  to  make  a  fortunate  horoscope 
(fortunen  the  ascendent)  of  his  patient  by  making  images 
or  characters  stamped  in  metals,  or  wax,  at  a  time  when 
the  stars  were  favorable. 

*o  Remedy.  *i  Syrup  and  powders. 

<2  Aesculapius  was  the  reputed  founder  of  the  art  of 
medicine,  the  following  names  are  those  of  famous  physi- 
cians and  medical  writers  of  the  Middle  Ages.  > 

43  Red  and  blue.  "Silk.    \^ 

*^  Moderate  in  spending.  ,« 

*«  The  plague  known  as  the  "Black  Death,"  which "^ 
devastated  England  in  Chaucer's  century. 

«  A  pity.  48  sitiii^ 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


69 


That  to  the  offrynge^  bifore  hire  sholde  goon; 

And  if  ther  dide,  certeyn  so  wrooth  was  she,  451 

That  she  was  out  of  alio  charitee. 

Hir  coverchiefs^  ful  fyne  weren  of  ground, 

I  dorste  swere  they  weyeden  ten  pound. 

That  on  a  Sonday  weren  upon  hir  heed.        455 

Hir  hosen  weren  of  fyn  scarlet  reed, 

Ful  streite  y-teyd,  and  shoes  ful  moyste  and 

newe; 
Boold  was  hir  face,  and  fair,  and  reed  of  he  we. 
She  was  a  worthy  woraman  al  hir  lyve,  459 

Housbondes  at  chirche  dore^  she  hadde  fyve, 
Withouten  oother  compaignye  in  you  the, — • 
But  ther-of  nedeth  nat  to  speke  as  nowthe,* 
And  thries  hadde  she  been  at  Jerusalem; 
She  hadde  passed  many  a  straunge  strem; 
At  Rome  she  hadde  been,  and  at  Boloigne,    465 
In  Galice  at  Seint  Jame,  and  at  Coloigne, 
She  koude  muchel  of  wandrynge  by  the  weye. 
Gat-tothed^  was  she,  soothly  for  to  seye. 
Upon  an  amblere  esily  she  sat, 
Y-wympled^  wel,  and  on  hir  heed  an  hat       470 
As  brood  as  is  a  bokeler  or  targe; 
A  foot  mantel  aboute  her  hipes  large, 
And  on  hire  feet  a  paire  of  spores  sharpe. 
In  felaweship  wel  koude  she  laughe  and  carpe;^ 
Of  remedies  of  love  she  knew  per  chaunce,     475 
For  she  koude  of  that  art  the  olde  daunce.' 

A  goodman  was  ther  of  religioun, 
And  was  a  Poure  Persoun  of  a  Toun; 
But  riche  he  was  of  hooly  thoght  and  werk; 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk,  480 

That  Cristes  Gospel  trewely  wolde  preche 
His  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Bcnygne  he  was  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversitee  ful  pacient; 
And  swich  he  was  y-preved^  ofte  sithes^"       485 
Ful  looth  were  hym  to  cursen  for  his  tithes, 
But  rather  wolde  he  yeven  out  of  doubte, 
Unto  his  poure  parisshens  aboute. 
Of  his  offryng  and  eek  of  his  substaunce: 
He  koude  in  litel  thyng  have  suffisaunce.        490 
Wyd  was  his  parisshe  and  houses  fer  asonder, 
But  he  ne  lafte  nat  for  reyn  ne  thonder, 
In  siknesse  nor  in  meschief  to  visite 
The  f  erreste  in  his  parisshe,  muche  and  lite, 
Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf .  495 

This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheepe  he  yaf 
That    firste    he    wroghte    and    afterward    he 

taughte. 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  ^^  wordes  caughte. 
And  this  figure  he  added  eek  therto, 
That  if  gold  ruste  what  shal  iren  doo?  500 

For  if  a  preest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste, 
No  wonder  is  a  lewed'^  man  to  ruste; 
And  shame  it  is,  if  a  prest  take  keepe, 

'  When  the  congregation  came  forward  to  the  altar 
ffith(>r  to  kiss  the  reUcs  on  what  was  known  as  Relic 
Sunday,  or  to  give  alma),  the  Wife  of  Bath  claimed  a 
foremost  place  in  the  line  of  worshippers. 

2  Head-dresses. 

3  The  couples  were  married  in  the  Church  porch,  after 
which  the  priest  celebrated  mass  at  the  altar. 

*  Now.  _  5  Teeth  set  wide  apart. 

*  Having  a  wimple,  or  head-covering. 

^  Chatter.  «  The  old  game.  '  Proved. 

"  Times.  "  Those.  "  Unlearned. 


A  shiten  shepherde  and  a  clene  sheepe. 

Wel  oghte  a  preest  ensample  for  to  yive  505 

By  his  clennesse  how  that  his  sheepe  sholde  lyve. 

He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre 

And  leet  his  sheepe  encombred  in  the  myre, 

And  ran  to  Londoun,  unto  Seint  Poules, 

To  seken  hyn  a  chaunterie^^  for  soules;  510 

Or  with  a  bretherhed  to  been  withholde,i^ 

But  dwelte  at  hoom  and  kepte  wel  his  folde, 

So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  myscarie, — 

He  was  a  shepherde,  and  noght  a  mercenarie 

And  though  he  hooly  were  and  vertuous,        515 

He  was  to  synful  man  nat  despitous,^^ 

Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous  ne  digne, 

But  in  his  techyng  descreet  and  benygne, 

To  drawen  folk  to  hevene  by  fairnesse, 

By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  bisynesse;      520 

But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat. 

What  so  he  were,  of  heigh  or  lough  estat, 

Hym   wolde    he    snybben^^    sharply    for    the 

nonys. 
A  bettre  preest  I  trowe  that  nowher  noon  ys; 
He  waited  after  no  pompe  and  reverence,       525 
Ne  marked  him  a  spiced ^^  conscience. 
But  Cristes  loore,  and  his  Apostles  twelve, 
He  taughte,  but  first  he  folwed  it  hymselve. 

With  hym  ther  was  a  Plowman,  was  his 


brother, 


529 


That  hadde  y-lad  of  dong  ful  many  a  f other,  ^^ 
A  trewe  swynkere^^  and  a  good  was  he, 
Lyvynge  in  pees  and  parfit  charitee. 
God  loved  he  best,  with  all  his  hoole  herte. 
At  alle  tymes,  thogh  him  gamed  or  smerte,^"  534 
And  thanne  his  neighebore  right  as  hymselve. 
He  wolde  thresshe,  and  therto  dyke  and  delve, 
For  Cristes  sake,  for  every  poure  wight, 
Withouten  hire  if  it  lay  in  his  myght. 
His  tithes  payde  he  ful  faire  and  wel,  539 

Bothe  of  his  propre  swynk  and  his  catel.^^ 
In  a  tabdrd22  he  rood  upon  a  mere. 

Ther  was  also  a  Reve^^  and  a  Miller. 
A  SoMNOUR^^  and  a  Pardgner^^  also, 
A     Maunciple2«     and     myself, — ther     were 
namo.  544 

The  Millere  was  a  stout  carl  for  the  nones, 
Ful  byg  was  he  of  brawn  and  eek  of  bones; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over-al  ther,  he  cam, 
At  wrastlynge  he  wolde  have  awey  the  ram.^^ 
He    was     short-sholdred,     brood,     a     thikke 

knarre,^^ 

"  Either  an  endowment  for  the  payment  of  a  priest 
to  sing  or  say  mass  for  the  dead;  or  else  the  church  or 
chapel  in  which  such  masses  were  celebrated.  After 
the  plague,  many  parish  priests  deserted  their  parishes 
and  went  to  London  to  make  money  by  officiating  in 
the  chaunteries. 

1*  Supported.  i^  Scornful.  i«  Reprove. 

"  Here  supposed  to  mean  "scrupulous,"  "over- 
fastidious"  or  over-particular  about  non-essentials. 

18  Cart-load.  i'  Laborer. 

20  In  joy  or  pain.  ^^  Labor  and  property. 

22  Short  coat. 

23  A  steward,  or  bailiff  (as  sheriff  or  shire-reve).  Here 
the  Reve  of  a  manor. 

24  An  officer  who  summoned  delinquents  before  the 
ecclesiastical  courts. 

25  One  empowered  to  sell  indulgences,  or  pardons. 

26  A  caterer  for  a  college  or  for  one  of  the  Inns  of  Court. 

27  The  Usual  prize  at  wrestling  matches. 
2s  Knot. 


70 


CHAUCER  TO  WY  ITT  AND  SURREY 


Ther  nas  no  dore  that  he  nolde  heve  of  harre,^ 

Or  breke  it  at  a  rennyng  with  his  heed. 

His  herd,  as  any  sowe  or  fox,  was  reed,  552 

And  therto  brood,  as  though  it  were  a  spade. 

Upon  the  cope^  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 

A  werte,  and  thereon  stood  a  toft  of  herys,     555 

Reed  as  the  brustles  of  a  sowes  erys; 

His  nosethirles  blake  were  and  wyde; 

A  swerd  and  a  bokeler  bar  he  by  his  syde; 

His  mouth  as  wyde  was  as  a  greet  f  orneys, 

He  was  a  janglere  and  a  goliardeys,^  560 

And  that  was  moost  of  synne  and  harlotries. 

Wei  koude  he  stelen  corn  and  tollen  thries,* 

And  yet  he  hadde  a  thombe  of  golde,^  pardee, 

A  whit  cote  and  a  blew  hood  wered  he.  564 

A  baggepipe  wel  koude  he  blowe  and  sowne, 

And  therwithal  he  broghte  us  out  of  towne. 

A  gentil  Maunciple  was  ther  of  a  temple, 
Of  which  achatours^  myghte  take  exemple 
For  to  be  wise  in  byynge  of  vitaille;  569 

For,  wheither  that  he  payde  or  took  by  taille,^ 
Algate^  he  wayted^  so  in  his  achaat^° 
That  he  was  ay  biforn^^  and  in  good  staat. 
Now  is  nat  that  of  God  a  f ul  fair  grace 
That  swich  a  lewed^^  mannes  wit  shal  pace 
The  wisdom  of  an  heepe  of  lerned  men?  575 

Of  maistres  hadde  hie  mo  than  thries  ten. 
That  weren  of  la  we  expert  and  curious, 
Of  wiche  ther  weren  a  duszeyne  in  that  hous 
Worthy  to  been  stywardes  of  rente  and  lond 
Of  any  lord  that  is  in  Engelond,  580 

To  maken  hym  lyve  by  his  propre  good^^ 
In  honour  dettelees,^^  but  he  were  wood,^^ 
Or  lyve  as  scarsly  as  hym  list  desire; 
And  able  for  to  helpen  al  a  shire 
In  any  caas  that  myghte  f  alle  or  happe ;  585 

And  yet  this  Manciple  sette  hir  aller  cappe.^^ 

The  Reve  was  a  sclendre  colerik  man 
His  berd  was  shave  as  ny  as  ever  he  kan; 
His  heer  was  by  his  erys  round  y-shorn, 
His  top  was  doked  lyk  a  preest  biforn,  590 

Fill  longe  were  his  legges  and  ful  lene, 
Y-lyk  a  staf ,  ther  was  no  calf  y-sene. 
Wel  koude  he  kepe  a  gerner  and  a  bynne, 
Ther  was  noon  auditour  koude  on  him  wynne. 
Wel  wiste  he,  by  the  droghte  and  by  the  reyn. 
The  yeldynge  of  his  seed  and  of  his  greyn.       596 
His  lordes  sheepe,  his  neet,^^  his  dayerye, 
His  swyn,  his  hors,  his  stoor,^^  and  his  pultrye, 
Was  hoolly  in  this  reves  governyng. 
And  by  his  covenant  yaf  the  rekenyng  600 

1  Heave  oft  lUi  liinges.  2  Tip. 

3  Loud  and  ribald  jester. 

*  Millers  were  allowed  as  toll  a  certain  proportion 
of  the  grain  in  payment  for  the  grinding.  This  miller 
tolled  thrice,  i.  e.  took  three  times  the  legal  quantity  of 
grain. 

*An  allusion  to  the  proverb  "An  honest  miller  has 
a  thumb  of  gold,"  The  line  may  be  ironical, — he  stole 
corn,  he  tolled  thrice,  and  yet  was  honest  enough  for  a 
miller.  The  proverb  itself  is  ambiguous,  and  the  passage 
obscure. 

6  Buyers.  ^  Tally,  i.  e.  charged  the  goods. 

8  Always.  » Watched.  10  Buying. 

Ji  Before.  i*  Ignorant. 

"  On  his  own  means.  1*  Withoiit  debts. 

"Mad.  '6  Outwitted  them  all. 

"  Cattl3.  »8  Farm  stock. 


Syn  that  his  lord  was  twenty  yeer  of  age; 
Ther  koude  no  man  brynge  hym  in  arrerage. 
There    nas    baillif,    ne    hierde,^^    nor    oother 

hyne,2o 
That  he  ne  knew  his  sleighte  and  his  covyne;^! 
They  were  adrad  of  hym  as  of  the  deeth.         605 
His  wonyng22  was  ful  faire  upon  an  heeth. 
With  grene  trees  y-shadwed  was  his  place. 
He  koude  bettre  than  his  lord  purchase. 
Ful  riche  he  was  a-stored^^  pryvely. 
His  lord  wel  koude  he  plesen  subtilly  610 

To  yeve  and  lene^*  hym  of  his  owene  good 
And   have  a  thank,   and  yet  a  gowne   and 

hood. 
In  youthe  he  lerned  hadde  a  good  myster,^^ 
He  was  a  wel  good  wrighte,  a  carpenter. 
This  Reve  sat  upon  a  ful  good  stot,^^  615 

That  was  al  pomely^^  grey,  and  highte  Scot; 
A  long  surcote  of  pers^s  upon  he  hade, 
And  by  his  syde  he  baar  a  rusty  blade. 
Of  Northfolk  was  this  Reve  of  which  I  telle, 
Biside  a  toun  men  clepen  Baldeswelle.  620 

Tukked  he  was  as  is  a  frere,  aboute 
And  ever  he  rood  the  hyndreste^^  of  oure  route. 

A  SoMONOUR  was  ther  with  us  in  that  place, 
That  hadde  a  fyr-reed  eherubynnes  face,        624 
For  sawcefleem^"  he  was,  with  eyen  narwe. 
As  hoot  he  was,  and  lecherous,  as  a  sparwe, 
With  scaled^^  browes  blake  and  piled^^  berd, — 
Of  his  visage  children  were  aferd.  .  .  . 
Ther  nas  quyk-silver,  lytarge,^'  ne  brymstoon, 
Boras,^*  ceruce,  ne  oille  of  Tartre  noon,  630 

Ne  oynement  that  wolde  dense  and  byte. 
That  hym  myghte  helpen  of  the  whelkes^^ 

white 
Nor  of  the  knobbes  sittynge  on  his  chekes. 
Wel  loved  he  garleek,  oynons,  and  eke  lekes,634 
And  for  to  drynken  strong  wyn,  reed  as  blood; 
Thanne  wolde  he  speke,  and  crie  as  he  were 

wood.  38 
And  whan  that  he  wel  dronken  hadde  the 

wyn. 
Than  wolde  he  speke  no  word  but  Latyn. 
A  fewe  termes"  hadde  he,  two  or  thre. 
That  he  had  lerned  out  of  som  decree, —         640 
No  wonder  is,  he  herde  it  al  the  day, 
And  eek  ye  knowen  wel  how  that  a  jay 
Kan  clepen  Watte^s  as  wel  as  kan  the  pope. 
But  whoso  koude  in  oother  thyng  hym  grope,^^ 
Thanne  hadde  he  spent  all  his  philosophie;     645 
Ay  Questio  quid  juris  wolde  he  crie. 
He  was  a  gentil  harlot*"  and  a  kynde; 
A  bettre  felawe  sholde  men  noght  fynde.  .  .  . 
A  gerland*!  hadde  he  set  upon  his  heed,  666 


>'  Herdsman. 

21  Trickery  and  deceit. 

"  Stocked.  24  Give  and  lend. 

26  Cob.  27  Dappled. 

2»  Hindermost.  ^o  Pimpled. 

82  Patchv.  33  White  lead. 

35  Blotches. 


20  Hind,  servant. 

22  Dwelling. 

26  Craft. 

28  Blue. 

31  Scabby. 

34  Borax. 

36  Crazy. 


37  Legal  phrases.  38  q^ltl  call  Wat,  or  Walter. 

3»  Test,  examine.  «  Fellow,  knave. 

**  On   the   ale    stake,   a   pole   projecting   horizontally 
from  the  front  of  the  tavern,  hung  an  ivy-bush ;  the  usual 
sigu  of  an  inn.     A  Garland,  made  of  three  hoops  and\; 
decorated  with  ribbons  was  often  hung  from  the  ale  '( 
stake,  in  addition  to  the  bush. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


71 


As  greet  as  it  were  for  an  ale  stake; 

A  bokeleer  hadde  he  maad  him  of  a  cake.^ 

With  hym  ther  rood  a  gentil  Pardoner 
Of  Kouncivale,2  his  freend  and  his  compeer,  670 
That   streight   was   comen   fro   the   court   of 

Rome. 
Fill  loud  3  he  soong  Com  hider,  love  to  me! 
This  Sornonour  bar  to  hym  a  stif  burdoun,' 
Was  never  trompe  of  half  so  greet  a  soun. 
This  Pardoner  hadde  heer  as  yelow  as  wex      675 
But  smothe  it  heeng  as  dooth  a  strike  of  flex;* 
By  ounces  henge  his  lokkes  that  he  hadde, 
And  therwith  he  his  shuldres  overspradde. 
But  thynne  it  lay  by  colpons^  oon  and  oon; 
But  hood,  for  jolitee,  ne  wered  he  noon,  680 

For  it  was  trussed  up  in  his  walet. 
Hym  though te  he  rood  al  of  the  newe  jet;^ 
Dischevelee,  save  his  cappe,  he  rood  al  bare. 
Swiche  glarynge  eyen  hadde  he  as  an  hare, 
A  vernycle^  hadde  he  sowed  upon  his  cappe;  68ft 
His  walet  lay  biforn  hym  in  his  lappe 
Bret-fuP   of   pardon,    comen   from   Rome   al 

hoot. 
A  voys  he  hadde  as  smal  as  hath  a  goot;  .  .  . 
But  of  his  craft,  fro  Berwyk  unto  Ware  692 

Ne  was  ther  swich  another  pardoner. 
For  in  his  male^  he  hadde  a  pilwe-beer,^" 
Which  that,  he  seyde,  was  oure  lady  veyl;      695 
He  seyde  he  hadde  a  gobet^^  of  the  seyl 
That  Seinte  Peter  hadde,  whan  that  he  wente 
Upon  the  see,  til  Jhesu  Crist  hym  hente.^^ 
He  hadde  a  croys  of  latoun,i*  ful  of  stones. 
And  in  a  glas  he  hadde  pigges  bones.  700 

But  with  thise  relikes,  whan  that  he  fond 
A  poure  person  dwellynge  upon  lond. 
Upon  a  day  he  gat  hym  moore  moneye 
Than  that  the  person  gat  in  monthes  tweye; 
And  thus  with  feyned  flaterye  and  japes^*     705 
He  made  the  person  and  the  peple  his  apes. 
But,  trewely  to  tellen  atte  laste, 
He  was  in  chirche  a  noble  ecclesiaste; 
Wei  koude  he  rede  a  lessoun  or  a  storie. 
But  alderbest  he  song  an  Off ertorie ;  710 

For  wel  he  wiste  whan  that  song  was  songe, 
He  moste  preche,  and  wel  affile  his  tonge 
To  Wynne  silver,  as  he  ful  wel  koude ; 
Therefore  he  song  the  murierly^^  and  loude. 

Now  have  I  toold  you  shortly,  in  a  clause,  715 
The  staat,  tharray,  the  nombre,  and  eek  the 

cause 
Why  that  assembled  was  this  compaignye 
In  South werk,  at  this  gentil  hostelrye. 
That  highte  the  Tabard,  faste  by  the  Belle. ^« 
But  now  is  tyme  to  yow  for  to  telle  720 

How  that  we  baren  us  that  ilke  nyght, 

1  A  loaf  of  bread. 

2  Probably  the  hospital  of  the  Blessed  Mary  of  Roun- 
cyvalle,  on  the  outskirts  of  Chaucer's  London. 

3  Strong  bass.  *  Hank  of  flax. 
5  Shreds.  *  Fashion. 

'  A  small  copy  of  the  picture  of  the  face  of  Christ, 
the  original  of  which,  on  a  cloth  or  handkerchief,  was 
preserved  for  centuries  at  St.  Peter's  in  Rome. 

8  Brimful.  « Wallet.  ">  Pillow-case. 

"  Shred.  12  Caught. 

13  Pinchbeck,  a  cheap  imitation  of  gold. 

1*  Tricks.  i*  The  more  merrily. 

"  Presumably  the  name  of  an  Inn. 


Whan  we  were  in  that  hostelrie  alyght; 

And  after  wol  I  telle  of  our  viage 

And  al  the  remenaunt  of  oure  pilgrimage. 

But  first,  I  pray  yow  of  youre  curteisye,  725 
That  ye  narette  it  nat  my  vileynye,^^ 
Thogh  that  I  pleynly  speke  in  this  mateere 
To  telle  yow  hir  wordes  and  hir  cheere,^^ 
Ne  thogh  I  speke  hir  wordes  proprely;^^ 
For  this  ye  knowen  al-so  wel  as  I,  730 

Whoso  shal  telle  a  tale  after  a  man, 
He  moote  reherce,  as  ny  as  ever  he  kan, 
Everich  a  word,  if  it  be  in  his  charge, 
Al  speke  he  never  so  rudeliche^"  or  large; 
Or  ellis  he  moot  telle  his  tale  untrewe,  735 

Or  feyne  thyng,  or  fynde  wordes  newe. 
He  may  nat  spare,  althogh  he  were  his  brother; 
He  moot  as  wel  seye  o  word  as  another. 
Crist  spak  hymself  ful  brode  in  hooly  writ, 
And  wel  ye  woot  no  vileynye  is  it.  740 

Eek  Plato  seith,  whoso  that  kan  hym  rede, 
'The  wordes  moote  be  cosyn  to  the  dede.' 

Also  I  prey  yow  to  f oryeve  it  me 
Al  have  I  nat  set  folk  in  hir  degree  744 

Heere  in  this  tale,  as  that  they  sholde  stonde; 
My  wit  is  short,  ye  may  wel  understonde. 

Greet  chiere  made  oure  boost  us  everichon, 
And  to  the  soper  sette  he  us  anon, 
And  served  us  with  vitaille  at  the  beste: 
Strong  was  the  wyn  and  wel  to  drynke  us 
leste.2i  750 

A  semely  man  Our  Hooste  was  with-alle 
For  to  han  been  a  marchal  in  an  halle. 
A  large  man  he  was,  with  eyen  stepe, 
A  fairer  burgeys  is  ther  noon  in  Chepe;^^         754 
Boold  of  his  speche,  and  wys  and  well  y-taught, 
And  of  manhod  hym  lakkede  right  naught. 
Eek  therto  he  was  right  a  myrie  man, 
And  after  soper  pleyen  he  bigan, 
And  spak  of  myrthe  amonges  othere  thynges, 
Whan  that  we  hadde  maad  our  rekenynges;  760 
And  seyde  thus:  "  Now,  lordynges,  trewely, 
Ye  been  to  me  right  welcome,  hertely; 
For  by  my  trouthe,  if  that  I  shal  nat  lye, 
I  ne  saugh  this  yeer  so  myrie  a  compaignye 
At  ones  in  this  herberwe^'  as  is  now;  765 

Fayn  wolde  I  doon  yow  myrthe,  wiste  I  how. 
And  of  a  myrthe  I  am  right  now  bythoght, 
To  doon  yow  ese,  and  it  shal  coste  noght. 

"  Ye  goon  to  Canterbury — God  yow  speede. 
The  blisful  martir  quite  yow  youre  meede!^*  y70 
And,  wel  I  woot,  as  ye  goon  by  the  weye, 
Ye  shapen  yow  to  talents  and  to  pleye; 
For  trewely  confort  ne  myrthe  is  noon 
To  ride  by  the  weye  doumb  as  a  stoon; 
And  therfore  wol  I  maken  yow  disport,  77b 

As  I  seyde  erste,  and  doon  yow  som  confort. 
And  if  you  liketh  alle,  by  oon  assent. 
Now  for  to  stonden  at  my  juggement. 
And  for  to  werken  as  I  shal  yow  seye, 
To-morwe,  whan  ye  riden  by  the  weve,  780 

Now,  by  my  fader  soule,  that  is  deed, 
But  ye  be  myrie,  smyteth  of  myn  heed! 

"  Impute  it  not  to  my  coarseness.  i*  Behavior. 

19  Literally,  exactly.  20  Freely. 

21  Pleased.  "  Cheapside  in  London. 

23  Inn.  24  Pay.  25  Prepare  to  tell  stories. 


72 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


Hoold  up  yours  hond,  withouten  moore  speche." 

Oure  conseil  was  nat  longe  for  to  seche ;       784 

Us  thoghte  it  was  noght  worth  to  make  it 

wys/ 
And  graunted  hym  withouten  moore  avys,' 
And  bad  him  seye  his  verdit,  as  hym  leste. 
"  Lordynges,"  quod  he,  "  now  herkneth  for 
the  beste; 
But  taak  it  nought,  I  prey  yow,  in  desdeyn ;   789 
This  is  the  poynt,  to  speken  short  and  pleyn, 
That  ech  of  yow,  to  shorte  with  your  weye, 
In  this  vidge  shal  telle  tales  tweye, — 
To  Caunterbmyward,  I  mean  it  so, 
And  homward  he  shal  tellen  othere  two, — 
Of  aventures  that  whilom  han  bifalle.  795 

And  which  of  yow  that  bereth  hym  beste  of  alle, 
That  is  to  seyn,  that  telleth  in  this  caas 
Tales  of  best  sentence  and  most  solaas,' 
Shal  have  a  soper  at  oure  aller  cost, 
Heere  in  this  place,  sittynge  by  this  post,       800 
Whan  that  we  come  agayn  fro  Caunterbury. 
And,  for  to  make  yow  the  moore  mury, 
I  wol  myselven  gladly  with  yow  ryde 
Right  at  myn  owene  cost,  and  be  youre  gyde; 
And  whoso  wole  my  juggement  withseye        805 
Shal  paye  al  that  we  spenden  by  the  weye. 
And  if  ye  vouche-sauf  that  it  be  so 
Tel  me  anon,  withouten  wordes  mo, 
And  1  wol  erly  shape  me  therefore." 
This  thyng  was  graunted,  and  oure  othes 
swore  810 

With  ful  glad  herte,  and  preyden  hym  also 
That  he  would  vouche-sauf  for  to  do  so, 
And  that  he  wolde  been  oure  governour, 
And  of  our  tales  juge  and  r^portour, 
And  sette  a  soper  at  a  certeyn  pris,  815 

And  we  wol  reuled  been  at  his  devys 
In  heigh  and  lough;  and  thus,  by  oon  assent. 
We  been  acorded  to  his  juggement. 
And  therupon  the  wyn  was  fet  anon; 
We  dronken,  and  to  reste  wente  echon,  820 

W^ithouten  any  lenger  taryynge. 
Amorwe,  whan  that  day  gan  for  to  sprynge, 
Up  roos  oure  Hoost  and  was  oure  aller  cok,* 
And  gadrede  us  togidre  alle  in  a  flok,  824 

And  forth  we  riden,  a  little  moore  than  paas,^ 
Unto  the  w-arteryng  of  Seint  Thomas;^ 
And  there  oure  Hoost  bigan  his  hors  areste 
And  seyde,  "  Lordynges,  herkneth,  if  yow  leste: 
Ve  woot  youre  forward^  and  I  it  yow  recorde. 
If  even-song  and  morwe-song  accorde,  830 

Lat  se  now  who  shal  telle  the  firste  tale. 
As  ever  mote  I  drynke  wyn  or  ale, 
\Vhoso  be  rebel  to  my  juggement 
Shal  paye  for  all  that  by  the  wey  is  spent !       834 
Now  draweth  cut,^  er  that  we  ferrer  twynne.' 
He  which  that  hath  the  shorteste  shal  bigynne. 

1  "To  make  it  a  matter  of  wiadom  or  deliberation." 
«  Advice.  *  Wisdom. 

*  Cock  for  us  all.  *  A  foot-pace. 

•  St.  Thomas  a- Watering;  a  brook  where  horses  were 
■watered,  which  crossed  the  road  taken  by  the  pilgrims 
to  St.  Thomas'  shrine,  i.  e.  to  Canterbury. 

'  Know  your  promise. 

9i.  e.  draw  lots;  pieces  of  straw,  paper,  etc.  of  un- 
equal lengths,  and  used  for  the  drawing  of  lots,  were 
called  cuts. 

*>  Depart. 


"  Sire  Knyght,"  quod  he,  "  my  mayster  and  my 

lord. 
Now  draweth  cut,  for  that  is  myn  accord. 
Cometh  neer,"  quod  he,  "  my  lady  Prioresse,  839 
And  ye  sire  Clerk,  lat  be  your  shamefastnesse, 
Ne  studieth  noght;  ley  hond  to,  every  man." 

Anon  to  drawen  every  wight  bigan. 

And,  shortly  for  to  tellen  as  it  w&s, 

Were  it  by  ^venture,  or  sort,  or  cas,^*' 

The  sothe  is  this,  the  cut  fil  to  the  knyght,      845 

Of  which  ful  blithe  and  glad  was  every  wyght: 

And  telle  he  moste  his  tale,  as  was  resoun," 

By  foreward^^  ^^d  by  composicioun, 

As  he  han  herd ;  what  nedeth  wordes  mo?        849 

And  whan  this  goode  man  saugh  that  it  was  so, 

As  he  that  wys  was  and  obedient 

To  kepe  his  f oreward  by  his  free  assent, 

He  seyde,  "  Syn  I  shal  bigynne  the  game, 

What,  welcome  be  the  cut,  a  Goddes  name !    854 

Now  lat  us  ryde,  and  herkneth  what  I  seye." 

And  with  that  word  we  ryden  forth  oure  weye; 

And  he  bigan  with  right  a  myrie  cheere 

His  tale  anon,  and  seyde  in  this  manere. 

The  Pardoner's  Tale 

.  .  .  Thise  riotoures  thre,  of  whiche  I  telle, 
Longe  erst  er  prime ^^  rong  of  any  belle. 
Were  set  hem  in  a  taverne  for  to  drynke; 
And  as  they  sat  they  herde  a  belle  clynke 
Biforn  a  cors,  was  carried  to  his  grave.  665 

That  oon  of  hem  gan  callen  to  his  knave  :^* 
**  Go  bet,"  quod  he,  "  and  axe  redily^^ 
What  cors  is  this  that  passeth  heer  forby, 
And  looke  that  thou  reporte  his  name  weel." 

"Sire,"  quod  this  boy,  "it  nedeth  never  a  deel, 
It  was  me  toold  er  ye  cam  heere  two  houres;  671 
He  was,  pardee,  an  old  f  elawe  of  youres, 
And  sodeynly  he  was  y-slayn  to-nyght, 
For-dronke,  as  he  sat  on  his  bench  upright; 
Ther  cam  a  privee  theef ,  men  clepeth  Deeth,675 
That  in  this  contree  al  the  peple  sleeth, 
And  with  his  spere  he  smoot  his  herte  atwo, 
And  wente  his  wey  withouten  wordes  mo. 
He  hath  a  thousand  slayn  this  pestilence,'^ 
And  maister,  er  ye  come  in  his  presence,  680 

Me  thynketh  that  it  were  necessarie 
For  to  be  war  of  swich  an  adversarie; 
Beth  redy  for  to  meete  hym  evermoore; 
Thus  taughte  me  my  dame;  I  sey  na-moore." 
**  By  Seinte  Marie! "  seyde  this  taverner,    685 
"  The  child  seith  sooth,  for  he  hath  slayn  this 

yeer, 
Henne'^  over  a  mile,  withinne  a  greet  village, 
Bothe  man  and  womman,  child,  and  hyne,'^ 

and  page; 
I  trowe  his  habitacioun  be  there; 
To  been  avysed'^  greet  wysdom  it  were,  690 

1"  Chance,  destiny  or  luck.  i'  Right. 

>2  Agreement, 

•3  In  general  the  interval  between  6  and  9  A.  M. 
More  specifically,  one  of  the  seven  stated  times  or  hours 
of  devotion.  From  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  it  refers  here 
to  the  canonical  hour  for  service. 

"Boy.  15  Quickly.    , 

16  Probably  the  plague  of   1348-9,  the  earliest  of  thA  j 
four  great  plagues  in  the  14th  century.  )] 

1' Hence.  i*  Hind.  "Forewarned.      " 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 


73 


Er  that  he  dide  a  man  a  dishonour." 

"  Ye,  Goddes  armes! "  quod  this  riotour, 
'*  Is  it  swich  peril  with  hym  for  to  meete? 
I  shal  hym  soke  by  weye  and  eek  by  strete; 
I  make  avow  to  Goddes  digne^  bones  695 

Horkneth,  felawes,  we  thre  been  al  ones, 
Lat  ech  of  us  holde  up  his  hand  til  oother, 
And  ech  of  us  bicomen  otheres  brother, 
And  we  wol  sleen  this  false  tray  tour,  Deeth; 
I  He  shal  be  slayn,  he  that  so  manye  sleeth,      700 
I  By  Goddes  dignitee,  er  it  be  nyght ! " 
j      Togidres  han  thise  thre  hir  trouthes'^  plight 
I  To  ly ve  and  dyen  ech  of  hem  for  oother, 

As  though  he  were  his  owene  y-bore  brother; 
j  And  up  they  stirte,^  al  dronken,  in  this  rage; 
i  And  forth  they  goon  towardes  that  villdge      706 
I  Of  which  the  taverner  hadde  spoke  biforn; 

And  many  a  grisly  ooth  thanne  han  they  sworn, 
I  And  Cristes  blessed  body  they  to-rente,* 
1  Deeth  shal  be  deed,  if  that  they  may  hym 
'  hente.s  710 

Whan  they  han  goon  nat  fully  half  a  mile, 
Right  as  they  wolde  han  troden  over  a  stile, 
j  An  oold  man  and  a  poure  with  hem  mette; 
!  This  olde  man  ful  mekely  hem  grette 

And  seyed  thus:  "  Now,  lordes,  God  yow  see!"« 
I      The  proudeste  of  thise  riotoures  three         716 
Answerde  agayn,  ''What,  carl  with  sory  grace. 
Why  artow^  al  for-wrapped,  save  thy  face? 
Why  lyvestow  so  ionge  in  so  greet  age?  " 

This  olde  man  gan  looke  in  his  visage,         720 
And  seyde  thus:  "  For  I  ne  kan  nat  fynde 
A  man,  though  that  I  walked  into  Ynde, 
Neither  in  citee,  ne  in  no  village, 
That  wolde  chaunge  his  youthe  for  myn  age; 
And  therfore  moot  I  han  myn  age  stille,  725 

As  Ionge  tyme  as  it  is  Goddes  wille. 
Ne  Deeth,  alias!  ne  wol  nat  han  my  lyf ; 
Thus  waike  I,  lyk  a  resteless  kaityf , 
And  on  the  ground  which  is  my  moodres' 

gate, 
I  knokke  with  my  staf ,  erly  and  late,  730 

And  seye,  'Leeve  mooder,^  leet  me  in! 
Lo,  how  I  vanysshe,  flessh  and  blood  and  skyn; 
Alias!  whan  shul  my  bones  been  at  reste? 
Mooder,  with  yow  wolde  I  chaunge  my  cheste 
That  in  my  chambre  Ionge  tyme  hath  be,        735 
Ye,  for  an  heyre-clowt^"  to  wrappe  me! ' 
But  yet  to  me  she  wol  nat  do  that  grace, 
For  which  ful  pale  and  welked^^  is  my  face. 

"  But,  sires,  to  yow  it  is  no  curteisye 
To  speken  to  an  old  man  vileynye,  740 

But  he  trespasse  in  word,  or  elles  in  dede. 
In  Hooly  Writ  ye  may  your  self  wel  rede, 
Agayns  an  oold  man,  hoor  upon  his  heed, 
Ye  sholde  arise;  wherfore  I  yeve  yow  reed,'-- 
iVe  dooth  unto  an  oold  man  noon  harm  now,  745 
Namoore  than  ye  wolde  men  did  to  yow 
In  age,  if  that  ye  so  Ionge  abyde. 
And  God  be  with  yow,  where  ye  go  or  ryde; 
I  moote  go  thider  as  I  have  to  go." 

1  Worthy.  2  Troth.  8  Started. 

*  Tore  In  pieces,  i.  e.  by  their  oaths. 

*  Seize. 

*  Keep  you  in  His  sight;  watch  over  you. 

^  Art  thou.  8  Mother's.  »  Dear  Mother. 

"  Hair  ahirt.  "  Withered.  12  Advice. 


'*  Nay,  olde  cherl,  by  God,  thou  shalt  nat  so!" 
Seyde  this  oother  hasardour'^  anon ;  751 

"Thou  partest  nat  so  lightly,  by  Seint  John! 
Thou  spak  right  now  of  thilke  traytour,  Deeth, 
That  in  this  contree  alle  oure  freendes  sleeth; 
Have  heer  my  trouthe,  as  thou  art  his  espye,  755 
Telle  where  he  is,  or  thou  shalt  it  abye,^* 
By  God  and  by  the  hooly  sacrement! 
For  soothly,  thou  art  oon  of  his  assent 
To  sleen  us  yonge  folk,  thou  false  theef ! "       759 
"  Now,  sires,"  quod  he,  "  if  that  ye  so  be  leef 
To  fynde  Deeth,  turne  up  this  croked  wey. 
For  in  that  grove  I  laf  te  hym,  by  my  fey, 
Under  a  tree,  and  there  he  wole  abyde; 
Noght  for  youre  boost  he  wole  him  no  thyng 

hyde. 
Se  ye  that  ook?     Right  there  ye  shal  hym 

fynde.  765 

God  save  yow  that  boghte  agayn  mankynde, 
And  yow  amende!"  thus  seyde  this  olde  man; 
And  everich  of  thise  riotoures  ran 
Til  he  cam  to  that  tree,  and  ther  they  founde. 
Of  floryns  fyne,  of  gold  y-coyned  rounae,        770 
Wel  ny  a  seven  busshels,  as  hem  thoughte. 
No  lenger  thanne  after  Deeth  they  soughte, 
But  ech  of  hem  so  glad  was  of  that  sighte. 
For  that  the  floryns  been  so  faire  and  brighte. 
That  doun  they  set  hem  by  this  precious  hoord. 
The  worste  of  hem  he  spak  the  firste  word.     776 
"  Bretheren,"  quod  he,  "  taak  kepe  what  I 

seye; 
]\Iy  wit  is  greet,  though  that  I  bourde^^  and 

pleye. 
This  tresor  hath  Fortune  unto  us  yeven 
In  myrthe  and  j  olitee  oure  lyf  to  ly  ven,  780 

And  lightly  as  it  comth  so  wol  we  spende. 
Ey,  God,de3  precious  dignitee!  who  wende^^ 
To-day,  that  we  sholde  hav  so  faire  a  grace? 
But  myghte  this  gold  be  caried  fro  this  place 
Hoom  to  myn  hous,  or  elles  unto  youres,         785 
(For  wel  ye  woot  that  al  this  gold  is  oures), 
Thanne  were  we  in  heigh  felicitee. 
But  trewely,  by  day  it  may  nat  bee; 
Men  wolde  scyn  that  Vve  were  theves  stronge, 
And  for  oure  owene  tresor  doon  us  honge.       790 
This  tresor  moste  y-caried  be  by  nyghte 
As  wisely  and  as  slyly  as  it  myghte. 
Wherfore,  I  rede  that  cut"  among  us  all 
Be  drawe,  and  let  se  wher  the  cut  wol  falle; 
And  he  that  hath  the  cut  with  herte  blithe      795 
Shal  renne  to  the  towne,  and  that  ful  swythe,'^ 
And  brynge  us  breed  and  wyn  ful  prively. 
And  two  of  us  shul  kepen  subtilly 
This  tresor  wel;  and  if  he  wol  nat  tarie, 
Whan  it  is  nyght  we  wol  this  tresor  carie,        800 
By  oon  assent,  where  as  us  thynketh  best." 
That  oon  of  hem  the  cut  broghte  in  his  fest^^ 
And  bad  hem  drawe  and  looke  where  it  wol 

falle; 
And  it  fil  on  the  yongeste  of  hem  alle. 
And  forth  toward  the  toun  he  wente  anon ;     805 
And  al  so  soone  as  that  he  was  gon. 
That  oon  of  hem  spak  thus  unto  that  oother: 


'*  Gambler. 
1*  Jest. 
"  Lot. 


18  Quickly. 


>*  Pay  for. 

"  Weemed,  know. 

"  Fist. 


74 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


"  Thow  knowest  wel  thou  art  my  sworne  brother 
Thy  profit  wol  I  telle  thee  anon; 
Thou  woost  wel  that  oure  felawe  is  agon,        810 
And  heere  is  gold,  and  that  ful  greet  plentee, 
That  shal  departea  been  among  us  thre; 
But  natheless,  if  I  kan  shape  it  so 
That  it  departed  were  among  us  two, 
Hadde  I  nat  doon  a  freendes  torn  to  thee?  "    815 
That  oother  answerde,  "I  noot  how  that  may 

be; 

He  woot  how  that  the  gold  is  with  us  tweye; 

What  shal  we  doon,  what  shal  we  to  hym  seye?  " 

"  Shal  it  be  conseil?  "  seyde  the  firtse  shrewe,^ 

"  And  I  shal  tellen  thee  in  wordes  fewe  820 

What  we  shal  doon,  and  bryngen  it  wel  aboute." 

"  I  gtaunte,"  quod  that  oother,  "  out  of  doute. 

That  by  my  trouthe  I  shal  thee  nat  biwreye." 

"  Now,"  quod  the  firste,  "  thou  woost  wel  we 

be  tweye, 
And  two  of  u»  shul  strenger  be  than  oon.         825 
Looke  whan  that  he  is  set,  and  right  anoon 
Arys,  as  though  thou  woldest  with  hym  pleye, 
And  I  shal  ryve  hym  thurgh  the  sydes  tweye, 
Whil  that  thou  strogelst  with  hym  as  in  game. 
And  with  thy  daggere  looke  thou  do  the  same; 
And  thanne  shal  al  this  gold  departed  be,        831 
My  deere  freend,  bitwixen  me  and  thee. 
Thanne  may  we  bothe  oure  lustes  all  fulfiUe, 
And  pleye  at  dees^  right  at  oure  owene  wille." 
And  thus  acorded  been  thise  shrewes  tweye,  835 
To  sleen  the  thridde,  as  ye  han  herd  me  seye. 
This  yongeste,  which  that  wente  unto  the 

toun, 
Ful  oft  in  herte  he  rolleth  up  and  doun 
The  beautee  of  thise  floryns  newe  and  brighte; 
"O  Lord, "quod  he,  "if  so  were  that  I  myghte  840 
Have  al  this  tresor  to  myself  allone, 
Ther  is  no  man  that  lyveth  under  the  trone^ 
Of  God,  that  sholde  lyve  so  murye  as  I! " 
And  atte  laste  the  feend,  oure  enemy, 
Putte  in  his  thought  that  he  sholde  poyson 

beye,^  845 

With  which  he  myghte  sleen  his  felawes  tweye; 
For-why  the  feend  f oond  hym  in  swich  lyvynge, 
That  he  hadde  leve  hym  to  sorwe  brynge. 
For  this  was  outrely^  his  fulle  entente 
To  sleen  hem  bothe  and  never  to  repente.       850 
And  forth  he  gooth,  no  lenger  wolde  he  tarie. 
Into  the  toun,  unto  a  pothecarie, 
And  preyde  hym  that  he  hym  wolde  selle 
Som    poysoun,    that    he   myghte    his   rattes 

quelle;^ 
And  eek  ther  was  a  polcat  in  his  hawe,'  855 

That,  as  he  seyde,  his  capouns  hadde  y-slawe, 
And  fayn  he  wolde  wreke  hym,^  if  he  myghte 
On  vermyn,  that  destroyed  hym  by  nyghte. 
The  pothecarie  answerde,  "And  thou  shalt 

have 
A  thyng  that,  al  so  God  my  soule  save,  860 

In  al  this  world  ther  nis  no  creature. 
That  eten  or  dronken  hath  of  this  confiture, 
Noght  but  the  montance^  of  a  corn  of  whete, 
That  he  ne  shal  his  lif  anon  forlete;^" 

1  Rascal.  i  Dice.  » Throne.  « Buy. 

'Utterly.  •Kill.  ^  Hedge. 

«  Avenge  himself.  •  Amoimt.  lo  Give  up. 


Ye,  sterve  he  shal,  and  that  in  lasse  while  865 
Than  thou  wolt  goon  a-paas  nat  but  a  mile; 
This  poysoun  is  so  strong  and  violent." 

This  cursed  man  hath  in  his  bond  y-hent 
This  poysoun  in  a  box,  and  sith  he  ran 
Into  the  nexte  strete  unto  a  man,  870 

And  borwed  hym  large  botelles  thre, 
And  in  the  two  his  poyson  poured  he; 
The  thridde  he  kepte  clene  for  his  owene  drynke; 
For  al   the   nyght    he   shoope^^  hym   for   to 

swynke 
In  cariynge  of  the  gold  out  of  that  place.         875 
And  whan  this  riotour  with  sory  grace 
Hadde  filled  with  wyn  his  grete  hotels  thre, 
To  his  felawes  agayn  repaireth  he. 

What  nedeth  it  to  sermone  of  it  moore? 
For  right  as  they  hadde  cast  his  deeth  bifoore. 
Right  so  they  han  hyiri  slayn,  and  that  anon, 881 
And  whan  that  this  was  doon  thus  spak  that 

oon; 
"Now  lat  us  sitte  and  drjrnke,  and  make  us 

merie. 
And  afterward  we  wol  his  body  berie;" 
And  with  that  word  it  happed  hym,  par  cos,  885 
To  take  the  hotel  ther  the  poysoun  was, 
And  drank  and  yaf  his  felawe  drynke  also. 
For  which  anon  they  storven  bothe  two. 

But  certes,  I  suppose  that  Avycen^^ 
Wroot  never  in  no  Can6n,"  ne  in  no  fen        890 
Mo  wonder  signes  of  empoisonyng 
Than  hadde  thise  wrecches  two,  er  hir  endyng. 
Thus  ended  been  thise  homycides  two. 
And  eek  the  false  empoysonere  also. 

O  cursed  synne  of  alle  cursednesse !  895 

O  tray torous  homycide !   O  wikkednesse ! 

0  glotonye,  luxdrie,  and  hasardrye!^* 
Thou  blasphemour  of  Crist  with  vileynye, 
And  othes  grete,  of  usage  and  of  pride! 

Alias!  mankynde,  how  may  it  bitide  900 

That  to  thy  Creatour  which  that  thee  wroghte. 
And  with  his  precious  herte-blood  thee  boghte. 
Thou  art  so  fals  and  so  unkynde,  alias! 

Now,  goode  men,  God  foryeve  yow  youre 
trespas, 
And  ware  yow  fro  the  synne  of  avarice.  905 

Myn  hooly  pardoun  may  you  alle  warice.^^ 

THE  COMPLEYNT  OF  CHAUCER  TO  HIS 
PURSE 

c.  1399 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  noon  other  wyght 
Compleyne  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dere! 

1  am  so  sory  now  that  ye  been  light ; 

For,  certes,  but  ye  make  me  hevy  chere, 

Me  were  as  leef  be  leyd  upon  my  here,  5 

Forwiche  unto  your  mercy  thus  I  crye, — 
Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  alles  mot  I  dye! 

"  Planned. 

i2i.  e.,  Avicenna  (980-1037),  a  celebrated  Arabian 
physician.  ^ 

i»  A  section  in  The  Canon,  Avicenna's  work  on  medi\ 
cine,  is  called  (from  an  Arabic  word)  a  fen.  No  more^ 
wonderful  signs  of  poisoning  are  described  in  the  Canon  i 
of  Medicine,  or  in  any  fen,  or  part  of  that  book; — not 
even  the  fen  which  specifically  treats  of  poisons. 

"  Gambling.  u  Heal. 


SIR  JOHN  MANDEVILLE  75 

Now  voucheth  sauf  this  day,  or  hit  be  nyght,  and  lady  and  sovereign  of  all  other  lands,  and  is 

That  I  of  you  the  bhsful  soun  may  here,      blessed  and  hallowed  with  the  precious  body 

Or  see  your  colour  lyk  the  Sonne  bright  10      ^^^  blood  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ;  in  the 

That  of  yelownesse  hadde  never  pere.  ^rUi^u  i^^a  i+     i        aw      ^^  ^  i      n    ^         ^ 

Ye  be  my  lyf !  ye  be  myn  hertes  sterel^  J^^^>  ^f  f^  it  pleased  hmi  to  take  flesh  and 

Quene  of  comfort  and  of  good  companye!  5  blood  of  the  Virgm  Mary,  to  environ  2  that 

Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye.  ^<^ly  land  with  his  blessed  feet;  and  there  he 

^^  ,      ,  ,  would  of  his  blessedness  shadow  him  in  the  said 

Now,  purse,  that  be  to  me  niy  lyyes  hght         15      blessed  and  glorious  Virgin  Mary,  and  become 

And  Saveour    as  doun  m  this  worlde  here,      ^^n,  and  work  many  miracles,  and  preach  and 

Out  of  this  toun  help  me  thorogh  your  mvght,      ,o+„„„u+u    r  vu        1  ^.i,    1         r /-«u  •  ^- 

Syn  that  ye  wole  not  been  my  tresor^re]  ^^  teach  the  faith  and  the  law  of  Christian  men 

For  I  am  shave^  as  nye  as  is  a  frere.  "^^^  ^^^  children;  and  there  it  pleased  hun  to 

But  yet  I  pray  unto  your  curtesye,  20      suffer   many   reprovings   and   scorns   for   us; 

Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  1  dye!  and  he  that  was  king  of  heaven,  of  air,  of  earth, 

of  sea,  and  of  all  things  that  are  contained  in 

THE  BALLAD  OF  GOOD  COUNSEL  OR  "  ^^^^f ;^  ""l^  ^t  ff 'f"/'"^  °^.mk  V?°f ' 
TRUTH  wnen  he  said,     Kex  sum  Judeorum,"  that  is  to 

say,  I  am  king  of  the  Jews;  and  that  land  he 
(After  1386)  chose  before  all  other  lands,  as  the  best  and  most 

•c,      -      ,,  J  J     11       -xu      xu  f    X       worthy  land,  and  the  most  virtuous  land  of  all 

nesse      ^'^''  sothefast-  ^^  the  world;  for  it  is  the  heart  and  the  middle  of 

Suffice  unto  thy  thyng  though  hit  be  smal;  ^^  *^^  .^^^^^^  J  by  witness  of  the  philosopher, 

For  hord  hath  hate  and  clymbyng  tikelnesse,  who  saith  thus.  Virtus  rerum  m  medio  con- 
Prees  hath  envye,  and  wele  blent  ^  overal;  sistit;"  that  is  to  say,  ''The  virtue  of  things  is 

Savour  2  no  more  than  thee  bihove  shal;  5     in  the  middle; "  and  in  that  land  he  would  lead 

Werk  wel  thy-self ,  that  other  folk  canst  rede,^  25  his  hfe,  and  suffer  passion  and  death  from  the 
And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  it  is  no  drede.  Jews  for  us,  to  redeem  and  deliver  us  from  the 

Tempest  thee  *  noght  al  croked  to  redresse  P^"^^  ^^  ^^^1' ,  ^nd  from  death  without  end, 

Intrustofhirthatturnethasabal:  which  was  ordamed  for  us  for  the  sm  of  our 

Greet  reste  stant  in  litel  besynesse;  10     first    father   Adam,    and    for    our   own    sins 

An  eek  be  war  to  sporne  ageyn  an  al;  ^  30  also: —  .  .  . 

Stryve  noght,  as  doth  the  crokke  •»  with  the  wal.  Wherefore  every  good  Christian  man,  that  is 
Daunte  ^  thy-self,  that  dauntest  otheres  dede.  of  power,  and  hath  whereof,  should  labour  with 
And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  it  is  no  drede.  all  his  strength  to  conquer  our  right  heritage, 

That  thee  is  sent,  receyve  in  buxumnesse.8  15  and  drive  out  all  the  unbeUeving  men.  For 
The  wrastiing  for  this  worlde  axeth  a  fal.  35  we  are  called  Christian  men,  after  Christ  our 

Her  nis  non  hoom,  her  nis  but  wildernesse.  father.    And  if  we  be  right  children  of  Christ, 

Forth,  pilgrim,  forth!  Forth,  beste,"  out  of  thy  we  ought  to  claim  the  heritage  that  our  father 
_.^     stal,  ,      ,    ^    ,     ^    ,       l^ft  us,  and  take   it  out   of   heathen  men's 

Know  thy  contree,  look  up,  thank  God  of  al;      hands 

'  there  was  no  general  passage  or  voyage  over 

the  sea,  and  many  men  desiring  to  hear  speak 

of  the  Holy  Land,  and  have  thereof  great  solace 

THE  VOYAGES  AND  TRAVELS  OF  SIR     and   comfort,   I,   John   MaundeviUe,   knight, 

JOHN   MANDEVILLE  ^  45  albeit  I  be  not  worthy,  who  was  born  in  Eng- 

^       T,  land,  in  the  town  of  Saint  Albans,  passed  the 

1  HE  PROLOGUE  ^^^  •  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^ord  Jcsus  Christ  1322,  on 

Forasmuch  as  the  land  beyond  the  sea,  that     the  day  of  St.  Michael;  and  hitherto  have  been 

is  to  say,  the  Holy  Land,  which  men  call  the      a  long  time  over  the  sea,  and  have  seen  and 

land  of  promise  or  of  behest,  passing  all  other  50  gone  through  many  divers  lands,  and  many 

lands,  is  the  most  worthy  land,  most  excellent,      provinces,  and  kingdoms,  and  isles,  and  have 

1  Rudder.  2  Close.  passed     through    Tartary,     Persia,     Ermony 

J  Makes  blind.  2  Taste.  'Advise.  (Armenia)  the  Little  and  the  Great;  through 

*Fubdul^  ^^^^^  *       ssJbmission.    sBeast.^"^**  Lybia,  Chaldea,  and  a  great  part  of  Ethiopia; 

1  This  famous  travel  book  and  collection  of  marvels  55  through  Amazonia,   India  the  Less  and  the 

was  long  supposed  to  be  the  composition  of  one,  Sir      Greater,  a  great  part;  and  throughout  many 

John   Mandeville,    who   had   actually   travelled   m   the  ^,         .  '         °     ^       ^        '       ^   t    j-  i.  j       11 

countries  he  mentions.     It  is  now  known  to  be  a  trans-       Other  isles  that  are  about  India;  Where  dweU 

lation  of  a  French  original  supposedly  by  Jean  de  Bur-      j^^^^y  divers  folks,  and  of  divers  manners  and 

gogne  (d.  1372),  which  m  turn  was  a  compilation  from  "^  ' 

rarious  classical  and  medieval  writers.  2  Go  about  in. 


76  CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 

laws,  and  of  divers  shapes  of  men.  Of  which  other  isle  are  people  that  go  upon  their  hands 
lands  and  isles  I  shall  speak  more  plainly  and  feet  like  beasts,  and  are  all  skinned  and 
hereafter.  And  I  shall  devise  you  some  feathered,  and  would  leap  as  lightly  into 
part  of  things  that  are  there,  when  time  shall  trees,  and  from  tree  to  tree,  as  squirrels  or 
be  as  it  may  best  come  to  my  mind;  and  cs-  5  apes.  .  .  .  And  in  another  isle  are  people 
pecially  for  them  that  will  and  are  in  pur-  that  go  always  upon  their  knees,  and  at 
pose  to  visit  the  holy  city  of  Jerusalem,  and  every  step  they  go  it  seems  that  they  would 
the  holy  places  that  are  thereabout.  And  I  fall;  and  they  have  eight  toes  on  every  foot, 
shall  teU  the  way  that  they  shall  hold  thither;  Many  other  divers  people  of  divers  natures 
for  I  have  ofttimes  passed  and  ridden  the  10  there  are  in  other  isles  about,  of  the  which 
way,  with  good  company  of  many  lords:  God  it  were  too  long  to  tell, 
be  thanked! 

And  ye  shall  understand  that  I  have  put  this  j^^^^  Alexander  and  the  Isle   op 

book  out  of  Latm  mto  French,  and  translated  it  Bragman 

again  out  of  French  into  English,  that  every  15 

man  of  my  nation  may  understand  it;  and  that  And  beyond  that  isle  is  another  isle,  great  and 
lords  and  knights  and  other  noble  and  worthy  rich,  where  are  good  and  true  people,  and  of 
men  that  know  Latin  but  little,  and  have  been  good  living  after  their  belief,  and  of  good  faith, 
beyond  the  sea,  may  know  and  understand,  if  I  and  although  they  are  not  christened,  yet  by 
err  from  defect  of  memoiy,  and  may  redress  it  20  natural  law  they  are  full  of  all  virtue,  and 
and  amend  it.  For  things  passed  out  of  long  eschew  all  vices.  .  .  . 
time  from  a  man's  mind  or  from  his  sight  turn 

soon  into  forgetting;  because  a  man's  mind  may  And  that  isle  is  called  the  isle  of  Bragman, 

not  be  comprehended  or  withheld,  on  account  and  some  men  call  it  the  Land  of  Faith; 
of  the  frailty  of  mankind.  25  and    through    it    runs    a    great    river    called 

Thebe. 
Wonders  op  the  Isles  about  Java  ^^^  i^  general  all  the  men  of  those  isles,  and 

of  all  the  borders  thereabout,  are  truer  than  in 

From  that  isle,  in  going  by  sea  towards  the     any  other  country  thereabout,  and  more  just 
south,  is  another  great  isle,  called  Dondun,  in  30  than  others  in  all  things.  .  .  . 
which  are  people  of  wicked  kinds,  so  that  the 

father  eats  the  son,  the  son  the  father,  the  And  because  they  are  so  true,  and  so  just, 
husband  the  wife,  and  the  wife  the  hus-  and  so  full  of  all  good  conditions,  they  are 
band.  never  grieved  with  tempests,  nor  with  thunder 

The  king  of  this  isle  is  a  great  and  powerful  35  and  Ughtning,  nor  with  hail,  nor  with  pestilence, 
lord,  and  has  under  him  fifty-four  great  isles,  nor  with  war,  nor  with  famine,  nor  with  any 
which  give  tribute  to  him;  and  in  every  one  of  other  tribulation,  as  we  are  many  times  amongst 
these  isles  is  a  king  crowned,  all  obedient  to  us  for  our  sins;  wherefore  it  appears  evident 
that  king.  In  one  of  these  isles  are  people  of  that  God  loveth  them  for  their  good  deeds, 
great  stature,  like  giants,  hideous  to  look  upon;  40  They  beheve  well  in  God  that  made  all 
and  they  have  but  one  eye,  which  is  in  the  mid-  things,  and  worship  Him;  and  they  prize  no 
die  of  the  forehead;  and  they  eat  nothing  but  earthly  riches;  and  they  live  full  orderly,  and 
raw  flesh  and  fish.  And  in  another  isle  towards  so  soberly  in  meat  and  drink,  that  they  live 
the  south  dwell  people  of  foul  stature  and  cursed  right  long.  And  the  most  part  of  them  die 
nature,  who  have  no  heads,  but  their  eyes  are  45  without  sickness,  when  nature  f aileth  them  for 
in  their  shoulders.  old  age.  I 

In  another  isle  are  people  who  have  the  face  And  it  befell,  in  king  Alexander's  time,  that 
all  flat,  without  nose  and  without  mouth.  In  he  purposed  to  conquer  that  isle;  but  when 
another  isle  are  people  that  have  the  lip  above  they  of  the  country  heard  it,  they  sent  messen- 
the  mouth  so  great,  that  when  they  sleep  in  the  50  gers  to  him  with  letters,  that  said  thus: — 
sun  they  cover  all  the  face  with  that  Up.  And  ''What  may  we  be  now  to  that  man  to  v/hom 
in  another  isle  there  are  dwarfs,  which  have  no  all  the  world  is  insufficient?  Thou  shalfc  find 
mouth,  but  instead  of  their  mouth  they  have  a  nothing  in  us  to  cause  thee  to  war  against  us; 
little  round  hole;  and  when  they  shall  eat  or  for  ^e  have  no  riches,  nor  do  we  desire  any; 
drink,  they  take  it  through  a  pipe,  or  a  pen,  or  55  and  all  the  goods  of  our  country  are  in  common, 
such  a  thing,  and  suck  it  in.  And  in  another  Our  meat,  with  which  we  sustain  our  bodies,  is 
isle  are  people  that  have  ears  so  long  that  they  our  riches;  and  instead  of  treasure  of  gold  and 
hang  down  to  their  knees.  And  in  another  silver,  we  make  our  treasure  of  acorns  and  peas, 
isle  are  people  that  have  horses'  feet.    In  an-      and  to  love  one  another.  ... 


SIR  JOHN  MANDEVILLE  77 

"Our  wives  are  not  arrayed  to  make  any  man  that  is  towards  the  east,  at  the  beginning  of 
pleased.  When  men  labour  to  array  the  body,  the  earth.  But  this  is  not  that  east  that  we 
to  make  it  seem  fairer  than  God  made  it,  they  call  our  east,  on  this  half,  where  the  sun  rises 
do  great  sin;  for  man  should  not  devise  nor  ask  to  us;  for  when  the  sun  is  east  in  those  parts 
greater  beauty  than  God  hath  ordained  him  to  5  towards  Terrestrial  Paradise,  it  is  then  mid- 
have  at  his  birth.  The  earth  ministereth  to  us  night  in  our  parts  on  this  half,  on  account  of  the 
two  things:  our  livelihood,  that  cometh  of  the  roundness  of  the  earth  of  which  I  have  told 
earth  that  we  live  by,  and  our  sepulchre  after  you  before;  for  our  Lord  God  made  the  earth 
our  death.  We  have  been  in  perpetual  peace  all  round,  in  the  middle  of  the  firmament, 
till  now  that  thou  art  come  to  disinherit  us;  and  10  And  there  have  mountains  and  hills  been,  and 
also  we  have  a  king,  not  to  do  justice  to  every  valleys,  which  arose  only  from  Noah's  flood, 
man,  for  he  shall  find  no  forfeit  among  us;  but  that  wasted  the  soft  and  tender  gi'ound,  and 
to  keep  nobleness,  and  to  show  that  we  are  fell  down  into  valleys;  and  the  hard  earth  and 
obedient,  we  have  a  king.  For  justice  has  the  rock  remain  mountains,  when  the  soft 
among  us  no  place;  for  we  do  to  no  man  15  and  tender  earth  was  worn  away  by  the  water, 
otherwise  than  we  desire  that  men  do  to  us,  and  fell,  and  became  valleys, 
so    that    righteousness    or    vengeance    have  Of  Paradise  I  cannot  speak  properly,   for 

nought  to  do  among  us;  so  that  thou  mayest  I  was  not  there.  It  is  far  beyond;  and  I  repent 
take  nothing  from  us  but  our  good  peace,  that  not  going  there,  but  I  was  not  worthy.  But 
always  hath  endured  among  us."  And  when  20  as  I  have  heard  say  of  mse  men  beyond,  I 
king  Alexander  had  ^ead  these  letters,  he  shall  tell  you  with  good-will.  Terrestrial 
thought  that  he  should  do  great  sin  to  trouble  Paradise,  as  wise  men  say,  is  the  highest  place 
them.  of  the  earth;  and  it  is  so  high  that  it  nearly 

touches  the  circle  of  the  moon  there,  as  the 

The  Hills  op  Gold  and  the  Terrestrial  25  moon  makes  her  turn.    For  it  is  so  high  that 

Paradise  *'^^  flood  of  Noah  might  not  come  to  it,  that 

would  have  covered  all  the  earth  of  the  world 

Towards  the  east  of  Prester  John's  land  ^  is  a  all  about,  and  above  and  beneath,  except  Para- 
good  and  great  isle  called  Taprobane,  and  it  dise.  And  this  Paradise  is  enclosed  all  about 
is  very  fruitful;  and  the  king  thereof  is  rich,  30)^ith  a  wall,  and  men  know  not  whereof  it  is; 
and  is  under  the  obeisance  of  Prester  John,  for  the  wall  is  covered  all  over  with  moss,  as 
And  there  they  always  make  their  king  by  it  seems;  and  it  seems  not  that  the  wall  is 
election.  In  that  isle  are  two  summers  and  natural  stone.  And  that  wall  stretches  from 
two  winters;  and  men  harvest  the  com  twice  the  south  to  the  north;  and  it  has  but  one 
a  year;  and  in  all  seasons  of  the  year  the  gar-  35  entry,  which  is  closed  with  burning  fire,  so 
dens  are  in  flower.  .  .  .  that  no  man  that  is  mortal  dare  enter. 

And  in  the  highest  place  of  Paradise,  exactly 

Beside  that  isle,  towards  the  east,  are  two  in  the  middle,  is  a  well  that  casts  out  the  four 
other  isles,  one  called  Grille,  the  other  Argyte,  streams,  which  run  by  divers  lands,  of  which 
of  which  all  the  land  is  mines  of  gold  and  silver.  40  the  first  is  called  Pison,  or  Ganges,  that  runs 
And  those  isles  are  just  where  the  Red  Sea  throughout  India,  or  Emlak,  in  which  river 
separates  from  the  Ocean  Sea.  .  .  .  are  many  precious  stones,  and  much  lignum 

aloes, 2  and  much  sand  of  gold.    And  the  other 

In  the  isle,  also,  of  this  Taprobane  are  river  is  called  Nile,  or  Gyson,  which  goes 
great  hills  of  gold,  that  ants  keep  full  dili- 45  through  Ethiopia,  and  after  through  Egypt, 
gently.  And  the  other  is  called  Tigris,  which  runs  by 

And  beyond  the  land,  and  isles,  and  deserts  Assyria,  and  by  Armenia  the  Great,  And  the 
of  Prester  John's  lordship,  in  going  straight  other  is  called  Euphrates,  which  runs  through 
towards  the  east,  men  find  nothing  but  moun-  Media,  Armenia,  and  Persia.  And  men  there 
tains  and  great  rocks;  and  there  is  the  dark  50  beyond  say  that  all  the  sweet  waters  of  the 
region,  where  no  man  may  see,  neither  by  day  world,  above  and  beneath,  take  their  beginning 
nor  night,  as  they  of  the  country  say.  And  from  the  well  of  Paradise;  and  out  of  that  well 
that  desert,  and  that  place  of  darkness,  lasts  all  waters  come  and  go.  The  first  river  is 
from  this  coast  unto  Terrestrial  Paradise,  called  Pison,  that  is,  in  our  language,  As- 
where  Adam,  our  first  father,  and  Eve  were  55  sembly;  for  many  other  rivers  meet  there,  and 
put,  who  dwelt  there  but  a  little  while;  and      go  into  that  river.    And  some  call  it  Ganges, 

from  an  Indian  king,  called  Gangeres  because 

1  Prester  John  was  a  supposed   Christian  king  of  a 
great  land  in  Asia,  the  extent  and  location  of  which  were  ^  Aloes-wood,  a  soft,  aromatic  wood,  often  burnt  for  a 

very  vague.  perfume. 


78  CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 

it  ran  through  his  land.  And  its  water  is  in  many  thousands  to  be  lost  that  night,  some  in 
some  places  clear,  and  in  some  places  troubled;  water,  some  in  fire,  some  by  sudden  death, 
in  some  places  hot,  and  in  some  places  cold,  and  some  to  be  damned  without  end.  And 
The  second  river  is  called  Nile,  or  Gyson,  for  for  these  goodnesses  and  mercies  thank  thy 
it  is  always  troubled;  and  Gyson,  in  the  Ian-  5  God  with  all  thine  hea^-t,  and  pray  him  to 
guage  of  Ethiopia,  is  to  say  Trouble,  and  in  give  thee  grace  to  spend,  in  that  day  and  ever- 
the  language  of  Egypt  also.  The  third  river,  more,  all  the  mights  of  thy  soul,  as  mind, 
called  Tigris,  is  as  much  as  to  say.  Fast  Run-  reason,  wit,  and  will,  and  all  the  mights  of  thy 
ning;  for  it  i-uns  faster  than  any  of  the  others,  body,  as  strength,  beauty,  and  thy  five  wits, 
The  fourth  river  is  called  Euphrates,  that  is  10  in  his  service  and  worship;  and  in  no  thing  for- 
to  say.  Well  Bearing;  for  there  grow  upon  that  feit  again  his  commandments,  but  (be)  ready 
river  com,  fruit,  and  other  goods,  in  great  to  perform  works  of  mercy,  and  to  give  good 
plenty.  example  of  holy  Ufe,  both  in  word  and  in  deed, 

And  you  shall  understand  that  no  man  that  to  all  men  about  thee, 
is  mortal  may  approach  to  that  Paradise;  for  15  Look  afterwards  that  thou  be  well  occupied, 
by  land  no  man  may  go  for  wild  beasts,  that  and  in  no  time  idle  for  temptation.  Take  meat 
are  in  the  deserts,  and  for  the  high  mountains,  and  drink  in  measure,  not  too  costly  nor  too 
and  great  huge  rocks,  that  no  man  may  pass  licorouse,^  and  be  not  too  curious  ^  thereabout, 
by  for  the  dark  places  that  are  there;  and  by  but  such  as  God  sendeth,  with  truth  take  it, 
the  rivers  may  no  man  go,  for  the  water  runs  20  in  such  measure  that  thou  be  fresher  in  mind 
so  roughly  and  so  sharply,  because  it  comes  and  wits  to  serve  God,  and  algates  ^  thank  him 
down  so  outrageously  from  the  high  places  for  his  gift.  Over  this,  look  thou  do  right  and 
above,  that  it  runs  in  so  great  waves  that  no  equity  to  all  men,  both  to  sovereigns,^  peers,* 
ship  may  row  or  sail  against  it;  and  the  water  subjects,  or  servants;  and  stir  all  men  to  love 
roars  so,  and  makes  so  huge  a  noise,  and  so  25  truth  and  mercy,  and  over  these  charity;  and 
great  a  tempest,  that  no  man  may  hear  an-  suffer  no  man  be  at  dissension,  but  accord 
other  in  the  ship,  though  he  cried  with  all  the  them  ^  if  thou  mayest  in  any  good  manner, 
might  he  could.  Many  great  lords  have  es-  Also  most  of  all  things  dread  God  and  his 
sayed  with  great  will,  many  times,  to  pass  by  wrath,  and  most  of  all  things  love  God  and 
those  rivers  towards  Paradise,  with  full  great  30  his  law  and  his  worship;  and  ask  not  princi- 
companies;  but  they  might  not  speed  in  their  pally  worldly  meed,'  but  in  all  thine  heart  de- 
voyage;  and  many  died  for  weariness  of  rowing  sire  the  bliss  of  heaven,  through  the  mercy  of 
against  the  strong  waves;  and  many  of  them  God  and  thine  own  goodness  of  life.  .  .  .  And 
became  blind,  and  many  deaf,  for  the  noise  of  in  the  end  of  the  day  think  where  thou  hast 
the  water;  and  some  perished  and  were  lost  in  35  offended  God,  and  how  much  and  how  often, 
the  waves;  so  that  no  mortal  man  may  ap-  and  therefore  have  entire  sorrow,  and  amend 
proach  to  that  place  without  special  grace  of  it  while  thou  may.  ...  If  thou  be  a  priest, 
God;  so  that  of  that  place  I  can  tell  you  no  and  especially  a  curate,  live  thou  holily,  pass- 
more,  ing  others  in  holy  prayer  and  holy  desire  and 

40  thinking,  in  holy  speaking,   counselling,   and 

true  teaching,  and  ever  that  God's  bests  *  and 

3l0l^n    ^^CUf  his  gospel  be  in  thy  mouth,  and  ever  despise 

1324-1384  ^^'  ^^  draw  men  therefrom.     And  that  thy 

deeds  be  so  rightful,  that  no  man  shall  blame 
A  SHORT  RULE  OF  LIFE  45  them  with  reason,  but  thine  open  deeds  be  a 

true  book  to  all  sogettis^  and  lewd  men,^"  to 
A  Short  Rule  op  Life  for  each  man  in  serve  God  and  do  his  bests  thereby.  For  en- 
GENERAL,  AND  FOR  Priests  AND  LoRDS  AND  Sample  of  good,  and  open  and  lasting,  stirreth 
Labourers  in  special,  how  each  man  shall  rude  men  more  than  true  preaching  by  the 
be  saved  in  his  degree,  if  he  will  himself.  50  naked  word.  And  waste  not  thy  goods  in 
First,  when  thou  risest  or  fully  wakest,  think  great  feasts  of  rich  men,  but  live  a  mean  ^^  Hfe 
on  the  goodness  of  God;  for  his  own  goodness  of  poor  men's  alms  and  goods,  both  in  meat 
and  none  other  need  he  made  all  things  of  and  drink  and  clothes;  and  the  remnant  give 
naught,  both  angels  and  men,  and  all  other  truly  to  poor  men  that  have  naught  of  their 
creatures  good  in  their  kind.    The  second  time  55 

think   on   the   great   passion   and   wilful   death  \  Dainty,  tempting  to  the  appetite.  2  Fastidious.      \ 

, ,     ,     ^,    •.«•!<•  1  •    J  A     J  Always,  m  all  circumstances.  <  Superiors, 

that    Christ    suffered    for    mankind.    .    .      And  &  Equals.  « Reconcile  them. 

think  the  third  time,  how  God  hath  saved  thee         ',  subject*  i  e  lowl  "  Un^arneJ" 

from  death  and  other  mischiefs,  and  suffered         n  Moderate.^*  °^^' 


f^Wll, 


ENGLISH  FOLLOWERS  OF  CHAUCER  79 

and  ^ay  °''!u^^^''l'^^^J  feebleness  or     FIFTEENTH     AND     EARLY    SIX- 
sickness,  and  then  thou  shalt  be  a  true  priest  ri.-m^xTri^TT    ^T^nvrrw^xT^tt^^ 

both  to  God  and  man.  TEENTH    CENTURIES 

,./^.^^^^  ^®  ^  ^^^^'  ^°°^  *ho^  live  a  rightful  ENGLISH    FOLLOWERS    OF    CHAUCER 

life  m  thine  own  person,  both  anent  God  and  5 

man,  keepmg  the  bests  of  God,  doing  the  works  From  A  PRAISE  OF  WOMEN 

of  mercy,  ruUng  well  thy  five  wits,  and  doing     p^^^  ^i,-   „^  u„^    .       1,   ,,        u  t         u  i- 

meT The  sSt^^'  ^^^'  '^T^  ^^f        ^~^^^^^^^^^^^  135 

men.    The  second  time,  govern  wdl  thy  wife,      For  in  good  faith  I  never  of  them  sye^ 

thy   children,    and   thy   homely   meyne  ^^   j^  jo     But  much  worship,  bounty,  and  gentleness 

Gods  law,   and  sujffer  no  sin  among  them,         Right  comyng,  fair,  and  full  of  mekeness,       ' 

neither  in  word  nor  in  deed,  upon  thy  might.      Good  and  glad,  and  lowly,  I  you  ensure, 

that  they  may  be  ensamples  of  holiness  and      ^^  ^^^^  goodly  angelic  creature.  140 

righteousness  to  all  others.  ...    The  third     And  if  it  hap  a  man  be  in  disease, 2 

time,  govern  well  thy  tenants,  and  maintain  15     She  doth  her  business  and  her  full  fain 

them  in  right  and  reason,  and  be  merciful  to      With  all  her  might,  him  to  comf6rt  and  please 

them  in  their  rents,  and  worldly  merciments,^'  ^^  ^^^  ^is  disease  she  mighte  him  restrain; 

and  suffer  not  thy  officers  to  do  them  wrong      r,  ^^  word  nor  deed^  I  wis,  she  will  not  feign,  145 

nor  extortions,  and  chastise  m  good  manner     S^i^*^^  t-         f"¥u^  l^^  ^9^^  ^^^  business 

them  that  rebel  against  God's  bests  and  ^i^.  20  ^° '''"'^^  ^'"^  ^^^  ^^  ^«  *^^^^^^^^«- 

tuous  livmg,  more  than  for  rebeUion  against      Lo>  what  gentleness  these  women  have, 

thine  own  cause  or  person.  ...     If  thou  be         I^  we  could  know  it  for  our  rudeness! 

a  labourer,  Hve  in  meekness,  and  truly  and      How  busy  they  be  us  to  keep  and  save,  150 

thy  master  be  an  heathen  man,  that  by  thy  25  In  every  manner;  thus  they  shewe  ruth, 
meekness  and  wilful  and  true  service,  he  have  That  in  them  is  all  goodnesse  and  truth, 
not  to  gruche  i^  against  thee,  nor  slander  thy      a„^  „; •    xt,  _  ^1  . .       .■, 

Christian  ?T^r''   h^^'/^"^  T  ^'      ^o^^^^^oZ^l^s"^^^^  ''' 

Christian  lords  with  gruching,i^  nor  only  m      Let  ne'er  this  gentylnesse  through  your  sliuth 
their  presence,  but  truly  and  wilfully  m  theu-30     In  her  kind  truth  be  aught  forlore,' 
absence,  not  only  for  worldly  dread  nor  worldly         That  in  woman  is,  and  hath  been  full  yore; 
reward,  but  for  dread  of  God  and  good  con-     For  in  reverence  of  the  heaven's  Queen,         '16O 
science,  and  for  reward  in  heaven.     For  that     We  ought  to  worship  all  wom^n  that  been. 
God  that  putteth  thee  in  such  service  wots  ^^      For  of  all  creatures  that  e'er  were  born, 
what  state  is  best  for  thee,  and  will  reward  35     This  wot  ye  well,  a  woman  was  the  iJeste: 
thee  more  than  all  earthly  lords  may,  if  thou      By  her  recovered  was  the  bhss  that  we  had 
doest  it  truly  and  wilfully  for  his  ordinance.  .  ^^^^J'* 

And  in  all  things  beware  of  grucchyng  i'  ^^^  through  the  woman  shall  we  come  to 
against  God  and  his  visitation,  in  great  labour  \ITil\r  oo,.«^   v  +1,  4.  ir-  1    x  .      ^^^ 

tfes . tl'b  ^'  '-'1  '''T'i  ^^'  -^^'^^  f '''-'-  ''  ^'eL^'^nti^Xir^^^^^^^        grace, 
ties,  and  beware  of  wrath,  of  cursing  and  wary-      We  oughten  honour  women  in  every  place. 
ying,i9  or  banning,  of  man  or  of  beast.    And      rp,       ,       t       ^  ^u  .  .  ,•   .        . 

ever  keep  patience,  and  meekness,  and  charity,  Fro  ?hl  ffr^^  f.^f  A   .r^"  ^'ZT  tS^^f'       u 

both  to  God  and  man.    And  thus  each  man  in         ^"^pace  '         ""  '^^  *^^*  ""^  ^T. 

these  three  estates  oweth  20  to  live,  to  save  45  That  we  have  trespassed,  piirsue  to  amend, 
himselt  and  help  others;  and  thus  should  good  Praying  our  Lady,  well  of  alle  grace, 

life,  rest,  peace,  and  charity  be  among  Christian  To  bringe  us  unt6  that  blissful  place' 

men,  and  they  be  saved,  and  heathen  men  Where  she  and  all  good  women  shall  be  infere^ 
soon  converted,  and  God  magnified  greatly  in  ^^  heaven  above,  among  the  angels  clear.  175 
all  nations  and  sects,  that  now  despise  him  so  MFRPTTF^   RFATTTF 

and  his  law,   for  the  wicked  living  of  false  Mi^KClLEb   BEAUTE 

Christian  men.  Your  eyen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly, 

I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene, 
"  Home-retinue,  household.  So  woundeth  hit  through-out  my  hert^  kene. 

'3  Fines,  amercements. 

"  Willingly.  And  but  your  word  wol  helen  hastily 

;:  ggSftlll^y.  My  hertes  wounde,  whyl  that  hit  is  grene, 
"  Complaining,  grudging.  ^  <^^  ^Y^^  *wo  wol  slee  me  sodenly, 

]l  Knows.  I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene. 

20Ougff'''°°'^''°''"'^-  '?^^-        ^Discomfort.     » At  all  lost  or  diminished. 

^  «Lo8t.       fi  Pleases.  » Togefher. 


80 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


Upon  my  trouthe  I  sey  yow  f eithf ully, 
That  he  ben  of  my  lyf  and  deeth  the  quene; 
For  with  my  deeth  the  trouthe  shal  be  sene.     10 
Your  eyen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly, 
I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene, 
So  woundeth  hit  through-out  my  herte 
kene. 

g)ir  ®liotttas?  Clanbofcoe 

Fl.  c.  1400 
THE  CUCKOO  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE 

(c.  1405) 

The  god  of  love,  a!  henedicite! 

How  mighty  and  how  great  a  lord  is  he! 
For  he  can  make  of  lowe  heartes  hye, 
And  of  hye  low,  and  like  for  to  dye. 

And  harde  heartes  he  can  maken  free.  5 

And  he  can  make,  within  a  little  stounde^ 
Of  seke^  folk  full  whole,  fresh  and  sounde, 

And  of  the  whole,  he  can  make  seke; 

And  he  can  binden  and  unbinden  eke 
What  he  will  have  bounden  or  unbounde.         10 

To  tell  his  might  my  wit  may  not  suffyse; 

For  he  may  do  all  that  he  will  devyse 
For  he  can  make  of  wise  folk  full  nice, 
And  eke  in  lyther^  folk  destroyen  vice;  * 

And  proude  heartes  he  can  make  agryse.*        15 

Shortly,  all  that  e'er  he  wills  he  may; 
Ageines^  him  there  dare  no  wight  say  nay. 

For  he  can  glad  and  grieve  whom  him  liketh; 

And  whom  he  will,  he  laugheth  or  he  syketh;^ 
And  most  his  might  he  showeth  ever  in  May.  20 

For  every  trewe  gentle  hearte  free 
That  with  him  is,  or  thinketh  for  to  be, 

Ageines  May  now  shall  have  some  stirring. 
Either  to  joy,  or  alles  to  mourning. 
In  no  ses6un  so  great,  as  thinketh  me.  25 

For  when  they  mowe'^  hear  the  briddes  sing, 
And  see  the  flowers  and  the  leaves  spring, 

That  bringeth  into  heartes  r6membrd,unce 
A  kind  of  ease,  mingled  with  grevdunce, 
And  lusty  thoughtes  fulle  of  longing.  ...        30 

31oljn  ll^ogate 

c.  1370-c.  1451 
IN  PRAISE  OF  CHAUCER 

(From  the  Prologue  to  The  Story  of  Thebes. 
c.  1420) 

.  .  .  Him  that  was,  if  I  shall  not  feign, 
Flower  of  Poets,  throughout  of  all  Britain,       40 
Which  soothly  had  moost  of  excellence 
In  Rhetoryke  and  in  eloquence. 
Read  his  making,^  who  list  the  truthe  findo, 
Which  never  shall  appallen^  in  my  minde. 
But  always  fresh  been  in  my  memorie;  45 

iTime.  2  Sick.  3  Evil.  <  Afraid. 

8  Against.  «  Makes  laugh  or  sigh.  ^  May. 

1  Works,  or  poetry.  2  Grow  pale,  i.  0.  fade. 


To  whom  be  yeve'  praise,  honour,  and  gloric. 
Of  well  saying  firste  in  our  language; 
Chief  Registrer  in  this  our  pilgrimage, 
All  that  he  told,  forgetting  naught  at  all, 
Not  feigned  tales,  nor  thing  historical,  .)i 

With  many  proverbs,  diverse  and  uncouth,* 
By  the  rehearsing  of  his  sugared  mouth. 
Of  cache  thinge  keeping  in  substance 
The  sentence  whole  withoute  varidnce, 
Voiding  the  chafif ,  soothly  for  to  sain,^  55 

Illumining  the  true  picked  grain, 
By  crafty  writing  of  his  sawes^  sweet. 


THE  TESTAMENT  OF  JOHN  LYDGATE 

(From  Testamentum  Johannis  Lydgate) 

Midst  of  a  cloister,  painted  on  a  wall,  743 

I  saw  a  crucifix  with  wounds  not  small. 
With  this  word  VIDE,  written  there  beside,- 
^' Behold  my  meekness,   Child,   and  learn   thy 
pride.'" 

The  which  word  when  I  came  to  understand, 

In  my  last  age  taking  the  sentence, 
Thinking  thereon,  my  pen  I  took  in  hand. 

And  straightway  wrote  with  humble  rever- 
ence, 750 

On  this  word  vide  with  much  diligence, 

In  memory  of  Christes  passioun 

This  Uttle  song,  this  compilatioun.  ...      753 

"Turn  home  again,  thy  sin  do  thou  forsake,   867 
Behold  and  see  if  aught  be  left  behind; 

To  mercy  I  am  ready  thee  to  take,  869 

Give  me  thy  heart  and  be  no  more  unkind; 
Thy  love  and  mine,  together  do  them  bind, 
And  let  them  never  part  in  any  wise; 
When  thou  wast  lost,  thy  soul  again  to  find. 
My  blood  I  gave  for  thee  in  sacrifice.  .  .  .874 

Tarry  no  longer  towards  thine  heritage :  890 

Haste  on  thy  way  and  be  of  right  good  cheer; 

Go  each  day  onward  on  thy  pilgrimage, 

Think  how  short  time  thou  shalt  abide  here! 
Thy  place  is  built  above  the  starres  clear, 
No  earthly  palace  wrought  in  stately  wise.  895 
Come  on,  my  friend,  my  brother  most  entere,* 
For  thee  I  shed  my  blood  in  sacrifice." 


tEliomasf  J^occlebe  or  ^tt\t\^t 

c.  1370-c.  1450 

THOMAS  HOCCLEVE'S  COMPLAINT 
The  Prologue 

After  that  Harvest  gathered  had  his  sheaves, 
And  that  the  brown  sesoun  of  Michaelmesse* 

Was  come,  and  gan  the  trees  rob  of  their  leavePi 
That  green  had  been  and  in  lust;^  freshnesse,\ 


Say. 


Sayings. 


3  Given.  <  Unfamiliar. 

1  Entire,  complete. 

1  The  feast  of  St.  Michael  and  All  Angels,  or  MiohaeK 
mas,  which  falls  on  Sept.  29th. 


THOMAS  HOCCLEVE,   OR  OCCLEVE 


[Aind  them  into  col6ur  of  yellownesse  5 

Had  died,  and  down  were  throwen  under  foot, 
riiat  change  sank  into  mine  heartes  root. 
_  „r  freshly  brought  it  to  my  remembrance, 

That  stableness  in  this  world  there  is  none; 
There  is  no  thing  but  change  and  variance;     10 
How  rich  a  man  may  be  or  well  begun, 
Endure  it  shall  not,  he  shall  it  foregone. 
Death  under  f oote  shall  him  thrust  a-down : 
For  that  is  every  wight's  conclusioun. 

Which  for  to  waive  is  in  no  mannes  might,       15 
How  rich  he  be,  strong,  lusty,  fresh,  and  gay. 

And  at  November's  end,  upon  a  night, 
Sighing  most  sore,  as  in  my  bed  I  lay. 
For  this  and  other  thoughts,  which  many  a 

day 
Before  I  had,  sleep  came  none  in  mine  eye,  20 
So  vexfed  me  the  thoughtful  malady.  ... 

The  grief  about  my  heart  so  sorely  swal 
And  bolned  ever  to  and  fro  so  sore,  30 

That  nedes  out  I  must  then  with  it  all: 
I  thought  I  could  not  keep  it  close  no  more, 
Nor  let  it  in  me,  being  old  and  hoar: 
And  for  to  prove  I  came  of  a  womdn, 
I  burst  out  on  the  morrow,  and  thus  began.  35 

Here  endeth  my  prologue,  and  followeth  my 
Complaint. 

The  Complaint 

Almighty  God,  as  liketh  His  goodness, 
Visiteth  folk  all-day  as  men  may  see, 
With  loss  of  goods  and  bodily  sickness, 
And  among  other  He  forgat  not  me; 
Witness  thereof  the  mad  infirmitie^ 
Which  that  I  had,  as  many  a  man 

knew. 
And   which   out   of    myself    me   cast 
threw.  .  .  . 

As  said  is  in  the  Psalter,^  might  I  say, 
All  they  that  saw  me  fled  away  from  me; 

Forgot  I  was,  all  out  of  mind  away, 
Like  as  the  dead,  from  heartes  charitie; 
To  a  lost  vessel  likened  might  I  be; 
For  many  a  wight  aboute  me  dwelling. 
Heard  I  me  blame  and  put  in  dispraising.  . 


81 


40 

well 
and 


78 


80 


83 


Some  time  I  thought  as  lite^  as  any  man,        106 

For  to  have  fallen  in  that  wildernesse, 
But  God,  when  that  Him  list,  may,  will,  and 
can. 
Our  health  withdraw  and  send  a  wight  sick- 

nesse, 
Though  man  be  well  this  day,  no  sykemesse^ 
To  him  is  promised  that  it  shall  endure;     ill 
God  now  can  hurt  and  now  can  heal  and 
cure.  .  .  . 

*  Hoccleve  was  ill  and  insane  about  1416-1421. 
»  Psalm,  xxxi.  11,  12.    Cf.  also  Psalm,  Ixxxviii. 

*  Little.  8  Security. 


Through  God's  just  doom  and  through  His 

judgement,  39o 

And  for  my  beste  now  I  take  and  deem, 

Gave  that  good  Lord  to  me  my  punishment;  395 

In  wealth  I  took  of  Him  no  heed  or  yeme," 

Him  for  to  please  and  Him  hon6ur  and 

queme,^ 
And  me  He  gave  a  bone^  on  which  to  gnaw. 
Me  to  correct  and  of  Him  to  have  awe. 

He  gave  me  wit,  and  wit  He  took  away       400 
When  that  He  saw  that  I  it  sore  misspent, 

And  gave  again,  when  it  was  His  to  pay 
And  granted  me  my  guiltes  to  repent. 
And  then  henceforth  to  set  all  mine  intent 
Unto  His  Deity  to  do  pleasaunce,  405 

And  to  amend  my  sinful  governaunce. 

Laud  and  hon6ur  and  thanks  unto  Thee  be. 
Lord  God  that  salve  art  to  all  my  heaviness! 

Thanks  for  my  wealth  and  mine  adversitie, 
Thanks  for  mine  age  and  for  my  sickeness, 
And  thanks  be  to  Thine  infinite  goodness  411 
For  all  Thy  gifts  and  benefices  all. 
And  to  Thy  mercy  and  Thy  grace  I  call. 


A  LAMENT  FOR  CHAUCER 

(From  The  Regimen  of  Princes,^  c.  1412) 

But  welaway!  so  is  my  hearte  woe  1958 

That  the  hon6ur  of  English  tongue  is  deed,  2 
Of  whom  I  used  to  have  counsel  and  rede.' 

O  master  dear,  and  father  reverent! 

My  master  Chaucer,  flower  of  eloquence, 
Mirror  of  fructuous  entendement,* 

O,  universal  father  in  science! 

Alas!  that  thou  thine  excellent  prudence  1965 

On  thy  bed  mortal  mightest  not  bequeathe! 

What  ailed  death?  alas!  why  would  he  slay 
thee? 

O  death!  thou  didest  not  harm  singular  ^ 
In  slaying  him,  but  all  this  land  it  smarteth; 

But  ne'ertheless,  thou  hast  not  any  power     1970 
His  name  to  slay;  his  high  virtue  upstarteth 
Unslain  by  thee,  which  aye  us  Uvely  heart- 
eth« 

With  bookes  of  his  ornate  Inditing, 
That  are  to  all  this  land  illumining.  . 

Simple  my  spirit,  scarce  my  letterure ' 
Unto  your  excellency  for  to  write 

Mine  inward  love,  and  yet,  in  aventure 
I  put  myself,  although  I  can  but  lyte.^ 
My  deare  master — (God  his  soul  requite!) 
And  father,  Chaucer,  fain  would  have  me 

taught; 
But  I  was  dull,  and  little  learned  or  naught. 

6  Care.  ">  Appease. 

8 Possibly  an  allusion  to  the  proverb:  "He  that  gives 
thee  a  bone  would  not  have  thee  die." 

1 A  long  didactic  poem  dedicated  to  Prince  Henry, 
the  future  Henry  V.  The  Prologue  contains  many 
autobiographical  confessions,  as  well  as  the  familiar 
passage  on  Chaucer,  given  above.  2  Dead. 

'  Instruction.  *  Understanding. 

s  A  single  injury.  *  Heartenelh  i.  e.  cheers. 

^  Learning.  ^  Know  but  little. 


1974 
2073 


2075 


82 


CHAUCER  TO   WYATT  AND  SURREY 


Alas!  my  worthy  master  honourable,  2080 

This  landes  very  treasure  and  rich^sse, 

Death,  by  thy  death,  hath  harm  irreparable 
Done  unto  us;  his  vengeable  duresse^ 
Despoiled  hath  this  land  of  the  sweetn6sse 
Of  rhetoric;  for  unto  TuUius  2085 

Was  never  man  so  like  amongest  us. 

Who  was  there  nearer  in  philosophie 

To  Aristotle,  in  our  tongue,  but  thou? 
The  foot-steps  of  Virgil  in  poesie 

Thou  foUowedst  sure,  this  men  know  well 
enow.^°  2090 

That  cumber-world,"  that  thee,  my  master 
slowi2 

I  would  were  slain!  death  went  too  hastily 
To  run  on  thee,  and  rive  thy  life  of  thee. 

Death  hath  but  small  consideracioun 
Unto  the  virtuous,  I  have  espied,  2095 

No  more,  as  showeth  the  probacioun,^' 

Than  to  a  vicious  master-scoundrel  tried ;^* 
Among  a  crowd,  is  every  man  maistrled;^^ 
By  him,  as  well  the  rich  man  as  the  poor; 
Learned  or  unlearned,  alike  they  stand — no 
more.  2100 

He  might  have  held  his  vengeance  yet  awhile, 
Till  that  some  man  might  equal  to  thee  be. 

Nay,  let  that  be!  he  knew  well  that  this  isle 
Might   never  bring   forth    man    like    unto 

thee, 
And  his  office  needes  do  must  he;  2105 

God  bade  him  so,  I  trust  as  for  the  best; 
O  master,  master,  God  thy  soule  rest!  . .  .2107 

The  firste  finder  ^^  of  our  fair  language,       4978 
Hath  writ  of  death  as  many  another  one, 

So  highly  well  that  it  is  my  dotdge^^  4980 

To  speak,  I  cannot  reach  what  they  have 

done. 
Alas!  my  father  from  the  world  is  gone — 
My  worthy  master  Chaucer,  him  I  mean — 
Be  thou  adv6cate  for  him,  heaven's  queen! 

As  thou  well  knowest,  O  blessed  virglne,     4985 
With  loving  heart,  and  high  devocioun 

In  thine  honour  he  wrought  full  many  a  line; 
Grant  now  thy  help  and  thy  promocioun! 
To  God  thy  Son,  make  thou  a  mocioun,^* 
How  he  thy  servant  was,  maiden  Marie,  4990 
And  let  his  love  flower  and  fructifie. 

Although  his  life  be  quenched,  the  resemb- 
launce 
Of  him  hath  in  me  s6  fresh  liveliness 
That,  to  put  other  men  in  remembraunce 

•  Revengeful  compulsion.  1°  Enough. 

II  Death,  the  encumberer,  burden,  or  hindrance  of  the 
world. 

12  Slew.  1'  Proof,  as  experience  ahows. 

i<  Proved.  1*  Mastered. 

18  Probably  the  first  discoverer  of  the  full  resources  of 
our  language,  not  the  first  poet,  as  the  expression  is  some- 
times explained.  Chaucer  trusted  to  his  native  tongue, 
while  Gower,  for  instance,  wrote  in  English,  Latin  and 
French. 

"  Foolishness.  "  Motion. 


Of  his  pers6n,  I  have  here  his  liken^ss^^  4995 

Essayed,  to  this  end  in  truthfulness. 

That  they  who  have  of  him  least  thought  and 

mind. 
By  this  portrayal  may  again  him  find. 


SCOTTISH    POETS    AFTER    CHAUCER 

Mn^  3|ame0  tlie  ifirsft  of  g)cotlanli 

1394-1437 

A  BALLAD  OF  GOOD  COUNSEL 

Since  through  virtue  increases  dignity, 
And  virtue,  flower  and  root,  is  of  noblay,^ 

Of  any  weal  or  what  estate  thou  be, 

His  steps  ensue  and  dread  thou  no  affray; 
Exile  all  vice,  and  follow  truth  alwdy;  5 

Luve  most  thy  God,  who  first  thy  luve  began. 

And  for  each  inch  He  will  thee  quit  a  span. 

Be  not  o'er  proud  in  thy  prosperity. 
For  as  it  comes,  so  will  it  pass  away; 

Thy  time  to  count  is  short,  thou  may'st  well 
see,  10 

For  of  green  grass  soon  cometh  withered  hay. 
Labour  in  truth  while  there  is  light  of  day. 

Trust  most  in  God,  for  He  best  guide  thee  can. 

And  for  an  inch  He  will  thee  quit  a  span. 

Since  word  is  thrall,  and  only  thought  is  free,  15 
Tame  thou  thy  tongue,  that  power  has  and 
may. 
Shut  thou  thine  eyes  on  worldly  vanity; 
Refrain  thy  lust  and  hearke^  what  I  say; 
Seize  lest  thou  slide,  and  creep  forth  on  the 
way; 
Keep  thy  behest  unto  thy  God  and  man,        20 
And  for  each  inch  He  will  thee  quit  a  span. 

Mobert  J^ent^0on 

c.  1425-c.  1500 

THE  TALE  OF  THE  PADDOCK  AND  THE 
MOUSE 

Upon  a  time,  as  ^sop  could  report, 
A  Uttle  Mouse  came  to  a  river  side; 

She  micht  not  wade,  her  shankes  were  sa  short; 
She  could  not  swim,  she  had  na  horse  to  ride; 
Of  very  force  hehoved  her  to  bide,  5 

And  to  and  fra  beside  the  river  deep, 

Crying  she  ran,  with  mony  a  piteous  peep. 

"Help  ower,  help  ower! "  this  silly  Mouse  gan 

cry, 
"For   Goddes   luve,    some   body   o'er    this 

brim!"^ 
With  that  a  Paddock  2  in  the  water  by,  10 

Put  up  her  heid,  and  on  the  bank  gan  clym;' 
Whilk  by  natiire  could  duck,  and  gaily  swim\^ 

19  The  portrait  of  Chaucer,  which  Hoccleve  employedv 
someone  to  paint  on  the  margin  of  his  manuscript  (Harl. 
Ms.  4688)  opposite  to  this  stanza. 

1  Nobility. 

1  Flood.  «  Toad.  •  Climb. 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 


83 


With  voice  full  rauk,^  she  said  in  this  maneir: 
"Gude  morn,  Sir  Mouse,  what  is  your  errand 
here?" 

"See'st  thou,"  quoth  she,  "of  corn  yon  jolie 
flat^  15 

Of  ripened  oats,  of  barley,  pease,  and  wheat; 
I  am  hungrie,  and  fain  would  be  thereat, 

But  I  am  stoppit  by  this  water  great; 

And  on  this  side  I  get  na  thing  to  eat 
But  hardest  nuts,  whilk  with  my  teeth  I  bore.  20 
Were  I  beyond,  my  feast  were  far  the  more. 

"  I  haf  na  boat,  here  is  na  marin^re; 
And  though  there  were,  I  haf  no  freight  to 
pay." 

Quoth  she:  "Sister,  let  be  your  heavy  cheer; 
Do  my  counsel,  and  I  shall  find  the  way  25 
Withouten  horse,  brig,^  boat,  or  yet  gallay, 

To  bring' you  o'er  safely — be  not  afeard — 

Nor  even  wet  the  tip  of  your  long  bekrd." 

"I  haf  great  wonder,"  quoth  the  silly  Mouse, 

"How  thou  can'st  float  without  feather  or 

fin! 

This  river  is  sa  deep  and  dangerous,  31 

Methinks    that    thou    would    drowned    be 

therein. 
Tell  me,  therefore,  what  facultie  or  gin ' 
Thou  hast  to  bring  thee  o'er  this  water?  ' 

Thans 
Thus  to  declare,  the  Paddock  soon  began :        35 

"With  my  twa  feet,"  quoth  she,  "webbed  and 
braid,9 

Instead  of  oars,  I  row  the  stream  full  still; 
And  though  the  flood  be  perilous  to  wade, 

Baith  to  and  fra  I  row  at  my  ain  will. 

I  may  not  drown, — for  why? — my  open  gill  40 
'Devoidis^°  aye  the  water  I  resaif ,  ^  ^ 
Therefore  to  droun,  forsooth,  na  dreid  I  half."  ^^ 

The  Mouse  looked  hard  upon  her  fronsit"  face. 
Her  wrinkled  cheekes,  and  her  lippes  wide; 

Her  hanging  browes,  and  her  voice  sa  hace;  ^*  45 
Her  sprawling  legges,  and  her  harsky^.^  hide. 
She  ran  aback,  and  to  the  Paddock  cried: 

"If  I  have  ony  skill  in  phisnomie,^^ 

Thou  hast  some  part  of  falsehood  and  envie. 

"  For  wise  men  say  the  incUnatioun  50 

Of  mannes  thought  proceedeth  commonlie 

After  the  corporal  complexioun 
To  guid  or  ill,  as  nature  will  applie; 
A  twisted  face,  a  twisted  phisnomie. 

The  auld  proverb  is  witness  of  this  lorum :"      55 

Distortum  vulium,   sequitur  distortio  morum." 

"Na,"  quoth  the  Toad,  "that  proverb  is  not 

true; 
For    fairest    things    are    oftentimes    found 

faikyn.^8 
*  Hoarse,  raucous.  *  Pretty  plain. 

«  Bridge.  ^  What  power  or  what  contrivance. 

8  Then.  »  Broad.  i°  Empties. 

"  Receive.  12  Have.  >'  Rough. 

1*  Hoarse.  "  Harsh.  '^  Physiognomy. 

"  Lore,  learning,  "  Deceitful. 


The  blue-berries,  though  they  be  sad  of  hue. 

Are  gathered  when  the  primrose  is  forsaken . 
The  face  may  fail  to  be  the  heart's  true  takin,^* 
Therefore  I  find  this  Scripture  all  in  place :  62 
Thou  should  not  judge  a  man  after  his  face. 


"Though  I  unwholesome  be  to  luik  upon, 
I  have  na  cause  why  I  should  blamed  be; 

Were  I  as  fair  as  jolie  Absalom, 

I  am  na  causer  of  that  great  beautie. 
This  difference  in  form  and  quaUtie 

Almighty  God  hath  caused  Dame  Nattire 

To  print,  and  set  in  every  creature. 


65 


70 


"Of  some  the  face  may  be  full  flourishing; 
Of  silken  tongue  and  cheer  richt  amorous; 

With  mind  inconstant,  false,  and  varying. 
With  tricky  ways,  and  full  of  sly  deceit." 
"Leave  preaching,"  quoth  the  Mouse,  who 
longed  to  eat, 

"And  by  what  craft,  now  mak  me  understand. 

You  mean  to  bear  me  unto  yonder  land ! "        77 

"Thou  know'st,"  quoth  she,  "a  body  that  has 
need, 

To  help  himself  should  mony  methods  cast;^'' 
Therefore  go  tak  a  double  twisted  threid,^!      so 

And  bind  thy  leg  to  mine  with  knottes  fast; 

I  shall  thee  learn  to  swim,  be  not  aghast." 
"Is  that  thy  counsel?"  quoth  the  silly  Mous, 
To  prove  that  play 't  were  over  perilous! 

"Should  I  be  bound  and  fast  where  I  am  free,  85 
In  hope  of  help?    Nay,  then  beshrew  us  baith 
For  I  micht  lose  baith  life  and  libertie! 

If  it  were  so,  who  might  amend  my  skaith?  22 

But  wilt  thou  swear  to  me  the  murther-aith,^^ 

To  bring  me  ower,  renouncing  fraud  or  ill,       90 

And  safe  from  hurt?"    "In  faith,"  quoth  she, 

"I  will." 

Then  up  she  gazed,  and  to  the  heavens  gan  cry; 
* '  O  Jupiter !    of  Nature,  god  and  king, 

I  mak  an  aith  truly  to  thee,  that  I 

This  little  Mouse  shall  o'er  this  water  bring." 
This  aith  was  made.     The  Mouse  not  per- 
ceiving 

The  false  device  of  this  foul  trickster  Taid,^*   97 

Tuik  threid,  and  bound  her  leg,  as  she  her  bade. 

Then  foot  for  foot  they  leapt  baith  in  the  brim; 

But  in  their  minds  they  were  quite  different: 

The  Mouse  thought  of  na  thing  but  for  to  swim. 

The  Paddock  for  to  drown^^  set  her  intent. 

When  they  had  gained  mid-stream,  as  on 

they  went,  103 

With  all  her  force  the  Paddock  pressed  down. 

And  thought  the  Mouse  without  mercle  to 

drown.  105 

i»  Token.  "  Contrive. 

21  Thread.  "  Hurt. 

23  Apparently  an  oath  by  which  a  person  solemnly 
binds  himself  not  to  murder  or  injure  another,  or  de- 
ceive him  to  his  hurt. 

2*  Toad.  **  Drown  her. 


84 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


Perceiving  this,  the  Mouse  on  her  gan  cry : 
"Traitor  to  God,  and  man-sworn  unto  me, 

Thou  swore  the  murther-aith  right  now,  that  I 
Sans  force  or  harm  should  ferried  be  and 

free!" 
Jfcid  when  she  saw  there  was  but  do  or  dee,  no 

With  all  her  micht  she  forced  her  to  swim 

And  struggled  on  the  Paddock's  back  to  clim.^^ 

The  dread  of  death  then  made  her  strength  in- 
crease; 
Forced  her  to  save  herself  with  micht  and 
main. 
The  Mouse  upward,  the  Paddock  down  gan 
preis;27 
Now  to,  now  fra,  now  duck,  now  up  again  .116 
This  silly  Mouse  thus  plunged  in  great  pain. 
So  fought  as  lang  as  breath  was  in  her  breist, 
Till  at  the  last  she  cryed  for  a  priest. 

As  thus  she  sighed,  a  Gled^s  perched  on  a 

bough,  120 

And  to  this  wretched  battle  tuik  guid  heid,^^ 

And  with  a  whisk,  ere  either  one  knew  how, 

He  clutched  his  claw  between  them  in  the 

threid; 
Then  to  the  land  he  bore  them  with  guid 
speed, 
Glad  of  his  prize,  which  shrieked  for  fear  of 
skaith,  125 

Then  loosed  he  them,  and  ruthless  slew  them 
baith.  .  .  . 

CONTENT 

(From  The  Tale  of  the  Upland  Moitse  and  the 
Burgess  Mouse) 

Blessed  be  simple  life,  withouten  dreid; 

Blessed  be  sober  feast  in  quietie; 
Who  has  enough,  of  no  more  has  he  need, 

Though  it  be  little  into  quantitie.  215 

Great  abundd-nce,  and  blind  prosperitie, 
Ofttimes  mak  an  ill  conclusion; 

The  sweetest  life,  therefore,  in  this  countrie, 
Is  to  live  safe,  with  small  possession. 


William  2r>unbar 

1460-0.  1525 

NO   TREASURE   WITHOUT   GLADNESS 

Be  merry,  man!  and  tak  not  sair*  in  mind 
The   wavering   of   this  wretched   world   of 
sorrow! 
To  God  be  humble  and  to  thy  friend  be  kind, 
And  with  thy  neighbours  gladly  lend  and 

borrow: 
His  chance  to-nicht,  it  may  be  thine  to- 
morrow; 5 
Be  blithe  in  heart  for  ony  adventiire; 

For  oft  with  wise  men,   't  has  been  said 
aforrow,2 
Without  gladness  availis  no  treasure. 

»  Climb.  27  Press.  28  Hawk.  2' Heed. 

^  Sore.  2  Afore,  before. 


Mak  thee  gude  cheer  of  it  that  God  thee  sends, 

For  warldes  wrack^  but  welfare  nocht  avails. 
No  gude  is  thine,  save  only  that  thou  spends; il 

Remanent  all  thou  brookis  but  with  bales. 

Seek  to  soMce  when  sadness  thee  assails; 
In  dolour  long  thy  life  may  not  endure. 

Wherefore  of  comfort  set  up  all  thy  sails;  15 
Without  gladness  availis  no  treasure. 

Follow  on  pity,  flee  trouble  and  debate. 
With  famous  folk  aye  hold  thy  company; 

Be  charitable  and  humble  in  thine  estate, 
For  wardly  honour  lastes  but  a  cry;*  20 

For  trouble  in  earth  tak  no  melancholy; 

Be  rich  in  patience,  if  thou  in  goods  be  poor; 
Who  lives  merry  he  lives  michtily; 

Without  gladness  availis  no  treasiire. 

Thou  seest  these  wretches  set  with  sorrow  and 
care  25 

To  gather  goods  in  all  their  lives  space; 
And,  when  their  bags  are  full,  their  selves  are 
bare. 
And  of  their  riches  but  the  keeping  hes;^ 
While  others  come  to  spend  it,  that  have 
grace, 
Whilk  of  thy  winnings  no  labour  had  nor  cure;^ 
Tak  thou  example,  and  spend  with  merriness; 
Without  gladness  availis  no  treasure.  32 

Though  all  the  wealth'  that  e'er  had  living  wight 

Were  only  thine,  no  more  thy  part  does  fall 
But  meat,  drink,  clothes,  and  of  the  rest  a  sight, 

Yet,  to  the  Judge,  thou  shalt  give  'compt  of 
all.  36 

Ane  reckoning  richt  comes  of  ane  ragment* 
small. 
Be  just  and  joyous,  and  do  to  nane  injtire. 

And  truth  shall  mak  thee  strong,  as  ony  wall; 
Without  gladness  availis  no  treasiire.  40 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  SEVEN  DEADLY 
SINS 

Of  Februar  the  fifteenth  nicht. 
Full  lang  before  the  dayes  licht, 

I  lay  in-till  a  trance; 
And  then  I  saw  baith  Heaven  and  Hell; 
Methocht,  amang  the  fiendes  fell,  5 

Mahoun^  gan  cry  ane  dance 
Of  sinners  that  were  never  shriven. 
Against  the  feast  of  Fastern's  even,^ 

To  mak  their  observance. 

3  The  sense  is.  For  (i.  e.  because)  the  world's  trash, 
refuse  (wxacl^  without  ("but")  spiritual  well-being 
(welfare)  avails  nothing. 

*  Short  time.  ^  Have.  «  Care. 

^  The  passage  is  thus  paraphrased  by  Hailes:— 

"What  riches  give  us,  let  us  then  explore; 

Meat,  drink,  and  clothes;  what  else?  a  sight  of  more." 

8  Scroll.  \ 

1  Mahomet,  here  the  devil.  In  the  Middle  Ages,  Ma-^' 
hornet  and  other  false  prophets  were  confused  or  identi-  (' 
fied  with  Satan. 

2  Fastens  or  fastings  even,  Shrove  Tuesday,  the  even- 
ing preceding  the  fast  of  Lient.  It  was  a  season  of  riotoui 
festivity. 


II 


WILLIAM   DUNBAR 


85 


He  bad  niak  ready  masquers'  guise, 
To  cut  up  capers  in  the  skies, 
As  varlets  do  in  France. ^  .  .  . 

"Let  see,"  quoth  he,  "now  who  begins," 
With  that  the  foul  Seven  Deadly  Sins 

Began  to  leap  at  anis.^ 
And  first  of  all  in  dance  was  Pride, 
With  hair  thrown  back,  and  bonnet  on  side, 

Like  to  mak  vastie  wanis;^ 
And  round  about  him,  as  a  wheel, 
Hangs  all  in  rumples  to  the  heel 

His  cassock  for  the  nanis;^ 
Many  a  proud  trompour^  with  him  tripped; 
'J'hrough  scalding  fire  aye  as  they  skipped 

They  girned  with  hideous  granis.^ 

Then  Ire  came  in  with  sturt^  and  strife: 
His  hand  was  aye  upon  his  knife. 

He  brandished  like  a  bear: 
Boasters,  braggers,  and  bargainers, 
After  him  passed  in  in  pairs. 

All  clad  in  garb  of  weir;^° 
In  jacks,  and  mail,  and  bonnets  of  steel, 
They  were  in  armour  to  the  heel, 

Full  fro  ward  was  their  air; 
Some  upon  other  with  brands  beft,^^ 
Some  jaggit  others  to  the  heft, 

With  knives  that  sharp  could  shear. 

Next  in  the  dance  followed  Envy, 
Filled  full  with  feud  and  felony. 

Hid  malice  and  despite; 
For  privy  hatred  that  traitor  trembled* 
Him  followed  many  a  rogue  dissembled 

With  feigned  wordes  white: 
And  flatterers  unt6  men's  faces; 
And  backbiters  in  secret  places 

To  lie  that  had  delight; 
And  whisperers  of  false  leslngs,^^ 
Alace!  that  courts  of  noble  kings 

Of  them  can  never  be  quyte.^^ 

Next  him  in  dance  came  Covetice, 
Root  of  all  ill,  and  ground  of  vice, 

That  never  could  be  content: 
Catiffs,  wretches,  and  usurers. 
Misers,  hoarders,  gatherers, 

All  with  that  warlook  went: 
Out  of  their  throats  they  shot  on  other 
Hot,  molten  gold,  me  thocht,  a  futher^* 

As  fire-flaught^^  maist  fervent; 
Aye,  as  they  emptied  them  of  shot, 
Fiends  filled  them  new  up  to  the  throat. 

With  gold  of  all  kind  prent.^^  .  .  . 


10 


19 


25 


30 


35 


40 


45 


50 


55 


60 


65 


Nae  minstrels  played  to  them  nae  doubt,      103 
For  gleemen  there  were  holden  out. 

By  day  and  eke  by  nicht;  105 

3  When  Dunbar  wrote,  French  fashions  were  in  vogue 
at  the  Scottish  Court. 

*  At  once.  5  Empty  dwellings. 

«  For  the  nonce.  ^  Cheat.                       '  Groans. 

» Disturbance.        •  ">  War.                        "  Beat. 

12  Lies.  13  Quit.                         "  Load. 

1*  Lightning.  i«  Of  every  impress. 


Except  a  minstrel  that  slew  a  man. 
So  to  his  heritage  he  wan. 

And  entered  by  brief  of  richt." 

Then  cried  Mahoun  for  a  Hielan'  Padyane:!^ 
Syne  ran  a  fiend  to  fetch  Makfadyane,^^        no 

For  north  wast  in  a  nook : 
When  he  the  coronach  had  done  shout, 
Erse^o  men  so  gathered  him  about. 

In  hell  great  room  they  took. 

Thae  termagents,  with  tag  and  tatter,  115 

Ful  loud  in  Erse  began  to  chatter. 

And  roup2^  like  raven  and  rook. 
The  Devil  sae  deaved  was  with  their  yell. 
That  in  the  deepest  pot  of  hell 

He  smorit22  them  with  smoke!  120 


THE  LAMENT  FOR  THE  MAKERS^ 

WHEN    HE    WAS    SICK 

I  that  in  health  was  and  gladness. 
Am  troubled  now  with  great  sickness, 
And  feeble  with  infirmity; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Our  pleasunce  here  is  all  vain  glory,  5 

This  false  warld  is  but  transitory. 
The  flesh  is  bruckle,''  the  Fiend  is  slee;' 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

The  state  of  man  does  change  and  vary. 
Now  sound,  now  sick,  now  blithe,  now  sary,^  10 
Now  dancing  merry,  now  like  to  dee; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

No  state  on  earth  stands  fast,  I  find; 
As  osiers  light  wave  in  the  wind, 
So  waveth  this  warld's  vanity;  15 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Down  unto  death  go  all  estates. 
Prelates,  and  kings,  and  potentates, 
Baith  rich  and  poor  of  all  degree; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me.  20 

Death  strikes  the  knichts  up  ^n  the  field. 
Full  armoured,  under  helm  and  shield, 
Victor  in  every  fight  is  he; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

That  strong,  unmerciful  tyrdnd^  25 

Taks,  on  the  mother's  breast  sowkand,^ 
The  babe  full  of  benignity; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

"  Breve  of  Recto,  a  writ  which  in  feudal  Scotland  es- 
tablished a  right  to  succession. 

'8  In  Dunbar's  time  and  for  long  after,  the  Highlanders 
were  regarded  with  a  feeling  of  mingled  dread  and  con- 
tempt by  the  more  settled  and  prosperous  people  of  the 
South.  Cf.  the  attitude  of  Baillie  Nichol  Jarvie  in 
Scott's  Rob  Roy. 

1'  An  opponent  of  Wallace,  the  Scotch  patriot.  After 
swearing  allegiance  to  Edward  1st,  Makfadyane  fled  to 
a  cave,  where  he  was  surprised  and  killed.  Hence  the 
assertion  that  he  was  fetched  from  a  "nook"  in  the 
"northwest." 

2"  Scotch,  Gaels.  ^i  Croak.  22  Smothered. 

1  Poets.  2  Brittle.  3Sl>. 

*  Sorry.  *  Tyrant  « Sucking 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


He  taks  the  champion  in  the  stour,^ 
The  captain  closed  in  the  tour,  30 

The  lady  in  hour  ful  of  beautie; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  spares  no  lord  for  his  puissdnce, 
No  clerk  for  his  intelligence; 
His  awful  stroke  may  no  man  flee;  35 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Masters  of  magic  and  astrology, 
Of  rhetoric,  logic  or  theology, 
Are  helped  by  no  conclusions  slee; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me.  40 

In  medecine  the  best  practicians, 
Of  leeches,  surgeons,  and  physicians. 
Themselves  from  death  may  not  supplie;  * 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

I  see  that  Makers,  amang  the  lave,^  45 

Play  here  their  pageants,  then  go  to  grave; 
Death  does  not  spare  their  facultie; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  came  most  piteously  to  devour 
The  noble  Chaucer,  i°  of  Makers'  flower,         50 
The  Monk  of  Bury,  and  Gower,  all  three; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

The  gude  Sir  Hugh  of  Eglington, 
And  eke  Heriot,  and  Wyntown, 
He  hath  ta'en  out  of  this  countree;  65 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  hath  restrained  (that  scorpion  dark) 
Maister  James  Afflek  and  John  Clerk 
Frae  ballad-making  and  tragedy; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me.  60 

Holland  and  Barbour  he  has  bereft; 
Alas,  he  has  not  with  us  left 
Sir  Mungo  Lockhart  of  the  Lea! 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Clerk  of  Tranent  eke  he  has  ta'en,  65 

That  made  th'  adventures  of  Gawain, 
Sir  Gilbert  Hay  ended  has  he; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  has  blind  Harry  and  Sandy  Traill 
Slain  with  his  shot  of  mortal  hail,  70 

Which  Patrick  Johnstoun  micht  not  flee; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  has  reft"  Merseir  his  endite,* 
That  did  of  luve  so  lively  write, 
So  short,  so  quick,  of  sentence  hie;^'  75 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

">  Storm,  stir  or  Ijumult  of  battle. 

8  Defend.  »  Among  the  rest. 

w  Among  the  twenty-four  poeta  celebrated  by  Dunbar, 
Chaucer  alone  remains  a  living  power  in  literature. 
Barbour,  Gower,  Lydgate  and  Henryson  hold  a  secure  and 
honorable  place;  while  a  few  others,  as  Blind  Harry  and 
Walter  Kennedy,  although  less  known,  are  still  nominally 
remembered.  Some  of  the  remainder  are  more  or  less 
securely  established  on  the  right  side  of  oblivion,  while 
others,  in  Sir  T.  Browne's  phrase,  "Subsist  under  naked 
nominations,  without  deserts  and  noble  acts,  which  are 
the  bakam  of  our  memories." 

"Snatched.  12  Manuscript.  "High, 


He  has  ta'en  Roull  of  Aberdeen, 
And  gentle  Roull  of  Corstorphine; 
Two  better  fellows  did  not  man  see; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me.  80 

In  Dumferline  he  has  doun  roun^^ 
Gude  Maister  Robert  Henrysoun; 
Sir  John  the  Ross  embraced  has  he; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

And  he  has  now  ta'en,  last  of  a',  85 

Gude  gentle  Stobo  and  Quintin  Schaw, 
For  whom  all  mortals  feel  pitie! 
Timxrr  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Gude  Maister  Walter  Kennedy 
At  point  of  death  lies  verilly,  90 

Great  ruth  it  is  that  this  should  be; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Since  he  has  all  my  brethren  ta'en, 
He  will  not  let  me  live  alane; 
Perforce  I  must  his  next  prey  be;  95 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Since  then  for  death  remeid^^  is  none, 
Best  is  that  we  for  death  dispone,^* 
After  our  death  that  live  may  we; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me.  100 


^atoain  Douglas 

c.  1474^1522 

WELCOME  TO  THE  SUMMER  SUN 

(From  the  Prologue  to  the  Mneid,^  Bk.  XH) 

Welcome,  the  lord  of  licht,  and  lamp  of  day, 
Welcome,  fost'rer  of  tender  herb^s  green. 
Welcome,    quick'ner    of    blooming    blossoms 

sheen. 
Welcome,  support  of  every  root  and  vein, 
Welcome,  comf6rt  of  all-kind  fruit  and  grain,  5 
Welcome,  the  birdes  bield^  upon  the  brere,^ 
Welcome,  maister  and  ruler  of  the  year, 
Welcome,  welfare*  of  farmers  at  the  ploughs. 
Welcome,  repairer  of  woods,  trees,  and  boughs, 
Welcome,  depainter  of  the  blooming  meads,  10 
Welcome,  the  life  of  everything  that  spredes, 
Welcome,  the  strength  of  all-kind  bestial. 
Welcome  be  thy  bricht  beam^s  gladding  all, 
Welcome,  celestial  mirror  and  aspy,^ 
Arresting  all  that  practise  shiggardy.  15 

1*  Has  run  down.  is  Remedy.  i«  Prepare. 

1  The  translation  of  the  /Eneid  is  generally  acknowl 
edged  to  be  Douglas's  most  important  work.  It  is  note- 
worthy as  the  earliest  attempt  to  reproduce  a  great 
classical  poem  in  English  verse.  The  prologues  prefaced  1 
to  the  various  books,  contain  some  vivid  and  forcible 
descriptions  of  Nature,  and  are  intrinsically  the  most 
interesting  parts  of  the  work. 

2  Nest.  3  Briar. 

*  i.  e.  the  one  who  gives  success  to  the  farmer's  labors, 
the  source  of  his  welfare.  *  Sentinel. 


JAMES  WEDDERBURN 


87 


1490-1555 


AN  APOLOGY  FOR 
VULGAR  AND 
GUAGE 


WRITING  IN  THE 
MATERNAL    LAN- 


(From  The  Monarchy,^  1553) 

Gentle  reddr,  have  at  me  na  despite, 

Thinking  that  I  presumptuously  pretend, 

In  vulgar^  tongue  sa  high  mattere  to  write :     540 

But,  where  I  miss,  I  pray  thee  to  amend. 

By  the  unlearned  I  would  the  cause  were  kend. 

Of  our  maist  miserable  travail  and  torm6nt, 

And  how  in  earth  na  place  is  permanent. 

Howbeit  that  divers  devoted  cunning  clerks,' 
In  Latin  tongue  have  written  sundry  books:  546 
Our  unlearned  know  little  of  their  werks; 
Mair  than  they  do  the  raving  of  the  rooks: 
Wherefore  to  colliers,  carters,  and  to  cooks, 
To  Jock  and  Tom,  my  rime  shall  be  directet. 
By  cunning  men  howbeit  it  will  be  lacket.*     551 

Though  every  common  may  not  be  a  clerk, 
And  have  no  lore  except  their  tongue  maternal, 
Why  should  of  God  the  marvellous  heavenly 

werk 
Be  hid  from  them,  I  think  it  not  fraternal:      555 
The  Father  of  heaven,  who  was  and  is  eternal, 
To  Moses  gave  the  law  on  Mount  Sindy 
Neither  in  Greek  nor  Latin,  as  I  hear  say. 

He  writ  the  law  in  tables  hard  of  stone, 

In  their  ain  vulgar  language  of  Hebrew ;  560 

That  all  the  bairns  of  Israel,  every  one, 

Micht  know  the  law,  and  so  the  same  ensue. 

But  had  he  writ  in  Latin  or  in  Grew,^ 

It  had  to  them  been  but  a  savourless  jest. 

Ye  may  well  wist  God  wrought  all  for  the  best. 


Aristotell,  nor  Plato,  I  hear  sane,^ 
Writ  not  their  high  philosophie  natural. 
In  Danish,  Dutch,  nor  tongue  Italid-n, 
But  in  the  maist  ornate^  tongue  mdternal. 
Whose  fame  and  name  do  ring  perpetual; 
Famous  VirglU,  the  prince  of  poetrie, 
Nor  Cicero,  the  flower  of  oratrie. 


566 


570 


Writ  not  in  Caldie  language,  nor  in  Grew; 
Nor  yet  writ  in  the  language  Saracene; 
Nor  in  the  natural  ^  language  of  Hebrew ;        575 
But  in  the  Roman  tongue,  as  may  be  seen, 
Whilk  was  their  proper  language,  as  I  ween. 
When  Romans  ranked  dominators,  indeed. 
The  ornate  Latin  was  their  proper  leid.'  .  .  .  579 

'  The  Monarchy,  or  Ane  Dialog  betunx  Experience  and 
ane  Courteour,  Lyndsay's  last  poem,  is  a  lengthy  survey 
of  the  history  of  the  world,  with  a  prophecy  of  the  mil- 
lenium,  when  all  things  shall  be  made  new. 

2  Lat.  vulgaris,  popular. 

'  Learned  writers.  ''  Dispraised. 

s  Greek.  « Said.  . 

^  Lat.  ornatus,  means  here  proper  or  fitting.  Genius. 

8  Original.  » Language.  i  Sore. 


The  prophet  David,  King  of  Israel,  664 

Conipiled  the  pleasant  psalms  of  the  Psaltair 

In  his  ain  proper  tongue,  as  I  hear  tell. 

And  Solomon,  who  was  his  son  and  heir. 

Did  mak  his  buke  intill  the  tongue  vulgair, 

Why  should  not  their  saying  be  to  us  shown   669 

In  our  language,  I  would  the  cause  were  known. 

Let  doctors  write  their  curious  questi6uns, 

And  arguments,  sown  full  of  sophistrie;    - 

Their  logic,  and  their  high  opini6uns. 

And  their  dark  judgments  of  astronomic, 

Their  medicine,  and  their  philosophie;  675 

Let  poets  show  their  glorious  ingyne,^'' 

As  ever  they  please,  in  Greek,  or  in  Latine; 

But  let  us  have  the  bookes  necessare 

To  commonweal  and  our  salvati6un, 

Justly  translated  in  our  tongue  vulgaire:       680 

And  so  I  mak  the  supplicatioun, 

O  gentle  redar,  have  na  indignati6un. 

Thinking  I  meddle  with  so  high  mattair: 

Now  to  my  purpose  forward  will  I  fare. 


iflamesf  Wti>Dtxhum 

c.  1500-1564-5 

LEAVE  ME  NOT 

(Psalm  XXVII,  9) 

Ah!  my  Lord,  leave  me  not, 
Leave  me  not,  leave  me  not, 
Ah!  my  Lord,  leave  me  not, 

Thus  mine  alone: 
With  ane  burden  on  my  back  ff 

I  may  not  bear,  I  am  so  weak, 
Lord,  this  burden  from  me  tak, 

Or  else  I  am  gone. 

With  sins  I  am  laden  sair,' 

Leave  me  not,  leave  me  not,  JO 

With  sins  I  am  laden  sair. 

Leave  me  not  alone: 
I  pray  thee.  Lord,  therefore, 
Keep  not  my  sins  in  store; 
Loose  me,  or  I  am  forlore,^  15 

And  hear  thou  my  moan. 

With  Thy  hands  Thou  hast  me  wrought, 

Leave  me  not,  leave  me  not, 

With  Thy  hands  Thou  hast  me  wrought. 

Leave  me  not  alone:  20 

I  was  sold  and  Thou  me  bought. 
With  Thy  blood  Thou  hast  me  coft;' 
Now  am  I  hither  sought 

To  Thee,  Lord,  alone. 

I  cry  and  call  to  Thee,  25 

To  leave  me  not,  to  leave  me  not, 
I  cry  and  call  to  Thee, 

To  leave  me  not  alone: 


«L08t. 


»  Purchased. 


88 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


All  they  that  laden  be, 

Thou  bidst  them  come  to  Thee, 

Then  shall  they  saved  be, 

Through  Thy  mercy  alone. 


30 


Thou  savest  all  the  penitent, 

And  leav'st  them  not,  and  leav'st  them  not. 

Thou  savest  all  the  penitent,  35 

And  leav'st  them  not  alone. 
All  that  will  their  sins  repent, 
None  of  them  shall  be  shent,* 
Suppose  Thy  bow  be  ready  bent. 

Of  them  Thou  killest  none.  40 


Faith,  hope,  and  charity, 
Leave  me  not,  leave  me  not, 
Faith,  hope,  and  charity, 

Leave  me  not  alone. 
1  pray  Thee,  Lord,  grant  me, 
These  godly  giftes  three, 
Then  shall  I  saved  be. 

Doubt  have  I  none. 


To  the  Father  be  all  glore,^ 

That  leaves  us  not,  that  leaves  us  not, 

To  the  Father  be  all  glore. 

That  leaves  us  not  alone. 
Son  and  Holy  Ghost  e'crmore. 
As  it  is  and  was  before; 
Through  Christ  our  Saviour 

We  are  safe  every  one. 


45 


50 


55 


BALLADS  OF  UNCERTAIN  DATE 

ROBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF  GISBORNE 

When  shaws^  be  sheen,  and  shradds^  full  fair, 

And  leaves  both  large  and  long. 
It  is  merry,  walking  in  the  fair  forest, 

To  hear  the  small  birds'  song. 

The  witwalP  sang,  and  would  not  cease,  5 

Sitting  upon  the  spray, 
So  loud,  he  wakened  Robin  Hood, 

In  the  greenwood  where  he  lay. 


"Now  by  my  fay,"  said  jolly  Robin, 

"  A  sweven*  I  had  this  night, 
I  dreamt  me  of  two  wight  yeomen, 

That  fast  with  me  gan  fight. 

"Me  thought  they  did  me  beat  and  bind, 

And  took  my  bow  me  fro; 
If  I  be  Robin  alive  in  this  land, 

I'll  be  wrocken^  on  both  them  two." 


10 


15 


"Sweavens  are  swift,  master,"  quoth  John, 
"As  the  wind  that  blows  o'er  a  hill: 

For  if  it  be  never  so  loud  this  night, 
Tomorrow  it  may  be  still."  20 


"Busk  ye,  bowne  ye,^  my  merry  men  all. 

For  John  shall  go  with  me; 
For  I'll  go  seek  yond  wight  yeomen 

In  greenwood  where  they  be." 

They  cast  on  their  gown  of  green, 

A  shoothing  gone  are  they. 
Until  they  came  to  the  merry  greenwood, 

Where  they  had  gladdest  be; 
There  were  they  ware  of  a  wight  yeoman, 

His  body  leaned  to  a  tree. 

A  sword  and  a  dagger  he  wore  by  his  side. 
Had  been  many  a  man's  bane, 

And  he  was  clad  in  his  capull-hide,^ 
Top,  and  tail,  and  mane. 


"Stand  you  still,  master,"  quoth  Little  John,  35 

"  Under  this  trusty  tree, 
And  I  will  go  to  yonder  wight  yeoman, 

To  know  his  meaning  trul^." 


24 


30 


"Ah,  John,  by  me  thou  sett'st  no  store, 

And  that's  a  farley^  thing; 
How  oft  send  I  my  men  before. 

And  tarry  myself  behind? 

"It  is  no  cunning  a  knave  to  ken, 
An^  a  man  but  hear  him  speak; 

An  it  were  not  for  bursting  of  my  bow, 
John,  I  would  thy  head  brea^." 

But  often  words  they  breed  en  bale,^° 

That  parted  Robin  and  John; 
John  is  gone  to  Barnesdale, 

The  gates^^  he  knows  each  one. 

And  when  he  came  to  Barnesdale, 

Great  heaviness  there  he  had; 
He  found  two  of  his  fellowes 

Were  slain  both  in  a  slade,^^ 

And  Scarlett  afoot  a-flying  was. 

Over  stocks  and  stone, 
For  the  sheriff  with  seven  score  men 

Fast  after  him  is  gone. 

"Yet  one  shot  I'll  shoot,"  says  Little  John, 
"With  Christ  his  might  and  main; 

I'll  make  yond  fellow  that  flies  so  fast 
To  be  both  glad  and  fain." 

John  bent  up  a  good  yew  bow, 

And  fettled ^^  him  to  shoot; 
The  bow  was  made  of  a  tender  bough, 

And  fell  down  to  his  foot. 


40 


45 


50 


55 


60 


65 


"Woe  worth  thee,  wicked  wood,"  said  Little 
John, 

"That  ere  thou  grew  on  a  tree! 
For  this  day  thou  art  my  bale,  j 

My  boot'"  when  thou  should  be! "  70  X 


*  Shamed. 

1  Glory. 

'  Groves. 

»  The  great  spotted  woodpecker. 

*  Dream. 

2  Coppices. 
6  Avenged. 

*  Prepare,  make  ready. 

7  Horse's  hide.  »  Strange.  »  If. 

10  Breed  evil.  "  Paths.  "  Valley. 

"  Prepared.  "  Remedy. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF  GISBORNE 


89 


This  shot  it  was  but  loosely  shot, 

The  arrow  flew  in  vain, 
And  it  met  one  of  the  sheriff's  men; 

Good  William  of  Trent  was  slain. 

It  had  been  better  for  William  of  Trent  75 

To  hang  upon  a  gallow 
Than  for  to  lie  in  the  greenwood,  ^' 

There  slain  with  an  arrow. 

And  it  is  said,  when  men  be  met, 

Six  can  do  more  than  three :  80 

And  they  have  ta'en  Little  John, 

And  bound  him  fast  to  a  tree. 

''Thou  shalt  be  drawn  by  dale  and  down," 
quoth  the  sheriff, 

"And  hanged  high  on  a  hill:" 
**  But, thou  may  fail,"  quoth  Little  John,  85 

"If  it  be  Christ's  own  will." 

Let  us  leave  talking  of  Little  John, 

For  he  is  bound  fast  to  a  tree. 
And  talk  of  Guy  and  Robin  Hood 

In  the  greenwood  where  they  be.  90 

How  these  two  yeomen  together  they  met. 

Under  the  leaves  of  lime, 
To  see  what  merchandise  they  made 

Even  at  that  same  time. 

"Good  morrow,  good  fellow,"  quoth  Sir  Guy;  95 
"Good  morrow,  good  fellow,"  quoth  he; 

"  Methinks  by  this  bow  thou  bear'st  in  thy  hand 
A  good  archer  thou  seems  to  be." 

"  I  am  wilful  of  my  way,"  quoth  Sir  Guy, 

"And  of  my  morning  tide:  "^5  100 

"  I'll  lead  thee  through  the  wood,"  quoth  Robin, 
"Good  fellow,  I'll  be  thy  guide." 


'Lead  on,  good  fellow,"  said  Sir  Guy, 

"Lead  on,  I  do  bid  thee:" 
'  Nay,  by  my  faith,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"The  leader  thou  shalt  be." 


120 


"  I  seek  an  outlaw,"  quoth  Sir  Guy, 
"  Men  call  him  Robin  Hood; 

I  had  rather  meet  with  him  upon  a  day 
Than  forty  pound  of  gold." 


105 


"If  you  two  met,  it  would  be  seen  whether  were 
better 

Afore  ye  did  part  away; 
Let  us  some  other  pastime  find. 

Good  fellow,  I  thee  pray.  1 10 

"Let  us  some  other  masteries^^  make. 
And  we  will  walk  in  the  woods  even; 

We  may  chance  meet  with  Robin  Hood 
At  some  unset  steven."^^ 

Th  ey  cut  them  down  the  summer  shroggs^^     115 

Which  grew  both  under  a  brere,i^ 
And  set  them  three  score  rods.in  twain. 

To  shoot  the  pricks^"  full  neare. 

'5  Time.        '«  Trials  of  skill.  "  Unappointed  time. 

18  Stunted  shrubs.  "  Briar. 

20  A  wand  or  white  mark  used  as  the  bull's  eye  of  the 
target. 


The  first  good  shot  that  Robin  led. 
Did  not  shoot  an  inch  the  prick  fro; 

Guy  was  an  archer  good  enough,  126 

But  he  could  ne'er  shoote  so. 

The  second  shot  Sir  Guy  shot. 

He  shot  within  the  garland  ;2i 
But  Robin  Hood  shot  it  better  than  he. 

For  he  clove  the  good  prick-wand.  130 

"God's  blessing  on  thy  heart! "  says  Guy, 
"Good  fellow,  thy  shooting  is  good; 

For  an  thy  heart  be  as  good  as  thy  hands. 
Thou  were  better  than  Robin  Hood. 

*'Tell  me  thy  name,  good  fellow,"  quoth  Guy, 
'  *  Under  the  leaves  of  ly ne : "  136 

"Nay,  by  my  faith,"  quoth  good  Robin, 
"Till  thou  have  told  me  thine." 

"I  dwell  by  dale  and  down,"  quoth  Guy, 
"  And  I  have  done  m  any  a  curst  turn ;  140 

And  he  that  calls  me  by  my  right  name. 
Calls  me  Guy  of  good  Gisborne." 

"My  dwelling  is  in  the  wood,"  says  Robin; 

" By  thee  I  set  right  nought; 
My  name  is  Robin  Hood  of  Barnesdale,  145 

A  fellow  thou  hast  long  sought." 

He  that  had  neither  been  of  kith  nor  kin 

Might  have  seen  a  full  fair  sight. 
To  see  how  together  these  yeomen  went, 

With  blades  both  brown  and  bright.  150 

To   have   seen   how   these   yeomen   together 
fought 

Two  hours  of  a  summer's  day; 
It  was  neither  Guy  nor  Robin  Hood 

That  fettled22  them  to  fly  away. 

Robin  was  reckless  of  a  root,  155 

And  stumbled  at  that  tide,^^ 
And  Guy  was  quick  and  nimble  withal, 

And  hit  him  o'er  the  left  side. 

"Ah,  dear  Lady!"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"Thou  art  both  mother  and  may !  ^4  leo 

I  think  it  was  never  man's  destiny 
To  die  before  his  day." 

Robin  thought  on  Our  Lady  dear. 

And  soon  leapt  up  again, 
And  thus  he  came  with  an  awkward^s  stroke;  165 

Good  Sir  Guy  he  has  slain. 

He  took  Sir  Guy's  head  by  the  hair. 

And  stuck  it  on  his  bow's  end : 
"Thou  hast  been  traitor  all  thy  life, 

Which  thing  must  have  an  end."  170 

21  The  ring  around  the  centre  of  the  target. 

22  Made  ready.  "  Time. 

24  Maid,  virgin.  26  Unexpected. 


90 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irish  knife, 
And  nicked  Sir  Guy  in  the  face, 

That  he  was  never  of  a  woman  born 
Could  tell  who  Sir  Guy  was. 


Liethere,  lie  there,  good  Sir  Guy,        175 
And  with  me  be  not  wroth; 
If  thou  have  had  the  worse  strokes  at  my  hand, 
Thou  shalt  have  the  better  cloth." 

Robin  did  off  his  gown  of  green, 

Sir  Guy  he  did  it  throw ;  180 

And  he  put  on  that  capuU-hide 

That  clad  him  top  to  toe. 

"The  bow,  the  arrows,  and  little  horn, 

And  with  me  now  I'll  bear; 
For  now  I  will  go  to  Barnesdale,  185 

To  see  how  my  men  do  fare." 

Robin  set  Guy's  horn  to  his  mouth, 

A  loud  blast  in  it  he  did  blow; 
That  beheard  the  sheriff  of  Nottingham, 

As  he  leanM  under  a  lowe. ^^  190 

"Hearken!  hearken! "  said  the  sheriff, 

"I  heard  no  tidings  but  good; 
For  yonder  I  hear  Sir  Guy's  horn  blow, 

For  he  hath  slain  Robin  Hood. 

' '  For  yonder  I  hear  Sir  Guy's  horn  blow,         195 

It  blows  so  well  in  tide,^^ 
For  yonder  comes  that  wighty  yeoman, 

Glad  in  his  capull-hide. 

"Come hither,  thou  good  Sir  Guy, 

Ask  of  me  what  thou  wilt  have : ' '  200 

"I'll  none  of  thy  gold,"  says  Robin  Hood, 

"  Nor  I'll  none  of  it  have. 

"But  now  I  have  slain  the  master,"  he  said, 

"  Let  me  go  strike  the  knave; 
This  is  all  the  reward  I  ask,  205 

Nor  no  other  will  have." 

"Thou  art  a  madman,"  said  the  sheriff, 
"Thou  should'st  have  had  a  knight's  fee; 

Seeing  thy  asking  hath  been  so  bad, 
Well  granted  it  shall  be."  210 

But  Little  John  heard  his  master  speak. 
Well  he  knew  that  was  his  steven;^^ 

"Now  shall  I  be  loosed,"  quoth  Little  John, 
"With  Christ's  might  in  heaven." 

But  Robin  he  hied  him  towards  Little  John,  215 
He  thought  he  would  loose  him  heliwe',^ 

The  sheriff  and  all  his  company 
Fast  after  him  did  drive. 


"Stand  aback!  stand  aback!"  said  Robin; 

"  Why  draw  you  me  so  near? 
It  was  never  the  use  in  our  country 

One's  shrift  another  should  hear." 


But  Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irish  knife, 

And  loosed  John  hand  and  foot, 
And  gave  him  Sir  Guy's  bow  in  his  hand,        22a 

And  bade  it  be  his  boot.'" 

But  John  took  Guy's  bow  in  his  hand 
(His  arrows  were  rusty  by  the  root) ; 

The  sheriff  saw  Little  John  draw  a  bow 
And  fettle^^  him  to  shoot.  230 

Towards  his  house  in  Nottingham 

He  fled  full  fast  away, 
And  so  did  all  his  company, 

Not  one  behind  did  stay. 

But  he  could  neither  so  fast  go,  235 

Nor  away  so  fast  run, 
But  Little  John,  with  an  arrow  broad, 

Did  cleave  his  heart  in  twinn.32 

THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  CHEVIOT 

The  Percy  out  of  Northumberland, 

And  a  vow  to  God  made  he  • 

That  he  would  hunt  in  the  mountains 
Of  Cheviot  within  days  three, 

In  the  maugre  of  doughty  Douglas,  5 

And  all  that  ever  with  him  be. 

The  fattest  harts  in  all  Cheviot 

He  said  he  would  kill,  and  carry  them  away: 
"By  my  faith,"  said  the  doughty  Douglas  again, 

"  I  will  let^  that  hunting  if  I  may."  10 

Then  the  Percy  out  of  Bamboro  came, 

With  him  a  mighty  meyne,^ 
With  fifteen  hundred  archers  bold  of  blood  and 
bone; 

They  were  chosen  out  of  shires  three. 

This  began  on  a  Monday  at  mom, 

In  Cheviot  the  hills  so  hie  f 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn, 

It  was  the  more  pitie. 

The  drivers  through  the  woodes  went. 

For  to  rouse  the  deer; 
Bowmen  bickered^  upon  the  bent^ 

With  their  broad  arrows  clear. 

Then  the  wild^  through  the  woodes  went. 

On  every  side  sheer  ;^ 
Greyhoundes  through  the  groves  glent. 

For  to  kill  their  deer. 

This  began  in  Cheviot  the  hills  aboun, 

Early  on  a  Monnyn-day;^ 
By  that  it  drew  to  the  hour  of  noon, 

A  hundred  fat  harts  dead  there  lay. 

They  blew  a  mort^  upon  the  bent. 

They  assembled  on  sides  sheer; 
To  the  quarry  then  the  Percy  went. 

To  see  the  brittlingi"  of  the  deer. 


15 


20 


25 


30 


220  30  Remedy. 


»  Hillock. 
*  Voice. 


^  Time. 
»  Quickly. 


''  Prepare.  32  Twain. 

1  Stop.  -  Company.  s  High. 

*  Skirmished.     6  Qpen  fields.  «  Wild  creatures. 

^  Straight,  swift.  8  Monday. 

»  Blast  of  the  horn  indicating  the  taking  of  the  deer. 
10  Quartering,  or  cutting  up. 


THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  CHEVIOT 


91 


He  said,  "  It  was  the  Douglas'  promise  35 

This  day  to  meet  me  here; 
But  I  wist  he  would  fail,  verament; "" 

A  great  oath  the  Percy  swear.  ^^ 

At  the  last  a  squire  of  Northumberland 

Looked  at  his  hand  full  nie;  ^'  40 

He  was  ware  of  the  doughty  Douglas  coming, 
With  him  a  mighty  meyne.^* 


Both  with  spear,  bill,  and  brand, 
It  was  a  mighty  sight  to  see; 

Hardier  men,  both  of  heart  nor  hand. 
Were  not  in  Christiantle. 


45 


They  were  twenty  hundred  spearmen  good, 

Withoute  any  fail; 
They  were  born  along  by  the  water  of  Tweed, 

In  the  bounds  of  Tividale.  50 

"  Leave  ofT  the  brittling  of  the  deer,"  he  said, 
"  And  to  your  bows  look  you  take  good  heed; 

For  never  since  ye  were  of  your  mothers  bom 
Had  ye  never  so  mickle  need." 

The  doughty  Douglas  on  a  steed,  65 

He  rode  all  his  men  beforn; 
His  armor  glittered  as  did  a  glede;^^ 

A  bolder  bairn  was  never  born. 

"Tell  me  whose  men  ye  are,"  he  says, 
' '  Or  whose  men  that  ye  be :  60 

Who  gave  you  leave  to  hunt  in  this  Cheviot 
chase,  ^^ 
In  the  spite  of  mine  and  of  me." 

The  first  man  that  ever  him  an  answer  made, 

It  was  the  good  lord  Perc;^: 
"We  will  not  tell  thee  whose  men  we  are,"  he 
says,  65 

"  Nor  whose  men  that  we  be ; 
But  we  will  hunt  here  in  this  chase. 

In  the  spite  of  thine  and  of  thee. 

"The  fattest  hartes  in  all  Cheviot 

We  have  killed,   and  cast  to  carry  them 

away:"  70 

"By  my  troth,"  said  the  doughty  Douglas  again, 

"Therefore  the  one  of  us  shall  die  this  day." 

Then  said  the  doughty  Douglas 

Unto  the  lord  Percy: 
*  *  To  kill  all  these  guiltless  men,  75 

Alas,  it  were  great  pitie! 

"  But,  Percy,  thou  art  a  lord  of  land, 
I  am  an  earl  called  within  my  countrie; 

Let  all  our  men  upon  a  party  ^^  stand. 

And  do^8  tiie  battle  of  thee  and  of  me."         80 

"Now  Christ's  curse  on  his  crown,"  said  the 
lord  Perc^, 

"Whosoever  thereto  says  nay; 
By  my  troth,  doughty  Douglas,"  he  says, 

"Thou  shalt  never  see  that  day. 


"  Truly.         12  Swore. 
1*  Company, 
w  Hunting  park. 


1'  Observed  near  at  hand. 

IS  Flame,  live  coal. 

"  To  one  side,     i*  Let  us  do. 


"Neither  in  England,  Scotland,  nor  France,    85 

Nor  for  no  man  of  a  woman  born, 
But,  an^^  fortune  be  my  chance, 

I  dare  meet  him,  one  man  for  one." 

Then  bespake  a  squire  of  Northumberland, 
Richard  Wy tharynton  was  his  name :  90 

"It  shall  never  be  told  in  South  England,"  he 
says, 
"To  King  Harry  the  Fourth  for  shame. 

"I  wot  you  be  great  lordes  two, 

I  am  a  poor  squire  of  land: 
I  will  never  see  my  captain  fight  on  a  field,       95 

And  stand  myself  and  look  on. 
But  while  I  may  my  weapon  wield, 

I  will  not  fail  both  heart  and  hand." 

That  day,  that  day,  that  dreadful  day! 

The  first  fit^o  here  I  fynde;2i  lOO 

An  you  will  hear  any  more  of  the  himting  of  the 
Cheviot, 

Yet  is  there  more  behind. 

The  English  men  had  their  bows  i-bent. 

Their  hearts  were  good  enough; 
The  first  of  arrows  that  they  shot  off,  105 

Seven  score  spearmen  they  slough.^^ 

Yet  bideth  the  earl  Douglas  upon  the  bent, 

A  captain  good  enough. 
And  that  was  seene  verament. 

For  he  wrought  them  both  woe.  and  wough.^^ 

The  Douglas  parted  his  host  in  three,  ill 

Like  a  chief  chief  tan  of  pride; 
With  sure  spears  of  mighty  tree, 

They  came  in  on  every  side: 

Though  our  English  archer^  115 

Gave  many  a  wound  full  wide; 
Many  a  doughty  they  gared  to  dee,^^ 

Which  gained  them  no  pride. 

The  English  men  let  their  bowes  be, 

And  pulled  out  brands  that  were  bright;     120 
It  was  a  heavy  sight  to  see 

Bright  swords  on  basnets^^  light. 

Through  riche  mail  and  manople,^^ 

Many  stern^^  ^ey  struck  down  straight; 

Many  a  freke^s  that  was  full  free,  125 

There  under  foot  did  light. 

At  last  the  Douglas  and  the  Percy  met, 
Like  to  captains  of  might  and  of  main; 

They  swapped  ^^  together  till  they  both  sweat, 
With  swords  that  were  of  fine  Millan.^o       13G 

These  worthy  frekes  for  to  fight, 

Thereto  they  were  full  fain. 
Till  the  blood  out  of  their  basnets  sprent,'' 

As  ever  did  hail  or  rain. 

19  If.     20  Division  of  a  ballad.     21  End.  "  Slew. 

23  Wrong.     24  Made  to  die.     25  Helmets.  26  Gauntlet. 

27  Bold  ones.  28  Man.  29  Struck. 

30  Milan  steel.  '^  Spouted. 


92 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREl^ 


"Yield  thee,  Percy,"  said  the  Douglds, 
"And  i'faith  I  shall  thee  bring 

Where  thou  shalt  have  an  earl's  wag^s 
Of  Jamie  our  Scottish  king. 

'  Thou  shalt  have  thy  ransom  free, 

I  hight^^  thee  here  this  thing; 
For  the  manf  uUest  man  yet  art  thou 

That  ever  I  conquered  in  field  fighting." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  lord  Vercf, 

"I  told  it  thee  beforn, 
That  I  would  never  yielded  be 

To  no  man  of  a  woman  born." 

With  that  there  came  an  arrow  hastily, 

Forth  of  a  mighty  one; 
It  hath  stricken  the  earl  Douglds 

In  at  the  breast-bone. 


135 


140 


145 


150 


An  arrow,  that  a  cloth-yard  was  long,  186 

To  the  hard  steel  hauled  he; 
A  dint  that  was  both  sad  and  sore 

He  set  on  Sir  Hugh  the  Montgomery. 

The  dint  it  was  both  sad  and  sore, 

That  he  on  Montgomery  set;  190 

The  swan-feathers  that  his  arrow  bore 

With  his  heart-blood  they  were  wet. 

There  was  never  a  man  one  foot  would  flee. 

But  still  in  stour^^  did  stand. 
Hewing   on   each   other,    while   they   mighte 
dree,  40  195 

With  many  a  baleful  brand. 

This  battle  began  in  Cheviot 

An  hour  before  the  noon, 
And  when  even-song  bell  was  rung. 

The  battle  was  not  half  doon.  200 


Thorough  liver  and  lunges  both 

The  sharp  arrow  is  gone, 
That  never  after  in  all  his  life-days 

He  spake  more  wordes  but  one: 
That  was,  "Fight  ye,  my  merry  men,  whiles  ye 
may. 

For  my  life-days  be  gone."  156 

The  Percy  leaned  on  his  brand. 

And  saw  the  Douglas  dee;^' 
He  took  the  dead  man  by  the  hand. 

And  said, ' '  Woe  is  me  for  thee !  160 

"To  have  saved  thy  life,  I  would  have  parted 
with 

My  landes  for  years  three. 
For  a  better  man,  of  heart  nor  of  hand. 

Was  not  in  all  the  north  countri6." 

Of  all  that  saw  a  Scottish  knight,  165 

Was  called  Sir  Hugh  the  Montgomery; 

He  saw  the  Douglas  to  the  death  was  dight,'* 
He  spended^^  a  spear  of  trusty  tree. 


He  rode  upon  a  corsiare^^ 
Through  a  hundred  archer^: 

He  never  stinted,  ^^  nor  never  stopped, 
Till  he  came  to  the  good  lord  Perc^. 


170 


He  set  upon  the  lord  Perc;^' 

A  dint  that  was  full  sore; 
With  a  sure  spear  of  a  mighty  tree  175 

Clean  through  the  body  he  the  Percy  ber,'^ 

On  the  other  side  that  a  man  might  see 

A  large  cloth-yard  and  mare: 
Two  better  captains  were  not  in  Christianti^ 

Than  that  day  slain  were  there.  180 

An  archer  of  Northumberland 

Saw  slain  was  the  lord  Perc;^^; 
He  bare  a  bended  bow  in  his  hand. 

Was  made  of  trusty  tree. 


'*  Promise.      88  Die. 
*•  Swift  horse. 


'*  Prepared. 
"  Stopped. 


''  Placed  in  rest. 
38  Bore,  thrust. 


They  took  .  .  .^^  on  either  hand 

By  the  light  of  the  moon; 
Many  had  no  strength  for  to  stand. 

In  Cheviot  the  hilles  aboun.*^ 

Of  fifteen  hundred  archers  of  England  205 

Went  away  but  seventy  and  three; 

Of  twenty  hundred  spearmen  of  Scotland, 
But  even  five  and  fifty. 

But  all  were  slain  Cheviot  within; 

They  had  no  strength  to  stand  on  hie;*'      210 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn, 

It  was  the  more  pittie. 

There  was  slain,  with  the  lord  Percy, 

Sir  John  of  Agerstone, 
Sir  Roger,  the  hinde**  Hartly,  215 

Sir  William,  the  bold  Hearone. 

Sir  Jorg,  the  worthy  Lumley, 

A  knight  of  great  renown. 
Sir  Ralph,  the  riche  Rugby, 

With  dints  were  beaten  down.  220 

For  Wetharryngton  my  heart  was  woe, 

That  ever  he  slain  should  be; 
For  when  both  his  legs  were  hewn  in  two, 

Yet  he  kneeled  and  fought  on  his  knee. 

There  was  slain,  with  the  doughty  Douglas,  225 

Sir  Hugh  the  Montgomery, 
Sir  Davy  Lambwell,  that  worthy  was, 

His  sister's  son  was  he. 

Sir  Charles  of  Murray  in  that  place, 

That  never  a  foot  would  flee ;  230 

Sir  Hugh  Maxwell,  a  lord  he  was, 

With  the  Douglas  did  he  dee. 

So  on  the  morrow  they  made  them  biers 

Of  birch  and  hazel  so  gray; 
Many  widows,  with  weeping  tears,  235 

Came  to  fetch  their  mates  away. 

39  Stress  of  battle.  «"  Endure. 

^1  Omission  in  the  Ma.  *^  Above. 

*3  Stand  upright.  "Gentle. 


THE  TWA  CORBIES 


93 


Tividale  may  carp  of  care, 

Northumberland  may  make  great  moan, 
For  two  such  captains  as  slain  were  there, 

On  the  border-side  shall  never  be  none.       240 

Word  is  comen  to  Edinboro, 

To  Jamie  the  Scottish  king. 
That    doughty    Douglas,    lieutenant    of    the 
Marches,^^ 

He  lay  slain  Cheviot  within. 

His  handes  did  he  weaP"  and  wring,  245 

He  said,  "Alas,  and  woe  is  me! 
Such  another  captain  Scotland  within," 

He  said,  "i'faith  should  never  be." 

Word  is  comen  to  lovely  London, 

To  the  fourth  Harry  our  King,  250 

That  lord  Percy,  lieutenant  of  the  Marches, 

He  lay  slain  Cheviot  within. 

"God  have  mercy  on  his  soul,"  said  King  Harry, 

"Good  Lord,  if  thy  will  it  be! 
I  have  a  hundred  captains  in  England,"  he 
said,  255 

* '  As  good  as  ever  was  he : 
But,  Percy,  an  I  brook^^  my  life, 

Thy  death  well  quit  shall  be." 

As  our  noble  king  made  his  avow, 

Like  a  noble  prince  of  renown,  260 

For  the  death  of  the  lord  Percy 

He  did^  the  battle  of  Hombill-down; 

Where  six  and  thirty  Scottish  knights 

On  a  day  were  beaten  flown : 
Glendale  glittered  on  their  armor  bright,        265 

Over  castle,  tower,  and  town. 

This  was  the  hunting  of  the  Cheviot, 

That  there  began  this  spurn  ;^3 
Old  men  that  know  the  ground  well  enough 

Call  it  the  battle  of  Otterburn.  270 

At  Otterburn  began  this  spurn 

Upon  a  Monnyn-day; 
There  was  the  doughty  Douglas  slain. 

The  Percy  never  went  away. 

There  was  never  a  time  on  the  Marches'  side 
Since  the  Douglas  and  the  Percy  met,         276 

But  it  is  marvel  an  the  red  blood  ran  not. 
As  the  rain  does  in  the  stret.^ 


Jesu  Christ  our  bales  bet,^^ 

And  to  the  bliss  us  bring! 
Thus  was  the  hunting  of  the  Cheviot: 

God  send  us  all  good  ending! 

SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  town. 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine : 

"O  whare  will  I  get  guid  sailor. 
To  sail  this  ship  of  mine?" 


280 


'  Borders. 
Trouble. 


«  Clench. 
60  Street. 


«  Keep. 


61  Better  our  ills. 


Fought. 


Up  and  spak  an  eldem  knight,  5 

Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee: 
"Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor, 

That  sails  upon  the  sea." 

The  king  has  written  a  braid^  letter, 

And  signed  it  wi  his  hand,  lo 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 
Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

A  loud  laugh  laughed  he; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  read,  15 

The  tear  bUnded  his  ee. 

"O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed. 

This  ill  deed  done  to  me, 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea !  20 

"Mak  haste,  mak  haste,  my  merry  men  all, 

Our  guid  ship  sails  the  mom:" 
"O  say  na  sae,  my  master  dear. 

For  I  fear  a  deadlie  storm. 

'  *  Late  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moon,  25 

Wi  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm, 
And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  dear  master. 

That  we  will  come  to  harm." 

O  our  Scots  nobles  were  right  loth, 

To  wet  their  cork-heeled  shoon ;  30 

But  lang  or  a'  the  play  were  played. 

Their  hats  they  swam  aboon. 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  sit, 

Wi  their  fans  into  their  hand. 
Or  ere  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens  35 

Come  sailing  to  the  land. 

0  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 
Wi  their  gold  kems  in  their  hair, 

Waiting  for  their  ain  dear  lords, 

For  they'll  see  them  na  mair.  40 

Half  o'er,  half  o'er  to  Aberdour, 

Its  fifty  fathom  deep. 
And  there  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 

THE  TWA  CORBIES » 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane, 

1  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane:^ 
The  tane  unto  the  tither  did  say, 

"  Whar  sail  we  gang  and  dine  the  day?" 

' '  In  behint  yon  auld  f aiP  dyke,  5 

I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  knight; 

And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there 

But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  his  lady  fair. 

"His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane. 

His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hame,  10 

His  lady's  ta'en  anither  mate, 

Sae  we  may  mak'  our  dinner  sweet. 

'  Open,  patent. 


Ravens. 


2  Moan. 


» Turf,  Bod. 


94 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


"  Ye'U  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane,* 
And  I'll  pike  out  his  bonny  blue  e'en; 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We'll  theek^  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 


15 


"Mony's  the  one  for  him  makes  mane, 
But  nane  sail  ken  whar  he  is  gane. 
O'er  his  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair."  20 


Out  then  cam'  the  miller's  son 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  saw  the  fair  maid  soummin'  in, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"O  father,  father,  draw  your  dam!" 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
"There's  either  a  mermaid  or  a  swan," 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 


45 


THE  TWA  SISTERS  O'  BINNORIE 

There  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  bow'r; 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
A  knight  cam'  there,  a  noble  wooer. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

He  courted  the  eldest  wi'  glove  and  ring,         5 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
But  he  lo'ed  the  youngest  aboon  a'  thing. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!)  10 

And  sair  envied  her  sister  fair, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Upon  a  morning  fair  and  clear, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
She  cried  upon  her  sister  dear,  15 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"O  sister,  sister,  tak'  my  hand," 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
"And  let's  go  down  to  the  river-strand," 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie.  20 

She's  ta'en  her  by  the  lily  hand, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  down  they  went  to  the  river-strand 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

The  youngest  stood  upon  a  stane,  25 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
The  eldest  cam'  and  pushed  her  in, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"O  sister,  sister,  reach  your  hand!" 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!)  30 

"And  ye  sail  be  heir  o'  half  my  land" — 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"O  sister,  reach  me  but  your  glove!" 
I      (Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
"And  sweet  William  sail  be  your  love" —      35 
By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Sometimes  she  sank,  sometimes  she  swam, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
Till  she  cam'  to  the  mouth  o'  yon  mill-dam, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie.  40 


The  miller  quickly  drew  the  dam, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  there  he  found  a  drown'd  womdn, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Round  about  her  middle  sma' 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
There  went  a  gouden  girdle  bra' 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

All  amang  her  yellow  hair 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
A  string  o'  pearls  was  twisted  rare, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

On  her  fingers  lily-white, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
The  jewel-rings  were  shining  bright. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  by  there  cam'  a  harper  fine, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
Harped  to  nobles  when  they  dine. 

By  the  bonny  mill-4ams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  when  he  looked  that  lady  on, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
He  sigh'd  and  made  a  heavy  moan. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

He's  ta'en  three  locks  o'  her  yellow  hair, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  wi'  mem  strung  his  harp  sae  rare. 

By  the  bonny  miU-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

He  went  into  her  father's  hall, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
And  played  his  harp  before  them  all. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  sune  the  harp  sang  loud  and  clear, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
"Fareweel,  my  father  and  mither  dear!" 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 


50 


55 


60 


65 


70 


75 


80 


85 


And  neist  when  the  harp  began  to  sing, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
'Twas  "Fareweel,  sweetheart!"  said  the  string, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 


Neck-bone. 


'Thatch. 


And  then  as  plain  as  plain  could  be, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie!) 
"There  sits  my  sister  wha  drownM  me! 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie." 


90 


THE  NUT-BROWN   MAID 


% 


BONNIE  GEORGE  CAMPBELL 

(From  Motherwell's  Minstrelsy,  1827.    Date  of 
ballad  uncertain) 

Hie  upon  Hielands, 

And  low  upon  Tay, 
Bonnie  George  Campbell 

Rade  out  on  a  day. 
Saddled  and  bridled  S 

And  gallant  rade  he; 
Hame  cam  his  gude  horse, 

But  never  cam  he! 

Out  cam  his  auld  mither 

Greeting  fu'  sair,  10 

And  out  cam  his  bonnie  bride 

Rivin'  her  hair. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he; 
Toom^  hame  cam  the  saddle  15 

But  never  cam  he! 

"My  meadow  lies  green, 

And  my  corn  is  unshorn; 
My  barn  is  to  big, 

And  my  babie's  unborn."  20 

Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he; 
Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he. 


THE  NUT-BROWN  MAID 

(c.  1500) 

Be  it  right  or  wrong,  these  men  among 

On  women  do  complain; 
Affirming  this,  how  that  it  is 

A  labour  spent  in  vain 
To  love  them  wele ;  for  never  a  dele         5 

They  love  a  man  again: 
For  let  a  man  do  what  he  can 

Their  favour  to  attain. 
Yet  if  a  new  to  them  pursue. 

Their  first  true  lover  than  10 

Laboureth   for   naught;   for   from  her 
thought 

He  is  a  banished  man, 

I  say  not  nay,  but  that  all  day 

It  is  both  written  and  said 
That  woman's  faith  is,  as  who  saith,   15 

All  utterly  decayed: 
But  nevertheless,  right  good  witness 

In  this  case  might  be  laid 
That  they  love  true  and  continiie: 

Record  the  Nut-brown  Maid,  20 

Which,  when  her  love  came  her  to  prove, 

To  her  to  make  his  moan, 
Would  not  depart;  for  in  her  heart 

She  loved  but  him  alone. 


He. 


She. 


He. 


She. 


He. 


She. 


He. 


Then  between  us  let  us  discuss 

What  was  all  the  manere 
Between  them  two:  we  will  also 
Tell  all  the  pain  in  fere^ 
1  Empty. 
1  In  company  together. 


25 


She. 


That  she  was  in.    Now  I  begin^ 

So  that  ye  me  answere:  30 

Wherefore  all  ye  that  present  be, 

I  pray  you  give  an  ear. 
I  am  the  Knight.    I  come  by  night. 

As  secret  as  I  can, 
Sajdng,  Alas !  thus  standeth  the  case,    35 

I  am  a  banished  man. 

And  I  your  will  for  to  fulfil 

In  this  will  not  refuse; 
Trusting  to  show,  in  wordes  few. 

That  men  have  an  ill  use —  40 

To  their  own  shame — women  to  blame. 

And  causeless  them  accuse. 
Therefore  to  you  I  answer  now, 

All  women  to  excuse — 
Mine  own  heart  dear,  with  you  what 
cheer?  45 

I  pray  you,  tell  anone; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

It  standeth  so:  a  deed  is  do 

Whereof  great  harm  shall  grow:       50 
My  destiny  is  for  to  die 

A  shameful  death,  I  trow; 
Or  else  to  flee.    The  t'  one  must  be. 

None  other  way  I  know 
But  to  withdraw  as  an  outlaw,  55 

And  take  me  to  my  bow. 
Wherefore  adieu,  mine  own  heart  true! 

None  other  rede^  I  can.' 
For  I  must  to  the  green-wood  go. 

Alone,  a  banished  man.  60 

0  Lord,  what  is  this  worldis  bliss, 
That  change th  as  the  moon! 

My  summer's  day  in  lusty  May 
Is  darked  before  the  noon. 

1  hear  you  say,  farewell:  Nay,  nay,     65 
We  depart  not  so  soon. 

Why  say  ye  so?    Whither  will  ye  go? 

Alas!  what  have  ye  done? 
All  my  welfare  to  sorrow  and  care 

Should  change,  if  ye  were  gone:       70 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


I  can  believe  it  shall  you  grieve. 

And  somewhat  you  distrain; 
But  afterward,  your  paines  hard 

Within  a  day  or  twain 
Shall  soon  aslake;  and  ye  shall  take 

Comfort  to  you  again. 
Why  should   ye   ought?  for,  to  make 
thought. 

Your  labour  were  in  vain. 
And  thus  I  do;  and  pray  you  to. 

As  heartily  as  I  can: 
For  I  must  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


75 


80 


Now,  sith  that  ye  have  showed  to  me 
The  secret  of  your  mind, 

«  Counsel.  '  Know, 


85 


96 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


I  shall  be  plain  to  you  again, 

Like  as  ye  shall  me  find. 
Sith  it  is  so  that  ye  will  go, 

I  will  not  live  behind.  90 

Shall  never  be  said  the  Nut-brown  Maid 

Was  to  her  love  unkind. 
Make  you  ready,  for  so  am  I, 

Although  it  were  anone; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind  95 

I  love  but  you  alone.  She. 

He.      Yet  I  you  rede  to  make  good  heed 
.  What  men  will  think  and  say: 
Of  young,  of  old,  it  shall  be  told 

That  ye  be  gone  away  100 

Your  wanton  will  for  to  fulfil. 

In  green-wood  you  to  play; 
And  that  ye  might  for  your  delight 

No  longer  make  delay. 
Rather  than  ye  should  thus  for  me    105 

Be  called  an  ill  womdn 
Yet  would  I  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man.  jje. 

She.    Though  it  be  sung  of  old  and  young 

That  I  should  be  to  blame,  110 

Theirs  be  the  charge  that  speak  so  large 

In  hurting  of  my  name: 
For  I  will  prove  that  faithful  love 

It  is  devoid  of  shame: 
In  your  distress  and  heaviness  113 

To  part  with  you  the  same; 
And  sure  all  tho^  that  do  not  so 

True  lovers  are  they  none: 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone.  120 

He.      I  counsel  you.  Remember  how 

It  is  no  maiden's  law 
Nothing  to  doubt,  but  to  run  out 

To  wood  with  an  outldw. 
For  ye  must  there  in  your  hand  bear  125 

A  bow  ready  to  draw; 
And  as  a  thief  thus  must  you  live 

Ever  in  dread  and  awe; 
Whereby  to  you  great  harm  might  grow: 

Yet  had  I  liever  than  130 

That  I  had  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.    I  think  not  nay  but  as  ye  say; 

It  is  no  maiden's  lore; 
But  love  may  make  me  for  your  sake,  135 

As  I  have  said  before, 
To  come  on  foot,  to  hunt  and  shoot, 

To  get  us  meat  and  store; 
For  so  that  I  your  company 

May  have,  I  ask  no  more.  140 

From  which  to  part  it  maketh  my  heart 

As  cold  as  any  stone; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.     For  an  outlaw  this  is  the  law,  145      She. 

That  men  him  take  and  bind: 
Without  pitie,  hanged  to  be, 
And  waver  with  the  wind. 
« Those. 


He. 


If  I  had  need  (as  God  forbede!) 

What  socours  could  ye  find?  150 

Forsooth  I  trow,  you  and  your  bow 

For  fear  would  draw  behind. 
And  no  mervail;  for  little  avail 

Were  in  your  counsel  than: 
Wherefore  I'll  to  the  green-wood  go,  155 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

Right  well  know  ye  that  women  be 

But  feeble  for  to  fight; 
No  womanhede  it  is,  indeed, 

To  be  bold  as  a  knight;  160 

Yet  in  such  fear  if  that  ye  were 

With  enemies  day  and  night, 
I  would  withstand,  with  bow  in  hand. 

To  grieve  them  as  I  might, 
And  you  to  save;  as  women  have        165 

From  death  men  many  one: 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

Yet  take  good  hede;  for  ever  I  drede 

That  ye  could  not  sustain  170 

The  thorny  ways,  the  deep  valleys. 

The  snow,  the  frost,  the  rain. 
The  cold,  the  heat;  for  dry  or  wete, 

We  must  lodge  on  the  plain; 
And,  us  above,  no  other  roof  175 

But  a  brake  bush  or  twain: 
Which  soon  should  grieve  you,  I  believe; 

And  ye  would  gladly  than 
That  I  had  to  the  green-wood  go, 


Alone,  a  banished  man. 


180 


She.    Sith  I  have  here  been  partynere 

With  you  of  joy  and  bliss, 
I  must  als6  part  of  your  woe 

Endure,  as  reason  is: 
Yet  I  am  sure  of  one  pleasure,  185 

And  shortly  it  is  this — 
That  where  ye  be,  me  seemeth,  pard6, 

I  could  not  fare  amiss. 
Without  more  speech  I  you  beseech 

That  we  were  shortly  gone;  190 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


If  ye  go  thyder,5  ye  must  consider, 

When  ye  have  lust  to  dine, 
There  shall  no  meat  be  for  to  gete,        195 

Neither  beer,  ale,  nor  wine, 
No  sheetes  clean,  to  lie  between. 

Made  of  thread  and  twine; 
None  other  house,  Sut  leaves  and  boughs 

To  cover  your  head  and  mine.  200 

Lo,  mine  heart  sweet,  this  ill  di^te 

Should  make  you  pale  and  wan: 
Wherefore  I'll  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

Among  the  wild  deer  such  an  arch^re  205      ^ 

As  men  say  that  ye  be, 
Ne  may  not  fail  of  such  vitayle 

Where  is  so  great  plenty : 
'  Thither. 


THE  NUT-BROWN  MAID 


97 


He. 


And  water  clear  of  the  rivere 

Shall  be  full  sweet  to  me;  210 

With  which  in  hele^  I  shall  right  wele 

Endure,  as  ye^shall  see; 
And,  or  we  go,  a  bed  or  two 

I  can  provide  anone; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind        215 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.      Lo  yet,  before,  ye  must  do  more, 

If  ye  wilLgo  with  me:  She. 

As,  cut  your  hair  up  by  your  ear, 

Your  kirtle  by  the  knee;  220 

With  bow  in  hand  for  to  withstand 

Your  enemies,  if  need  be: 
And  this  same  night,  before  daylight, 

To  woodward  will  I  flee. 
If  that  ye  will  all  this  fulfil,  225 

Do  it  shortly  as  ye  can: 
■  Else  will  I  to  the  green-wood  go. 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.    I  shall  as  now  do  more  for  you 

Than  'longeth  to  womanhede;         230 
To  short  my  hair,  a  bow  to  bear. 

To  shoot  in  time  of  need. 
O  my  sweet  mother!  before  all  other 

For  you  I  have  most  drede! 
But  now,  adieu!    I  must  ensue  235 

Where  fortune  doth  me  lead. 
All  this  make  ye:  Now  let  us  flee; 

The  day  cometh  fast  upon: 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone.  240 

He.      Nay,  nay,  not  so;  ye  shall  not  go,  g^^ 

And  I  shall  tell  you  why — 
Your  appetite  is  to  be  light 

Of  love,  I  well  espy: 
For,  right  as  ye  have  said  to  me,        245 

In  likewise  hardily 
Ye  would  answere  whosoever  It  were, 

In  way  of  company: 
It  is  said  of  old,  Soon  hot,  soon  cold; 

And  so  is  a  womdn:  250 

Wheref  orQ  I  to  the  wood  will  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.     If  ye  take  heed,  it  is  no  need  He. 

Such  words  to  say  to  me;  254 

For  oft  ye  prayed,  and  long  assayed, 

Or  I  loved  you,  parde: 
And  though  that  I  of  ancestry 

A  baron's  daughter  be, 
Yet  have  you  proved  how  I  you  loved, 

A  squire  of  low  degree;  260 

And  ever  shall,  whatso  befall. 

To  die  therefore  anone; 
For,  ill  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


Yet  better  were  the  poor  squyere 

Alone  to  forest  yede^  270 

Than  ye  shall  say  another  day 

That  by  my  cursed  rede 
Ye   were  betrayed.     Wherefore,   good 
maid. 

The  best  rede  that  I  can, 
Is,  that  I  to  the  green-wood  go,  275 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

Whatever  befall,  I  never  shall 

Of  this  thing  be  upbraid: 
But  if  ye  go,  and  leave  me  so. 

Then  have  ye  me  betrayed.  280 

Remember  you  wele,  how  that  ye  dele; 

For  if  ye,  as  ye  said. 
Be  so  unkind  to  leave  behind 

Your  love,  the  Nut-brown  Maid, 
Trust  me  trul;^  that  I  shall  die  285 

Soon  after  ye  be  gone: 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

If  that  ye  went,  ye  should  repent; 

For  in  the  forest  now  290 

I  have  purveyed  me  of  a  maid 

Whom  I  love  more  than  you: 
Another  more  fair  than  ever  ye  were 

I  dare  it  well  avow;  294 

And  of  you  both  each  would  be  wroth 

With  other,  as  I  trow: 
It  were  mine  ease  to  live  in  peace; 

So  will  I,  if  I  can: 
Wherefore  I  to  the  wood  will  go. 

Alone,  a  banished  man.  300 

Though  in  the  wood  I  understood 

Ye  had  a  paramour, 
All  this  may  nought  remove  my  thought, 

But  that  I  will  be  your' : 
And  she  shall  find  me  soft  and  kind  305 

And  courteous  every  hour; 
Glad  to  fulfil  all  that  she  will 

Command  me,  to  my  power: 
For  had  ye,  lo,  an  hundred  mo. 

Yet  would  I  be  that  one:  310 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  Icve  but  you  alone. 

Mine  own  dear  love,  I  see  the  prove^ 

That  ye  be  kind  and  true; 
Of  maid,  of  wife,  in  all  my  life  315 

The  best  that  ever  I  knew; 
Be  merry  and  glad;  be  no  more  sad; 

The  case  is  changed  new; 
For  it  were  ruth  that  for  your  truth 

\  e  should  have  cause  to  rue.  320 

Be  not  dismayed,  whatsoever  I  said 

To  you  when  I  began : 
I  will  not  to  the  green- wood  go; 

I  am  no  banished  man. 


He.      a  baron's  child  to  be  beguiled, 
It  were  a  cursed  deed! 
To  be  fel^w  with  an  outlaw — 
Almighty  God  forbede! 

e  Health. 


265      She.     These  tidings  be  more  glad  to  me         325 
Than  to  be  made  a  queen, 
If  I  were  sure  they  should  endure; 
But  it  is  often  seen 
7  Went.  8  Proof 


98 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


When    men    will   break    promise    thoy 
speak 

The  wordis  on  the  splene.  330 

Ye  shape  some  wile  me  to  beguile, 

And  steal  from  me,  I  ween: 
Then  were  the  case  worse  than  it  was. 

And  I  more  woe-begone: 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind        335 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.      Ye  shall  not  need  further  to  drede: 

I  will  not  disparage 
You  (God  defend),  sith  you  descend 

Of  so  great  a  linage.  340 

Now  understand:  to  Westmoreland, 

Which  is  my  heritage, 
I  will  you  bring;  and  with  a  ring, 

By  way  of  marridge 
I  will  you  take,  and  lady  make,  345 

As  shortly  as  I  can: 
Thus  have  you  won  an  Earles  son, 

And  not  a  banished  man. 

Here  may  ye  see  that  women  be 

In  love  meek,  kind,  and  stable;      350 
Let  never  man  reprove  them  than. 

Or  call  them  variable; 
But  rather  pray  God  that  we  may 

To  them  be  comfortable; 
Which  sometime  proveth  such  as  He 
loveth,  355 

If  they  be  charitable. 
For  sith  men  would  that  women  should 

Be  meek  to  them  each  one; 
Much  more  ought  they  to  God  obey. 

And  serve  but  Him  alone.  360 

HELEN  OF  KIRCONNELL 

Part  Second 

(From  Scott's  Bcrrder  Minstrelsy,  1802-3) 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought,     5 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot. 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen^  dropt. 
And  died  to  succour  me! 

O  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair. 
When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae  mair! 
There  did  she  swoon  wi'  mickle  care  11 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 


As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide. 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee! 

I  lighted  down,  my  sword  did  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma'. 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

I  Maid  Helen. 


15 


20 


O,  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare! 
I'll  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair, 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair, 
Until  the  day  I  die. 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies!  23 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says,  "Haste,  and  come  to  me!" 

0  Helen  fair!  O  Helen  chaste! 

If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest,  30 

Where  thou  lies  low,  and  takes  thy  rest, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 

1  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 

And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying,  35 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies. 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me.  40 


POEMS,  SONGS  AND  CAROLS  OF 
THE  EARLY  TUDOR  PERIOD 

A  LYKE-WAKE  E>IRGEi 

This  ae  night,  this  ae  night. 

Every  night  and  alle, 
Fire,  and  sleet,  ^  and  candle-light. 

And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

When  thou  from  hence  away  art  past,  5 

Every  night  and  alle, 
To  Whinny-muir^  thou  comest  at  last, 

And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 


If  ever  thou  gavest  hosen  and  shoon, 

^  Every  night  and  alle, 
Sit  thee  down  and  put  them  on. 

And  Christ  receive  thy  savle. 


10 


If  hosen  and  shoon  thou  gavest  nane. 

Every  night  and  alle, 
The  Whinnes  shall  prick  thee  to  the  bare  bane, 

And  Christ  receive  thy  saule.  16 

From  Whinny-muir  when  thou  mayst  pass. 

Every  night  and  alle, 
To  Brigg  o'  Dread  thou  comest  at  last, 

A  nd  Christ  receive  thy  saule.  ...  20 

1  A  lyke-wake  is  the  watnh  or  vigil  over  a  corpse.  (O.  E. 
lie,  a  dead  body).  The  dirge  here  given  ia  said  to  have 
been  sung  at   funerals   in  Yorkshire  "down  to   1624." 

2  Probably  a  corruption  of  salt,  which,  through  a  pop- 
ular superstition,  was  often  placed  on  the  breast  of  a 
corpse. 

3  The  whin  is  a  furze  or  gorse,  the  moor-whin  grows  on 
bleak  heaths,  and  has  sharp  spines  or  needles.  "Whinny- 
muir"  therefore  suggests  a  great  plain  full  of  prickles,  and 
most  painful  to  traverse. 


THE  HUNT  IS  UP 


99 


From  Brigg  o'  Dread*  when  thou  mayst  pass, 

Every  night  and  alle, 
To  Purgatory  Fire  thou  comest  at  last, 

And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  meat  or  drink,  25 

Every  night  and  alle, 
The  fire  shall  never  make  thee  shrink. 

And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

If  meat  or  drink  thou  gavest  nane. 

Every  night  and  alle,  30 

The  fire  will  bum  thee  to  the  bare  bane, 

And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 

This  ae  night,  this  ae  night, 

Every  night  and  alle, 
Fire,  and  sleet,  and  candle-light,  35 

And  Christ  receive  thy  saule. 


CAROL 

Make  we  merry  in  hall  and  hour. 
This  time  was  bom  our  Saviour. 

In  this  time  God  hath  sent 
His  own  Son,  to  be  present, 
To  dwell  with  us  in  verament,  6 

God  that  is  our  Saviour. 

In  this  time  that  is  befall, 
A  child  was  born  in  an  ox  stall. 
And  after,  He  died  for  us  all, 
God  that  is  our  Saviour.  lo 

In  this  time  an  angel  bright 
Met  three  shepherds  on  a  night, 
He  bade  them  go  full  quickly,  right 
God  that  is  our  Saviour. 

In  this  time  now  prscy  we  15 

To  Him  that  died  for  us  on  tree. 
Upon  us  all  to  have  pitee, 
God  that  is  our  Saviour. 


THE  JOLLY  SHEPHERD 

Can  I  not  sing  but  hoy, 

When  the  jolly  shepherd  made  so  much  joyf 

The  shepherd  upon  a  hill  he  sat, 

He  had  on  him  his  tabard^  and  hat, 

His  tar-box,  his  pipe,  and  his  flagat;^  5 

His  name  was  called  jolly,  jolly  Wat; 

For  he  was  a  good  herdes  boy, 

Uthoy! 
For  in  his  pipe  he  made  so  much  joy, 

Can  I  not  sing  but  hoy  10 

When  the  jolly  shepherd  made  so  much  joy? 

'^Bridge  of  Dread,  a  bar,  or  bridge  of  red-hot  iron  over 
which,  according  to  the  Mahometan  belief,  the  dead  must 
pass  to  judgment.      The  feet  of  the  true  believer  will  be 

Erotected  by  his  good  works,  when  he  comes  to  cross  this 
ridge,  but  the  wicked,  without  this  protection,  must  fall 
into  a  bottomless  abyss  below. 

i  Rough  cloak.  2  Bottle. 


The  shepherd  upon  a  hill  was  laid, 

Unto  his  girdle  his  dog  was  tayed;^ 

He  had  not  slept  but  a  little  brayd,* 

But  "Gloria  in  excelsis"  was  to  him  said.      15 

Ut  hoy! 
For  in  his  pipe  he  made  so  much  joy. 

Can  I  not  sing  but  hoy, 

When  the  jolly  shepherd  made  so  much  joy? 

The  shepherd  on  a  hill  he  stode,  20 

Round  about  him  his  sheep  they  yode;^ 
He  put  his  hand  under  his  hode,* 
He  saw  a  star  as  red  as  blode: 

Ut  hoy! 
For  in  his  pipe  he  made  so  much  joy,  25 

Can  I  not  sing  but  hoy, 

When  the  jolly  shepherd  made  so  much  joy? 

"Now  farewell  Mall,  and  also  Will, 

For  my  love  go  ye  all  still 

Unto  I  come  again  you  till,  30 

And  evermore,  Will,  ring  thy  bell." 

Ut  hoy! 
For  in  his  pipe  he  made  so  much  joy, 

Can  I  not  sing  but  hoy. 

When  the  jolly  shepherd  made  so  much  joy? 

"Now  must  I  go  where  Christ  was  bom;       36 
Farewell,  I  come  again  at  morn. 
Dog,  keep  my  sheep  well  fro  the  corn. 
And  warn  well,  Warrock,  when  I  blow  my 
horn." 

Uthoy!  40 

For  in  his  pipe  he  made  so  much  joy. 
Can  I  not  sing  but  hoy, 
When  the  jolly  shepherd  made  so  much  joy? 


THE  HUNT  IS  UPi 
(In  the  Time  of  Henry  VIII) 

The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up, 

And  it  is  well  nigh  day : 
And  Harry  our  King,  is  gone  hunting, 

To  bring  his  deer  to  bay. 

The  east  is  bright  with  morning  light,  5 

And  darkness  it  is  fled, 
And  the  merry  horn  wakes  up  the  mom 

To  leave  his  idle  bed.  .  .  . 

The  horses  snort  to  be  at  the  sport. 

The  dogs  are  running  free,  10 

The  woods  rejoice  at  the  merry  noise 
Of  hey  tantara  tee  reel 

The  sun  is  glad  to  see  us  clad 

All  in  our  lusty  green, 
And  smiles  in  the  sky  as  he  riseth  high,  15 

To  see  and  to  be  seen. 

3  Tied.  *Time.  6  Strayed.  « Hood. 

1  This  opening  "The  Hunt  is  Up."  appears  to  have  been 
so  common  in  old  songs,  that  the  tune  or  song  played  to 
arouse  hunters  in  the  morning  was  called  a  hunts-up,  and 
this  expression  was  afterwards  extended  to  include  "any 
song  intended  to  arouse  in  the  morning." 


100 


CHAUCER   TO   WYATT  AND   SURREY 


Awake,  all  men,  I  say  again. 

Be  merry  as  you  may, 
For  Harry  our  King  is  gone  hunting, 

To  bring  his  deer  to  bay.  20 


MY  HEART  IS  HIGH  ABOVE 

(16th  Century) 

My  heart  is  high  above,  my  body  is  full  of  bliss, 
For  I  am  set  in  luve  as  well  as  I  would  wiss; 
I  luve  my  lady  pure  and  she  luves  me  again, 
I  am  her  serviture,  she  is  my  soverane; 
She  is  my  very  heart,  I  am  her  hope  and  heill,    5 
She  is  my  joy  inward,  I  am  her  luvar  leal; 
I  am  her  bond  and  thrall;  she  is  at  my  com- 
mand; 
I  am  perpetual  her  man,  both  foot  and  hand; 
The  thing  that  may  her  please  my  body  shall 

fulfil; 
WTiatever  her  disease,  it  does  my  body  ill.        10 
My  bird,   my  bonny  ane,   my  tender  babe 

venust,^ 
My  luve,  my  life  alane,  my  hking  and  my 

lust!  ... 
Luvers  in  pain,  I  pray  God  send  you  sic  remeid 
Af  I  have  nicht  and  day,  you  to  defend  from 

deid. 
1  herefore  be  ever  true  unto  your  ladies  free,  15 
And  they  will  on  you  rue  as  mine  has  done  on 
me. 

DEATHS 

0  Death,  rock  me  to  sleep, 
Bring  me  to  quiet  rest, 

Let  pass  my  weary  guiltless  ghost 

Out  of  my  careful  breast. 

Toll  on  the  passing  bell;  6 

Ring  out  my  doleful  knell; 

Thy  sound  my  death  abroad  will  tell, 

For  I  must  die. 

There  is  no  remedy. 

My  pains  who  can  express?  10 

Alas,  they  are  so  strong; 

My  dolours  will  not  suffer  strength 

My  life  for  to  prolong. 

Toll  on  the  passing  bell; 

Ring  out  my  doleful  knell;  15 

Thy  sound  my  death  abroad  will  tell, 

For  I  must  die. 

There  is  no  remedy. 

Alone  in  prison  strong 

1  wail  my  destiny.  20 
Woe  worth  this  cruel  hap  that  I 

Must  taste  this  misery. 
Toll  on  the  passing  bell; 
Ring  out  my  doleful  knell; 
Thy  sound  my  death  abroad  will  tell,  25 
For  I  must  die. 
There  is  no  remedy. 
Delightful. 
1  This  poem  is  supposed  to  date  from  "about  the  time  of 
Henry  VIII."     It  has  been  suggested  that  "the  verses 
were  written  either  by  or  in  the  person  of  Anne  Boleyn" — 
but  this — while  possible — is  a  pure  conjecture. 


Farewell,  my  pleasures  past, 

Welcome  my  present  pain. 

I  feel  my  torment  so  increase  Z(* 

That  life  cannot  remain. 

Toll  on  the  passing  bell; 

Ring  out  my  doleful  knell; 

Thy  sound  my  death  abroad  will  tell, 

For  I  must  die,  35 

There  is  no  remedy. 

Cease  now  the  passing  beU; 

Ring  out  my  doleful  knell. 

For  thou  my  death  dost  tell; 

Lord  pity  thou  my  soul.  40 

Death  doth  draw  nigh. 

Sound  dolefully; 

For  now  I  die, 

I  die,  I  die. 


William  Comi0t|i 

d.  1524? 

GOD'S  CARE  FOR  MAN 

Pleasure  it  is 
To  hear,  iwis,^ 

The  birdes  sing. 
The  deer  in  the  dale. 
The  sheep  in  the  vale,  5 

The  corn  springing; 
God's  purveyance 
For  sustenance 

It  is  for  man. 
Then  we  always  10 

To  Him  give  praise. 

And  thank  Him  than,' 

And  thank  Him  than. 


31olm  g)Mton 

c.  1460-1529 

A  DIRGE  FOR  PHILIP  SPARROW^ 

Pla  ce  bo, 

Who  is  there,  who? 

LH  le  XI, 

Dame  Marjery; 

Fa  re  my  my,  5> 

Wherefore  and  why,  why? 

'  Cornish  or  Comysshe,  was  a  Court  musician  in  the 
reigns  of  Henry  VII  and  Henry  VIII.  He  was  connected 
with  the  court  as  early  as  1493,  and  in  1509  he  was  made 
Master  of  the  children  of  the  Chapel  Royal. 

2  Certainly,  truly.  »Then. 

1  This  is  an  Elegy  addressed  to  Jane  8croupe,  a  pupil  of 
the  Black  nuns  at  Carrow  near  Norwich,  on  the  death  of 
her  pet  sparrow.  Dirge  is  a  name  given  to  the  church 
service  for  the  repose  of  the  dead,  and  the  poem  is  not 
merely  an  elegy  but  a  lament  in  which  the  solemn  words 
of  the  Church's  requiem  for  the  departed  are  heard  at 
intervals,  and  the  echoes  of  distant  chants  mingle  with 
little  Jane  Scroupe's  childish  distress.  Thus  Placebo, 
1.  1,  is  the  initial  word  of  the  opening  Antiphon  (Placebo 
Domino  in  regione  vivorum) .  Dilexi,  1.  3,  is  the  first  word  of 
the  Psalm  which  follows  the  placebo  {Dilexi  quoniam 
exaudit  Dominus  vocem  orationis  meam)  and  Ad  Dominum, 
(1.66)  is  the  opening  of  the  second  antiphon  Ad  Dominum, 
cum  tribularer  clamavi. 


JOHN  SKELTON 


}i:;m: 


For  the  ooul  of  Philip  Sparrow 

That;  was  late  slain  at  Carow, 

Amoug  the  nunnes  blake,^ 

For  that  sweet  sours  sake,  10 

And  for  all  sparrows'  souls 

Set  in  our  bead  roules, 

Pater  noster  qui 

With  an  Ave  Maria, 

And  with  the  corner  of  a  creed  15 

The  more  shall  be  your  meed. 

When  I  remember  again 
How  my  Philip  was  slain, 
Never  half  the  pain 

Was  between  you  twain,  20 

Pyramus  and  Thisbe, 
As  then  befell  to  me; 
I  wept  and  I  wailed, 
The  tears  down  hailed, 
But  nothing  it  availed  25 

To  call  Philip  again 
Whom  Gib  our  cat  hath  slain. 

Gib,  I  say,  our  cat, 
Worrowed^  her  on  that 
Which  I  loved  best;  30 

It  cannot  be  expressed. 
My  sorrowful  heaviness, 
But  all  without  redress; 
For  within  that  stound,* 
Half  slumbering  in  a  swounde,**  33 

I  fell  down  to  the  ground. 

Scarcely  I  rast  mine  eyes 
Toward  the  cloudy  skies. 
But  when  I  did  behold 
My  Sparrow  dead  and  cold,  40 

No  creature  but  that  wold^ 
Have  pitied  upon  me 
To  behold  and  see 
What  heaviness  did  me  pange'^ 
Wherewith  my  hands  I  wrange,  45 

That  my  sinews  cracked 
As  though  I  had  been  racked, 
So  pained  and  so  strained, 
That  no  life  well  remained. 

I  sighed,  and  I  sobbed,  50 

For  that  I  was  robbed 
Of  my  Sparrow's  life; 
O  maiden,  widow,  and  wife,  ^ 

Of  what  estate  ye  be 
Of  high  or  low  degree,  55 

Great  sorrow  then  ye  might  see, 
And  learn  to  weep  at  me; 
Such  pains  did  me  freat^ 
That  mine  heart  did  beat. 
My  visage  pale  and  dead,  60 

Wan,  and  blue  as  lead, 
The  pangs  of  hateful  death 
Well-nigh  stopped  my  breaTf> 

Heu,  heUf  me, 


That  I  am  woe  for  thee!  g^ 

Ad  dominum  cum  tribularer  clamavi, 
Of  God  nothing  else  crave  I.  .  .  . 


From  COLIN  CLOUT^ 

And  if  ye  stand  in  doubt 

Wlio  brought  this  rime  about- 

My  name  is  Colin  Clout. 

I  purpose  to  shake  out 

All  my  cunning  bag, 

Like  a  clerkly  hag; 

For  though  my  rime  be  ragged, 

Tattered  and  jagged. 

Rudely  rain  beaten. 

Rusty  and  moth  eaten. 

If  ye  talk  well  therewith 

It  hath  in  it  some  pith. 

For  as  far  as  I  can  see, 

It  is  wrong  with  each  degree; 

For  the  temporalty 

Accuseth  the  spiritualty; 

The  spiritual  again 

Doth  grudge  and  complain 

Upon  temp6ral  men; 

Thus  each  of  other  blother,^ 

The  one  against  the  other: 

Alas  they  make  me  shudder! 

For  in  hugger  mugger 

The  church  is  put  at  fault; 

The  prelates  be  so  haut^ 

They  say,  and  look  so  high, 

As  though  they  would  fly 

Above  the  starry  sky. 


Laymen  say  indeed 
How  they  take  no  heed 
Their  silly  sheep  to  feed, 
But  pluck  away  and  pull 
The  fleeces  of  their  wool; 
Unnethes^  they  leave  a  lock 
Of  wool  among  their  flock. 
And  as  for  their  cunning 
A  glumming  and  a  mumming. 
And  make  thereof  a  jape,^ 
They  gaspe  and  they  gape 
All  to  have  promotion; 
There  is  their  whole  devotion, 
With  money,  if  it  will  hap^ 
To  catch  the  forked  cap. 
Forsooth  they  are  too  lewd^ 
To  say  so  all  be  shrewd. 


10 


15 


20 


25 


30 


2S 


40 


45 


•Black  nuns. 
'  Swoon. 
^  Oppress. 


'  <:'hoked. 


*  Moment. 
6  Would. 
8  Damage. 


1  In  this  poem  Skelton  voices  the  popular  discontent, 
blames  the  clergy  for  the  wrongs  which  the  people  suffer, 
and  attacks  Cardinal  Wolsey.  The  arraignment  is  put 
into  the  mouth  of  one  Colin  Clout.  Colin  suggests  a 
shepherd,  or  countryman:  Clout  may  mean  ragged  or 
patched,  hence  we  may  assume  that  Colin  Clout  (the 

Eatched  rustic  cr  s'/icpherd)  was  intended  to  st  ind  for  tho 
umbler,  or  lower  classes. 

2  Chatter. 

3  Proud. 

*  Scarcely. 

5  Jest. 

6  Chance. 

^  Ignorant. 


10^^   ,;;  //:•     ;  .CJHAUCER  to  WYATT  AND  SURREY 

^it  3l0l)n   jfOtttSiCUt  if  it  be  'a  poor  coat  under  their  outermost 

,        -  .  ^^  garment,  made  of  great*  canvas,  and  call  it  a 

frock.    Their  hose  be  of  like  canvas,  and  pass 

TTTT?  POVAT   POWFP  TM  TTP  AMPT?  AMFk     ^^*  *^®^^  ^^®®'  wherefore  they  be  gartered  and 
THE  ROYAL  POWER  IN  FRANCE  AND  5  their  thighs  bare.    Their  wives  and  children  go 

barefoot;  they  may  in  no  otherwise  hve.    For 

(From  The  Difference  Between  an  Absolute  and  a     some  of  them,  that  was  wont  to  pay  to  his  lord 

lAmited  Monarchy,  1450?)  for  his  tenement,  which  he  hh-eth  by  the  year, 

a  scute,  ^  payeth  now  to  the  King,  over  that 

There  be  two  kinds  of  Kingdoms,  of  the  10  scute,  five  scutes.  Through  wnich  they  be 
which  that  one  is  a  Lordship,  called  in  Latin,  forced  by  necessity,  so  to  watch,  labor,  and 
Dominium  Regale,  and  that  other  is  called,  grub  in  the  ground,  for  their  sustenance,  that 
Dominium  Politicum  et  Regale.  And  they  their  nature  is  much  wasted,  and  the  kind^  of 
differ,  in  that  the  first  may  rule  his  people  by  them  brought  to  naught.  They  are  gone 
such  laws  as  he  maketh  himself;  and  therefore  15  crooked,  and  are  feeble,  not  able  to  fight,  nor 
he  may  set  upon  them  Talys,^  and  other  to  defend  the  realm;  nor  have  they  weapons, 
impositions,  such  as  he  will  himself,  without  nor  money  to  buy  them  weapons  withal; 
their  assent.  The  second  may  not  rule  his  but  verily  they  live  in  the  most  extreme  poverty 
people,  by  other  laws  than  such  as  they  assent  and  misery,  and  yet  they  dwell  in  one  of  the 
unto;  and  therefore  he  may  set  upon  them  no  20  most  fertile  realms  of  the  world;  wherefore  the 
Impositions  without  their  own  assent.  French  King  hath  not  men  of  his  own  realm  to 

defend  it,  except  his  nobles,  which  bear  no 

[After  treating  of  the  origin  and  nature  of  such  Impositions;  and  therefore  they  are  right 
royal  power,  and  considering  why  one  King  rules  likely  of  their  bodies,  by  which  cause  the  said 
as  an  absolute  and  another  as  a  limited  monarch,  25  King  is  compelled  to  make  his  armies,  and 
the  author  passes  on  to  consider  the  effects  of  retenue  for  the  defence  of  the  land,  of  strangers, 
absolute  monarchy  {"  The  fruits  of  Jus  Regale")  as  Scots,  Spaniards,  Arragonars,  men  of 
in  France.]  Almaigne,  and  of  other  nations,  or  else  his 

And  howso  be  it,  that  the  French  King  reigneth  enemies  might  over-run  him.  For  he  hath  no 
upon  his  people  Dominio  Regali:  yet  St.  Lewis  2  30  defense  of  his  own,  except  his  castles  and 
sometime  King  there,  nor  any  of  his  progenitors  fortresses.  Lo,  this  is  the  fruit  of  his  Jus 
set  never  Talys  or  other  Impositions,  upon  the  Regale.  If  the  realm  of  England,  which  is  an 
people  of  that  land,  without  the  assent  of  the  isle,  and  therefore  may  not  lightly  get  succours 
three  Estates,  which  when  they  be  assembled  from  other  lands,  were  ruled  under  such  a  law, 
are  like  to  the  Court  of  Parlement  in  England.  35  and  under  such  a  Prince,  it  would  be  then  a 
And  this  order  kept  many  of  his  successors  until  prey  to  all  other  nations  that  would  conquer, 
late  days,  that  Enghshmen  made  such  a  war  in  rob,  and  devour  it;  which  was  well  proved  in 
France,  that  the  three  Estates  durst  not  come  the  time  of  the  Britons,  when  the  Scots  and  the 
together.  And  then  for  that  cause  and  for  Picts  so  beat  and  oppressed  this  land,  that  the 
great  necessity  which  the  French  king  had  of  40  people  thereof  sought  help  of  the  Romans,  to 
goods,  for  the  defence  of  that  land,  he  took  whom  they  had  been  tributary, 
upon  him  to  set  Talys  and  other  Impositions 

upon  the  Commons,  without  the  assent  of  the  But  blessed  be  God,  this  land  is  ruled  under  a 
three  Estates;  but  yet  he  would  not  set  any  better  law,  and  therefore  the  people  thereof  be 
such  charges,  nor  hath  set,  upon  the  nobles,  45  not  in  such  penury,  nor  thereby  hurt  in  their 
for  fear  of  rebellion.  And  because  the  Com-  persons,  but  they  be  wealthy  and  have  all 
mons,  though  they  have  grudged,  have  not  things  necessary  to  the  sustenance  of  nature, 
rebelled  or  be  hardy  to  rebel,  the  French  Kings  Wherefore  they  be  mighty,  and  able  to  resist 
have  yearly  since  set  such  charges  upon  them,  the  adversaries  of  the  realm,  and  to  beat  other 
and  so  augmented  the  same  charges,  as  the  50  realms,  that  do  or  will  do  them  wrong,  Lo, 
same  Commons  be  so  impoverished  and  this  is  the  fruit  of  the  Jus  Politicum  et  Regale 
destroyed,  that  they  may  scarcely  live.  They  under  which  we  live.  Somewhat  now  I  have 
drink  water,  they  eat  apples,  with  bread  right  showed  you  of  the  fruits  of  both  laws,  Ut  ex 
brown  made  of  rye.  They  eat  no  flesh,  but  if'  fructibus  eorum  cognoscatis  eos.'' 
it  be  seldom,  a  little  lard,  or  of  the  entrails,  or  55 
heads  of  beasts  slain  for  the  nobles  and  mer-         *  Coarse,  thick.  ,    u       u  ,.   ^. 

,  J  ,  ,         ,  '  An  old  French  coin  said  to  have  been  worth  three 

chants  of  the  land.     They  wear  no  woolen,  but       shillings  and  sixpence  or  about  eighty  cents.     See  scute, 

and  scudi  in  Cent.  Diet. 

« i.  e.  The  class  or  order  of  the  common  people. 
1  Taxes.  2  Louis  IX,  1215-1270.  »  Unless.  ^  That  by  their  fruits  ye  may  know  them. 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  103 

^it    ®I^Onta0    ^alor^  to  behold  the  stone  and  the  sword.    And  when 

lA'^n-     iA7n  *^®^  ^^^  *^^  scripture,  some  assayed,  such  as' 

c.  i^ciu  c.  i4/u  would  have  been  king.     But  none  might  stir 

THE  DRAWING  OF  THE  SWORD  5  Archbishop,  that  shall  achieve  the  sword,  but 

(From  the  Morte  d' Arthur,  c.  1470)  ^^^b*  ^o*  ^^^  will  make  him  known.    But  this 

is  my  counsel,  said  the  Archbishop,  that  we 

So  on  the  morn  all  the  barons  with  MerUn  let  purvey^  ten  knights,  men  of  good  fame,  and 
came  before  the  king;  then  Merlin  said  aloud  they  to  keep  this  sword.  So  it  was  ordained, 
unto  king  Uther,  Sire,  shall  your  son  Arthur  10  and  then  there  was  made  a  cry,  that  every  man 
be  king  after  your  days,  of  this  realm  with  all  should  assay  that  would,  for  to  win  the  sword, 
the  appurtance?  Then  Uther  Pendragon  And  upon  New  Year's  Day  the  barons  let 
turned  him  and  said  in  hearing  of  them  all,  make  a  joust  and  a  tournament,  that  all 
I  give  him  God's  blessing  and  mine,  and  bid  knights  that  would  joust  or  tourney  there 
him 'pray  for  my  soul,  and  righteously  and  15  might  play,  and  all  this  was  ordained  for  to 
worshipfully  that  he  claim  the  crown  upon  for-  keep  the  lords  together,  and  the  commons, 
feiture  of  my  blessing,  and  therewith  he  for  the  Archbishop  trusted  that  God  would 
yielded  up  the  ghost,  and  then  was  he  interred  make  him  known  that  should  win  the  sword, 
as  longed^  to  a  king.  Wherefore  the  queen,  fair  So  upon  New  Year's  Day,  when  the  service  was 
Igraine,  made  great  sorrow,  and  all  the  barons.  20  done,  the  barons  rode  unto  the  field,  some  to 

Then  stood  the  realm  in  great  jeopardy  long  joust  and  some  to  tourney,  and  so  it  happened 
while,  for  every  lord  that  was  mighty  of  men  that  Sir  Ector,  that  had  great  Uvelihood  about 
made  him  strong,  and  many  weened  to  have  London,  rode  unto  the  jousts,  and  with  him 
been  king.  Then  Merhn  went  to  the  Arch-  rode  Sir  Kay  his  son,  and  young  Arthur  that 
bishop  of  Canterbury,  and  councilled  him  for  25  was  his  nourished  brother  ;3  and  Sir  Kay  was 
to  send  for  all  the  lords  of  the  realm,  and  all  made  knight  at  All  Hallowmass  afore.  So  as 
the  gentlemen  of  arms,  that  they  should  to  they  rode  to  the  jousts-ward.  Sir  Kay  lost  his 
London  come  by  Christmas,  upon  pain  of  sword,  for  he  had  left  it  at  his  father's  lodging, 
cursing;  and  for  this  cause,  that  Jesus,  that  was  and  so  he  prayed  young  Arthur  for  to  ride  for 
born  on  that  night,  that  He  would  of  His  30  his  sword.  I  will  well,  said  Arthur,  and  rode 
great  mercy  show  some  miracle,  as  He  was  come  fast  after  the  sword,  and  when  he  came  home, 
to  be  king  of  mankind,  for  to  show  some  the  lady  and  all  were  out  to  see  the  jousting, 
miracle  who  should  be  right-wise  king  of  this  Then  was  Arthur  wroth,  and  said  to  himself, 
realm.  So  the  Archbishop,  by  the  advice  of  I  will  ride  to  the  churchyard,  and  take  the 
Merlin,  sent  for  all  the  lords  and  gentlemen  of  35  sword  with  me  that  sticketh  in  the  stone,  for 
arms  that  they  should  come  by  Christmas  even  my  brother  Sir  Kay  shall  not  be  without  a 
unto  London.  And  many  of  them  made  them  sword  this  day.  So  when  he  came  to  the 
clean  of  their  hfe,  that  their  prayer  might  be  churchyard.  Sir  Arthur  alit  and  tied  his  horse 
the  more  acceptable  unto  God.  So  in  the  to  the  stile,  and  so  he  went  to  the  tent,  and 
greatest  church  of  London,  whether  it  were  40  found  no  knights  there,  for  they  were  at 
Paul's  or  not,  the  French  book  maketh  no  men-  jousting;  and  so  he  handled  the  sword  by  the 
tion,  all  the  estates  were  long  ere  day  in  the  handles,  and  lightly  and  fiercely  pulled  it  out 
church  for  to  pray.  And  when  matins  and  the  of  the  stone,  and  took  his  horse  and  rode  his 
first  mass  was  done,  there  was  seen  in  the  way  until  he  came  to  his  brother  Sir  Kay,  and 
churchyard,  against  the  high  altar,  a  great  45  delivered  him  the  sword.  And  as  soon  as 
stone  four  square,  Uke  unto  a  marble  stone,  and  Sir  Kay  saw  the  sword,  he  wist  well  it  was  the 
in  midst  thereof  was  like  an  anvil  of  steel  a  sword  of  the  stone,  and  so  he  rode  to  his  father 
foot  on  high,  and  therein  stuck  a  fair  sword  Sir  Ector,  and  said:  Sir,  lo  here  is  the  sword  of 
naked  by  the  point,  and  letters  there  were  the  stone,  wherefore  I  must  be  king  of  this  land, 
written  in  gold  about  the  sword  that  said  50  When  Sir  Ector  beheld  the  sword,  he  returned 
thus: — Whoso  puUeth  out  this  sword  of  this  again  and  came  to  the  church,  and  there  they 
stone  and  anvil,  is  rightwise  king  bom  of  all  aUt  all  three,  and  went  into  the  church.  And 
England.  Then  the  people  marvelled,  and  anon  he  made  Sir  Kay  swear  upon  a  book  how 
told  it  to  the  Archbishop.  I  command,  said  the  he  came  to  that  sword.  Sir,  said  Sir  Kay,  by 
Archbishop,  that  ye  keep  you  within  your  55  my  brother  Arthur,  for  he  brought  it  to  me. 
church,  and  pray  unto  God  still;  that  no  man  How  gat  ye  this  sword?  said  Sir  Ector  to 
touch  the  sword  till  the  high  mass  be  all  done.  Arthur.  Sir,  I  will  tell  you.  When  I  came 
So  when  all  masses  were  done  all  the  lords  went  home  for  my  brother's  sword,  I  found  nobody  at 
1  Belonged.  2  Cause  to  be  provided.  » Foster  brother. 


104  CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 

home  to  deliver  me  his  sword,  and  so  I  thought  spears.  I  have  enow,  said  the  knight;  bo 
my  brother  Sir  Kay  should  not  be  swordless,  there  came  a  squire  and  brought  in  good 
and  so  I  came  hither  eagerly  and  pulled  it  out  spears,  and  Arthur  chose  one  and  he  another; 
of  the  stone  without  any  pain.  Found  ye  any  so  they  spurred  their  horses  and  came  together 
knights  about  this  sword,  said  Sir  Ector.  5  with  all  their  mights,  that  either  brake  their 
Nay,  said  Arthur.  Now,  said  Sir  Ector  to  spears  to  their  hands.  Then  Arthur  set  hand 
Arthur,  I  understand  ye  must  be  king  of  this  on  his  sword.  Nay,  said  the  knight,  ye  shall 
land.  Wherefore  I,  said  Arthur,  and  for  what  do  better;  ye  are  a  passing  good  jouster  as  ever 
cause?  Sir,  said  Ector,  for  God  will  have  it  so,  I  met  withal;  and  once  for  the  love  of  the  high 
for  there  should  never  man  have  drawn  out  lO  order  of  knighthood  let  us  joust  once  again, 
this  sword,  but  he  shall  be  rightwise  king  of  this  I  assent  me,  said  Arthur.  Anon  there  were 
land.  Now  let  me  see  whether  ye  can  put  the  brought  two  great  spears,  and  every  knight 
sword  there  as  it  was,  and  pull  it  out  again.  ,  gat  a  spear,  and  therewith  they  ran  together, 
That  is  no  mastery,  said  Arthur,  and  so  he  put  that  Arthur's  spear  all  to-shivered.  But  the 
it  in  the  stone.  Wherewith  Sir  Ector  assayed  15  other  knight  hit  him  so  hard  in  midst  of  the 
to  pull  out  the  sword  and  failed.  shield,  that  horse  and  man  fell  to  the  earth,  and 

Now  assay,  said  Sir  Ector  unto  Sir  Kay.  therewith  Arthur  was  eager,  and  pulled  out  his 
And  anon  he  pulled  at  the  sword  with  aU  his  sword,  and  said,  I  will  assay  thee,  sir  knight, 
might,  but  it  would  not  be.  Now  shall  ye  on  foot,  for  I  have  lost  the  honour  on  horse- 
assay,  said  Sir  Ector  to  Arthur.  I  will  well,  20  back.  I  will  be  on  horseback,  said  the  knight, 
said  Arthur,  and  pulled  it  out  easily.  And  Then  was  Arthur  wroth,  and  dressed  his 
therewithal  Sir  Ector  knelt  down  to  the  earth,  shield  toward  him  with  his  sword  di-awn.  When 
and  Sir  Kay.  the  knight  saw  that,  he  alit,  for  him  thought  no 

worship  to  have  a  knight  at  such  avail,^  he  to 

ARTHUR'S   ENCOUNTER   WITH   PELL-  ^^  ^®  ^^  horseback  and  he  on  foot;  and  so  he  alit 

INORE  ^^^  dressed  his  shield  unto  Arthur.    And  there 

began  a  strong  battle  with  many  great  strokes, 

And  so  Arthur  rode  a  soft  pace  till  it  was  and  so  hewed  with  their  swords  that  the 
day,  and  then  was  he  aware  of  three  churls  cantels*  flew  in  the  fields,  and  much  blood  they 
chasing  Merlin,  and  would  have  slain  him.  30  bled  both,  that  aU  the  place  there  as  they 
Then  the  king  rode  unto  them,  and  bade  them :  fought  was  overbled  with  blood.  And  thus 
Flee,  churls!  then  were  they  af eared  when  they  they  fought  long  and  rested  them,  and  then 
saw  a  knight,  and  fled.  O  Merhn,  said  Arthur,  they  went  to  the  battle  again,  and  so  hurtled 
here  hadst  thou  been  slain  for  all  thy  crafts  had  together  hke  two  rams  that  either  fell  to  the 
I  not  been.  Nay,  said  Merlin,  not  so,  for  I  35  earth.  So  at  the  last  they  smote  together  that 
could  save  myself  an  I  would;  and  thou  art  both  their  swords  met  even  together.  But  the 
more  near  thy  death  than  I  am,  for  thou  goest  sword  of  the  knight  smote  King  Arthur's  sword 
to  the  deathward,  an  God  be  not  thy  friend,  in  two  pieces,  wherefor  he  was  heavy.  Then 
So  as  they  went  thus  talking  they  came  to  said  the  knight  unto  Arthur,  Thou  art  in  my 
the  fountain,  and  the  rich  pavilion  there  by  it.  40  danger  whether  me  hst  to  save  thee  or  slay 
Then  King  Arthur  was  ware  where  sat  a  knight  thee,  and  but  thou  yield  thee  as  overcome  and 
armed  in  a  chair.  Sir  knight,  said  Arthur,  for  recreant,  thou  shalt  die.  As  for  death,  said 
what  cause  abidest  thou  here,  that  there  may  King  Arthur,  welcome  be  it  when  it  cometh. 
no  knight  ride  this  Way  but  if  he  joust  with  But  to  yield  me  unto  thee  as  recreant  I  had 
thee?  said  the  king.  I  rede  thee  leave  that45hefer  die  than  to  be  so  shamed.  And  there- 
custom,  said  Arthur.  This  custom,  said  the  withal  the  king  leapt  unto  Pelhnore,  and  took 
knight,  have  I  used  and  will  use  maugre  who  him  by  the  middle  and  threw  him  down,  and 
saith  nay,  and  who  is  grieved  with  my  custom  rased  off  his  helm.^  When  the  knight  felt  that, 
let  him  amend  it  that  will.  I  will  amend  it,  he  was  adread,  for  he  was  passing  big  man  of 
said  Arthur.  I  shall  defend^  thee,  said  the  50  might,  and  anon  he  brought  Arthiu-  under  him, 
knight.  Anon  he  took  his  horse  and  dressed  and  rased  off  his  helm  and  would  have  smitten 
his  shield  and  took  a  spear,  and  they  met  so     off  his  head. 

hard  either  in  other's  shields,  that  all  to-  Therewithal  came  Merlin  and  said.  Knight, 
shivered^  their  spears.  Therewith  anon  hold  thy  hand,  for  an  thou  slay  that  knight 
Arthur  pulled  out  his  sword.  Nay,  not  so,  said  55  thou  puttest  this  realm  in  the  greatest  damage 
the  knight;  it  is  fairer,  said  the  knight,  that  we  that  ever  was  realm;  for  this  knight  is  a  man  of 
twain  run  more  together  with  sharp  spears,  more  worship  than  thou  wotest  of.  Why,  who 
I  will  well,  said  Arthur,  an  I  had  any  more     is  he?  said  the  knight.     It  is  King  Arthur. 

1  Prevent.  *  Broke  to  pieces.  s  Advantage.  'Pieces.  6  Helmet. 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  105 

Then  would  he  have  slain  him^  for  dread  of  his  ship,  and  when  they  came  to  the  sword  that 
wrath,  and  heaved  up  his  sword,  and  therewith  the  hand  held,  Sir  Arthur  took  it  up  by  the 
Merlin  cast  an  enchantment  to  the  knight,  that  handles,  and  took  it  with  him,  and  the  arm  and 
he  fell  to  the  earth  in  a  great  sleep.  Then  the  hand  went  under  the  water.  And  so  they 
Merlin  took  up  King  Arthur,  and  rode  forth  on  5  came  unto  the  land  and  rode  forth,  and  then 
the  Knight's  horse.  Alas!  said  Arthur,  what  Sir  Arthur  saw  a  rich  pavilion.  What  signi- 
hast  thou  done,  Merlin?  hast  thou  slain  this  fieth  yonder  pavilion?  That  is  the  knight's 
good  knight  by  thy  crafts?  There  liveth  not  so  pavilion,  said  Merhn,  that  ye  fought  with  last, 
worshipful  a  knight  as  he  was;  I  had  liefer  than  Sir  Pellinore;  but  he  is  out,  he  is  not  there, 
the  stint^  of  my  land  a  year  that  he  were  alive.  10  He  hath  ado  with  a  knight  of  yours  that  hight 
Care  ye  not,  said  Merlin,  for  he  is  whoUer  than  Egglame,  and  they  have  foughten  together,  but 
ye;  for  he  is  but  asleep,  and  will  awake  within  at  the  last  Egglame  fled,  and  else  he  had  been 
three  hours.  I  told  you,  said  Merlin,  what  a  dead,  and  he  hath  chased  him  even  to  Carleon, 
knight  he  was;  here  had  ye  been  slain  had  I  not  and  we  shall  meet  with  him  anon  in  the  high- 
been.  Also  there  liveth  not  a  bigger  knight  15  way.  That  is  well  said,  said  Arthur,  now  have 
than  he  is  one,  and  he  shall  hereafter  do  you  I  a  sword,  now  will  I  wage  battle  with  him,  and 
right  good  service;  and  his  name  is  Pellinore.      be  avenged  on  him.     Sir,   ye  shall  not  so, 

said  Merlin,  for  the  knight  is  weary  of  fighting 

HOW  ARTHUR  GOT  THE  SWORD  FROM      ^^^  chasing,  so  that  ye  shall  have  no  worship 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE  20  to  have  ado  with  him;  also  he  will  not  be 

lightly  matched  of  one  knight  living,  and 
Right  so  the  king  and  he  departed,  and  went  therefore  it  is  my  counsel,  let  him  pass,  for  he 
unto  an  hermit  that  was  a  good  man  and  a  shall  do  you  good  service  in  short  time,  and  his 
great  leech.  So  the  hermit  searched  all  his  sons  after  his  days.  Also  ye  shall  see  that  day 
wounds  and  gave  him  good  salves;  so  the  king  25  in  short  space,  ye  shall  be  right  glad  to  give  him 
was  there  three  days,  and  then  were  his  wounds  your  sister  to  wed.  When  I  see  him,  I  will  do 
well  amended  that  he  might  ride  and  go,  and  as  ye  advise,  said  Arthur.  Then  Sir  Arthur 
so  departed.  And  as  they  rode,  Arthur  said,  looked  on  the  sword,  and  liked  it  passing  well. 
I  have  no  sword.  No  force,  ^  said  Merlin,  Whether  liketh  you  better,  said  Merhn,  the 
hereby  is  a  sword  that  shall  be  yours,  an  I  may.  30  sword  or  the  scabbard?  Me  hketh  better  the 
So  they  rode  till  they  came  to  a  lake,  the  which  sword,  said  Arthur.  Ye  are  more  unwise,  said 
was  a  fair  water  and  broad.  And  in  the  midst  Merlin,  for  the  scabbard  is  worth  ten  of  the 
of  the  lake  Arthur  was  ware  of  an  arm  clothed  swords,  for  whiles  ye  have  the  scabbard  upon 
in  white  samite, ^  that  held  a  fair  sword  in  that  you,  ye  shall  never  lose  no  blood,  be  ye  never 
hand.  Lo!  said  Merlin,  yonder  is  that  sword  35  so  sore  wounded;  therefore  keep  well  the  scab- 
that  I  spake  of.  With  that  they  saw  a  damosel  bard  always  with  you.  So  they  rode  unto 
going  upon  the  lake.  What  damosel  is  that?  Carleon,  and  by  the  way  they  met  with  Sir 
said  Arthur.  That  is  the  Lady  of  the  lake,  said  Pellinore;  but  Merlin  had  done  such  a  craft, 
Merhn;  and  within  that  lake  is  a  rock,  and  that  Pellinore  saw  not  Arthur,  and  he  passed 
therein  is  as  fair  a  place  as  any  on  earth,  and  40  by  without  any  words.  I  marvel,  said  Arthur, 
richly  besene;^  and  this  damosel  will  come  to  that  the  knight  would  not  speak.  Sir,  said 
you  anon,  and  then  speak  ye  fair  to  her  that  Merhn,  he  saw  you  not,  for  an  he  had  seen  you, 
she  will  give  you  that  sword.  Anon  withal  came  ye  had  not  hghtly  departed.  So  they  came 
the  damosel  unto  Arthur,  and  saluted  him,  and  unto  Carleon,  whereof  his  knights  were  passing 
he  her  again.  Damosel,  said  Arthur,  what  45  glad.  And  when  they  heard  of  his  adventures, 
sword  is  that,  that  yonder  the  arm  holdeth  they  marvelled  that  he  would  jeopard  his  per- 
above  the  water?  I  would  it  were  mine,  for  son  so  alone.  But  all  men  of  worship  said  it 
1  have  no  sword.  Sir  Arthur,  king,  said  the  was  merry  to  be  under  such  a  chieftan,  that 
damosel,  that  sword  is  mine,  and  if  ye  will  give  would  put  his  person  in  adventure  as  other 
me  a  gift  when  I  ask  it  you,  ye  shall  have  it.  50  poor  knights  did. 
By  my  faith,  said  Arthur,  I  will  give  you  what 

gift  ye  will  ask.  Well!  said  the  damosel,  go  ye  gjj^  LAUNCELOT  DEPARTS  OUT  OF 
into  yonder  barge,  and  row  yourself  to  the  ENGLAND 

sword,  and  take  it  and  the  scabbard  with  you, 

and  I  will  ask  my  gift  when  I  see  my  time.  So  55  My  fair  fellows,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  I  must 
Sir  Arthur  and  Merlin  aht  and  tied  their  depart  out  of  this  most  noble  realm,  and  now 
horses  to  two  trees,  and  so  they  went  into  the  I  shall  depart  it  grieveth  me  sore,  for  I  shall 
6  Himself.  T  Income.  depart  with  no  worship,  for  a  flemyd^  man 

1  It  matters  not.     *  Rich  silk.     '  i.  e.  Beautiful  to  be  seen.  ^  Banished. 


106  CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 

departed  never  out  of  a  realm  with  no  worship;     vengenace  of  Sir  Gawaine,  all  that  they  might 
and  that  is  my  heaviness,  for  ever  I  fear  after      overrun. 
my  daj''s  that  men  shall  chronicle  upon  me  that 

I  was  flemyd  out  of  this  land;  and  else  my  fair  TIDINGS  MAKE  ARTHUR  RETURN  TO 
lords  be  ye  sure,  an  I  had  not  dread  shame,  my  5  ENGLAND 

lady  Oueen  Guenever  and  I  should  never  have 

departed.    Then  spake  many  noble  knights,  as  Alas,  said  the  King,  that  ever  this  unhappy 

Sir  Palomides,  Sir  Safere  his  brother,  and  Sir  war  was  begun;  for  ever  Sir  Launcelot  for- 
Bellangere  le  Beuse,  and  Sir  Urre,  with  Sir  beareth  me  in  all  places,  and  in  likewise  my  kin, 
Lavaine,  with  many  others.  Sir,  an  ye  be  so  10  and  that  is  seen  well  this  day  by  my  nephew 
disposed  to  abide  in  this  land,  we  will  never  Sir  Gawaine.  Then  King  Arthur  fell  sick  for 
fail  you;  and  if  ye  list  not  to  abide  in  this  land  sorrow  of  Sir  Gawaine,  that  he  was  so  sore  hurt, 
there  is  none  of  the  good  knights  that  here  be  and  by  cause  of  the  war  betwixt  him  and  Sir 
will  fail  you,  for  many  causes.  One  is,  All  we  Launcelot.  So  then  they  on  King  Arthur's 
that  be  not  of  your  blood  shall  never  be  wel-  15  party^  kept  the  siege  with  little  war  without- 
come  to  the  court.  And  sithen^  it  liked  us  to  forth;  and  they  withinforth  kept  their  walls,  and 
take  a  part  with  you  in  your  distress  and  defended  them  when  need  was.  .  .  . 
heaviness  in  this  realm,  wit  you  well  it  shall  Thus  as  this  siege  endured,  and  as  Sir 
like  us  as  well  to  go  in  other  countries  with  you,  Gawaine  lay  sick  near  a  month;  and  when  he 
and  there  to  take  such  part  as  ye  do.  My  fair  20  was  well  recovered  and  ready  within  three 
lords,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  I  well  understand  you  days  to  do  battle  again  with  Sir  Launcelot, 
and  as  I  can,  thank  you:  and  ye  shall  under-  right  so  came  tidings  unto  Arthur  from  England 
stand,  such  hvelihood  as  I  am  bom  unto  I  that  made  King  Arthur  and  all  his  host  to 
shall  depart  with  you  in  this  manner  of  wise,      remove. 

that  is  for  to  say;  I  shall  depart  all  my  liveli-25  As  Sir  Mordred  was  ruler  of  all  England,  he 
hood  and  all  my  lands  freely  among  you,  and  I  did  so  make  letters  as  though  that  they  came 
myself  will  have  as  little  as  any  of  you,  for  have  from  beyond  the  sea  and  the  letters  specified 
I  sufficient  that  may  long  to  my  person,  I  will  that  King  Arthur  was  slain  in  battle  with  Sir 
ask  none  other  rich  array;  and  I  trust  to  God  to  Launcelot.  Wherefore  Sir  Mordred  made  a 
maintain  you  on  my  lands  as  well  as  ever  were  30  parliament,  and  called  the  lords  together,  and 
maintained  any  knights.  Then  spake  all  the  there  he  made  them  to  choose  him  King;  and 
knights  at  once.  He  have  shame  that  will  leave  so  was  he  crowned  at  Canterbury,  and  held  a 
you;  for  we  all  understand,  in  this  realm  will  be      feast  there  fifteen  days. 

now  no  quiet,  but  ever  strife  and  debate;  now  Then  came  word  to  Sir  Mordred  that  King 
the  fellowship  of  the  Round  Table  is  broken;  35  Arthur  had  araised  the  siege  for  Sir  Launcelot, 
for  by  the  noble  fellowship  of  the  Round  Table  and  he  was  coming  homeward  with  a  great  host, 
was  King  Arthur  upborne,  and  by  their  noblesse  to  be  avenged  upon  Sir  Mordred;  wherefore 
the  King  and  all  his  realm  was  in  quiet  and  rest,  Sir  Mordred  made  write  writs  to  all  the  barony 
and  a  great  part  they  said  all  was  by  cause  of  of  this  land,  and  much  people  drew  to  him. 
your  noblesse.  40     For  then  was  the  common  voice  among  them 

that  with  Arthur  was  none  other  fife  but  war 

KING  ARTHUR   MAKES   MORDRED        ^^^  ^^^'^^\  ^^^  ^^^  ^i^  Mordred  was  great 

CHIEF  RULER  ^^^  ^^^  bliss.    Thus  was  Sir  Arthur  depraved" 

and  evil  said  of.  And  many  there  were  that 
So  leave  we  Sir  Launcelot  in  his  lands,  and  45  King  Arthur  had  made  up  of  naught,  and 
his  noble  knights  with  him,  and  return  we  again  given  them  lands,  might  not  then  say  him  a 
unto  King  Arthur  and  to  Sir  Gawaine,  that  good  word.  Lo  ye  all  Englishmen,  see  ye  not 
made  a  great  host  ready,  to  the  number  of  what  a  mischief  here  was,  for  he  that  was  the 
threescore  thousand;  and  all  thing  was  made  most  king  and  knight  of  the  world,  and  most 
ready  for  their  shipping  to  pass  over  the  sea,  50  loved  the  fellowship  of  noble  knights,  and  by 
and  so  they  shipped  at  Cardiff.  And  there  him  they  were  all  upholden,  now  might  not 
King  Arthur  made  Sir  Mordred  chief  ruler  of  these  EngUshmen  hold  them  content  with 
all  England,  and  also  he  put  Queen  Guenever  him.  Lo  thus  was  the  old  custom  and  usage  of 
under  his  governance;  by  cause  Sir  Mordred  this  land;  and  also  men  say  that  we  of  this  land 
was  King  Arthur's  son,  he  gave  him  the  rule  of  55  have  not  yet  lost  nor  forgotten  that  custom  andv 
his  land  and  of  his  wife;  and  so  the  king  passed  usage.  Alas,  this  is  a  great  default  of  us  -, 
the  sea  and  landed  upon  Sir  Laimcelot's  lands.  Englishmen,  for  there  may  no  thing  please  us 
and  there  he  brent  and  wasted,  through  the      now  term.    And  so  fared  the  people  at  that 

1  Side.  *  Denounc«d. 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  107 

time,  they  were  better  pleased  with  Sir  Mor-  field.  And  when  Arthur  should  depart,  he 
dred  than  they  were  with  King  Arthur;  and  warned  all  his  host  that  an  they  see  any  sword 
much  people  drew  unto  Sir  Mordred,  and  said  drawn,  Look  ye  come  on  fiercely,  and  slay  that 
they  would  abide  with  him  for  better  and  for  traitor  Sir  Mordred,  for  I  in  no  wise  trust  him. 
worse.  And  so  Sir  Mordred  drew  with  a  5  In  hkewise  Sir  Mordred  warned  his  host  that, 
great  host  to  Dover,  for  there  he  heard  say  that  An  ye  see  any  sword  drawn,  look  that  ye  come 
Sir  Arthur  would  arrive,  and  so  he  thought  to  on  fiercely,  and  so  slay  all  that  ever  before  you 
beat  his  own  father  from  his  lands;  and  the  standeth;  for  in  no  wise  I  will  not  trust  for  this 
most  party  of  all  England  held  with  Sir  Mor-  treatise,  for  I  know  well  my  father  will  be 
dred,  the  people  were  so  new  fangle.  10  avenged  on  me.     And  so  they  met  as  their 

And  so  as  Sir  Mordred  was  at  Dover  with  appointment  was,  and  so  they  were  agreed  and 
his  host,  there  came  King  Arthur  with  a  great  accorded  thoroughly;  and  wine  was  fetched,  and 
navy  of  ships,  and  galleys,  and  carracks.'  they  drank.  Right  soon  came  an  adder  out  of  a 
And  there  was  Sir  Mordred  ready  awaiting  little  heath  bush  and  it  stung  a  knight  on  the 
upon  his  landing,  to  let*  his  own  father  to  land  15  foot.  And  when  the  knight  felt  him  stung,  he 
upon  the  land  that  he  was  King  over.  Then  looked  down  and  saw  the  adder,  and  then  he 
there  was  launching  of  great  boats  and  small,  drew  his  sword  to  slay  the  adder,  and  thought 
and  full  of  noble  men  of  arms;  and  there  was  of  none  other  harm.  And  when  the  host  on 
much  slaughter  of  gentle  knights,  and  many  a  both  parties  saw  that  sword  drawn,  then  they 
full  bold  baron  was  laid  full  low,  on  both  20  blew  beamous,'  trumpets,  and  horns,  and 
parties.  But  King  Arthur  was  so  courageous  shouted  grimly.  And  so  both  hosts  dressed 
that  there  might  no  manner  of  knights  let  him  them  together.  And  King  Arthur  took  his 
to  land,  and  his  knights  fiercely  followed  him;  horse  and  said,  Alas  this  unhappy  day,  and 
and  so  they  landed  maugre  Sir  Mordred  and  so  rode  to  his  party.  And  Sir  Mordred  in  like 
all  his  power,  and  put  Sir  Mordred  aback,  that  25  wise.  And  never  was  there  seen  a  more  dole- 
he  fled  and  all  his  people.  fuller  battle  in  no  Christian  land;  for  there  was 

but  rushing  and  riding,  feigning  and  striking, 
THE  DEATH  OF  ARTHUR  ^^^  many  a  grim  word  was  there  spoken  either 

to  other,  and  many  a  deadly  stroke.    But  ever 

Then  was  it  told  the  King  that  Sir  Mordred  30  King  Arthur  rode  throughout  the  battle*  of 
had  pyghte^  a  new  field  upon  Barham  Down.  Sir  Mordred  many  times,  and  did  full  nobly  as  a 
And  upon  the  morn  the  King  rode  thither  to  noble  knight  should,  and  at  all  times  he  fainted 
him,  and  there  was  a  great  battle  betwixt  them,  never;  and  Sir  Mordred  that  day  put  him  in 
and  much  people  was  slain  on  both  parties;  but  devoir,^  and  in  great  peril.  And  thus  they 
at  the  last  Sir  Arthur's  party  stood  best,  and  35  fought  all  the  long  day,  and  never  stinted  till 
Sir  Mordred  and  his  party  fled  unto  Canter-  the  noble  knights  were  laid  to  the  cold  earth; 
bury.  .  .  .  and  ever  they  fought  still  till  it  was  near  night, 

Then  the  King  commanded  Sir  Lucan  the  and  by  that  time  was  there  an  hundred  thou- 
Butler  and  his  brother  Sir  Bedivere,  with  two  sand  laid  dead  upon  the  ground.  Then  was 
bishops  with  them,  and  charged  them  in  any  40  Arthur  wood^  wroth  out  of  measure,  when  he 
wise,  an  they  might,  take  a  treaty  for  a  month  saw  his  people  so  slain  from  him.  Then  the 
day^  with  Sir  Mordred,  and  spare  not,  proffer  king  looked  about  him,  and  then  was  he  ware,  of 
him  lands  and  goods  as  much  as  ye  think  best,  all  his  host  and  of  all  his  good  knights,  were 
So  then  they  departed,  and  came  to  Sir  Mor-  left  no  more  alive  but  two  knights;  that  one 
dred,  where  he  had  a  grim  host  of  an  hundred  45  was  Sir  Lucan  the  Butler,  and  his  brother  Sir 
thousand  men.  And  there  they  entreated  Bedivere,  and  they  were  full  sore  wounded. 
Sir  Mordred  long  time;  and  at  the  last  Sir  Jesu  mercy,  said  the  king,  where  are  all  my 
Mordred  was  agreed  for  to  have  Cornwall  and  noble  knights  become?  Alas  that  ever  I  should 
Kent,  by  Arthur's  days:  after,  all  England,  see  this  doleful  day,  for  now,  said  Arthur,  I  am 
after  the  days  of  King  Arthur.  50  come  to  mine  end.    But  would  to  God  that  1 

Then  were  they  condescended  that  King  wist  where  were  that  traitor  Sir  Mordred,  that 
Arthur  and  Sir  Mordred  should  meet  betwixt  hath  caused  all  this  mischief.  Then  was 
])oth  their  hosts,  and  each  of  them  should  King  Arthur  ware  where  Sir  Mordred  leaned 
bring  fourteen  persons;  and  they  came  with  upon  his  sword  among  a  great  heap  of  dead 
this  word  unto  Arthur.  Then  said  he,  I  am  55  men.  Now  give  me  my  spear,  said  Arthur  unto 
glad  that  this  is  done:  and  so  he  went  into  the      Sir  Lucan,  for  yonder  I  have  espied  the  traitor 

3  Large  merchant  ships.        *  Prohibit.  3  a  kind  of  trumpet. 

1  Prepared.  *  The  line  in  battle  array. 

2  "  A  stipulated  or  allowed  period,  of  a  month's  dura-  '  i-  e.  compelled  him  to  do  his  utmost  duty, 
tion. "  •  M  adJy  angiy . 


103  CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 

that  all  this  woe  hath  wrought.  Sir,  let  him  be,  But  I  may  not  stand,  mine  head  works  sa 
said  Sir  Lucan,  for  he  is  unhappy;  and  if  ye  Ah  Sir  Launcelot,  said  King  Arthur,  this  day 
pass  this  unhappy  day  ye  shall  be  right  well  have  I  sore  missed  thee;  alas  that  ever  I  was 
revenged  upon  him.  Good  lord  remember  ye  against  thee,  for  now  have  I  my  death,  whereof 
of  your  night's  dream,  and  what  the  spirit  of  5  Sir  Gawaine  me  warned  in  my  dream.  Then 
Sir  Gawaine  told  you  this  night,  yet  God  of  Sir  Lucan  took  up  the  king,  the  one  part,  and 
His  great  goodness  hath  preserved  you  hitherto.  Sir  Bedivere  the  other  part,  and  in  the  lifting 
Therefore,  for  God's  sake,  leave  off  by  this,  for  the  king  swooned;  and  Sir  Lucan  fell  in  a 
blessed  be  God  ye  have  won  the  field,  for  here  swoon  with  the  lift,  .  .  .  and  therewith  the 
we  be  three  alive,  and  with  Sir  Mordred  is  lO  noble  knight's  heart  brast.^^  ^^^  when  the 
none  alive;  and  if  ye  leave  off  now,  this  wicked  king  awoke,  he  beheld  Sir  Lucan,  how  he  lay 
day  of  destiny  is  past.  Tide  me  death,  betide  foaming  at  the  mouth.  .  .  .  Alas,  said  the  king, 
me  life,''  said  the  kinp;,  now  I  see  him  yonder  this  is  to  me  a  full  heavy  sight,  to  see  this 
alone,  he  shall  never  escape  mine  hands,  for  noble  duke  so  die  for  my  sake,  for  he  would 
at  a  better  avail  shall  I  never  have  him.  God  15  have  holpen  me  that  had  more  need  of  help 
speed  you  well,  said  Sir  Bedivere.  Then  the  than  I.  Alas  he  would  not  complain  him,  his 
King  gat  his  spear  in  both  his  hands,  and  ran  heart  was  so  set  to  help  me;  now  Jesu  have 
towards  Sir  Mordred,  crying.  Traitor,  now  is  mercy  upon  his  soul.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  wept 
thy  death  day  come.  And  when  Sir  Mordred  for  the  death  of  his  brother.  Leave  this  mourn- 
heard  Sir  Arthur,  he  ran  unto  him  with  his20ing  and  weeping,  said  the  king,  for  all  this  will 
sword  drawn  in  his  hand.  And  there  King  not  avail  me,  for  wit  thou  well  that  an  I  might 
Arthur  smote  Sir  Mordred  under  the  shield,  hve  myself,  the  death  of  Sir  Lucan  would 
with  a  foin^  of  his  spear,  throughout  the  body,  grieve  me  evermore;  but  my  time  hieth  fast, 
more  than  a  fathom;  and  when  Sir  Mordred  said  the  king.  Therefore,  said  Arthur  unto 
felt  that  he  had  his  death's  wound  he  thrust  25  Sir  Bedivere,  take  thou  Excahbur  my  good 
himself  with  the  might  that  he  had  up  to  the  sword,  and  go  with  it  to  yonder  water  side,  and 
bur^  of  King  Arthur's  spear;  and  right  so  he  when  thou  comest  there  I  charge  thee  throw 
smote  his  father  Arthur,  with  his  sword  holdeu  my  sword  in  that  water,  and  come  again  and 
in  both  his  hands,  on  the  side  of  the  head,  that  tell  me  what  thou  there  seest.  My  lord,  said 
the  sword  pierced  the  helmet  and  the  brain  30  Bedivere,  your  commandment  shall  be  done, 
pan,  and  therewithal  Sir  Mordred  fell  stark  and  lightly  bring  you  word  again.  So  Sir 
dead  to  the  earth;  and  the  noble  Arthur  fell  Bedivere  departed,  and  by  the  way  he  beheld 
in  a  swoon  to  the  earth,  and  there  he  swooned  that  noble  sword,  that  the  pommel  and  the 
ofttimes.  And  Sir  Lucan  the  Butler  and  Sir  haft  was  all  of  precious  stones;  and  then  he 
Bedivere  ofttimes  heave  him  up.  And  so  35  said  to  himself,  if  I  throw  this  rich  sword  in  the 
weakly  they  led  him  betwixt  them  both,  to  a  water,  thereof  shall  never  come  good,  but 
Uttle  chapel  not  far  from  the  sea  side.  And  harm  and  loss.  And  then  Sir  Bedivere  hid 
when  the  king  was  there  he  thought  him  well  Excahbur  under  a  tree.  And  so,  as  soon  as  he 
eased.  Then  heard  they  people  cry  in  the  might,  he  came  again  unto  the  king,  and  said 
field.  Now  go  thou  Sir  Lucan,  said  the  King,  40  he  had  been  at  the  water,  and  had  thrown  the 
and  do  me  to  wit  what  betokens  that  noise  in  sword  into  the  water.  What  saw  thou  there? 
the  field.  So  Sir  Lucan  departed,  for  he  was  said  the  king.  Sir,  he  said,  I  saw  nothing  but 
grieveously  wounded  in  many  places.  And  so  waves  and  wind.  That  is  untruly  said  of  thee, 
as  he  went  he  saw  and  hearkened  by  the  said  the  king,  therefore  go  thou  hghtly  again, 
moonhght,  how  that  pillers^°  and  robbers  were  45  and  do  my  commandment;  as  thou  art  to  me 
come  into  the  field,  to  pill  and  rob  many  a  full  lief  and  dear,  spare  not  but  throw  it  in.  Then 
noble  knight  of  brooches,  and  beads,  and  many  Sir  Bedivere  returned  again,  and  took  the 
a  good  ring,  and  of  many  a  rich  jewel;  and  who  sword  in  his  hand;  and  then  him  thought  sin 
that  were  not  dead  all  out,  they  slew  them  for  and  shame  to  throw  away  that  noble  sword,i 
their  harness  and  their  riches.  When  Sir  50  and  so  eft^^  he  hid  the  sword,  and  returned 
Lucan  understood  this  work,  he  came  to  the  again,  and  told  to  the  king  that  he  had  been  at 
king  as  soon  as  he  might  and  told  him  all  what  the  water,  and  done  his  commandment.  What 
he  had  heard  and  seen.  Thereforeby  my  rede,^^  saw  thou  there?  said  the  king.  Sir,  he  said,  I 
said  Sir  Lucan,  it  is  best  that  we  bring  you  to  saw  nothing  but  the  waters  wappe^^  and  the 
some  town.  I  would  it  were  so,  said  the  king,  55  waves  wanne.  Ah,  traitor  untrue,  said  King 
,  ^        ,    ^,  ,.,  8  T-K     *  Arthur,   now  hast  thou  betrayed  me  twice.  \ 

» Come  death,  or  come  hfe.  » Thrust.  ,^^,  ,  i  i  i    , i     ,    , i  .i     ,   ^       ^    , 

•  "A  moveable  ring  adjusted  to  the  staff  of  a  lance,      Who  would  have  weened  that  thou  that  hast    i 
covered  with  minute  projections  to  afford  a  grip  to  the      ^ggn  to  me  SO  Hef  and  dear,  and  thou  art  named 

gaimtlet.      Cent.  Did.  ' 

10  Robbers.  ^^  Counsel.  12  Burst.  i'  Again.  1*  Lap  and  wane. 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  109 

a  noble  knight,  and  would  betray  me  for  the  Sir  Bedivere,  what  man  is  there  interred  that 
riches  of  the  sword.  But  now  go  again  lightly,  ye  pray  so  fast  for?  Fair  son,  said  the  hermit, 
for  thy  long  tarrying  putteth  me  in  great  I  wot  not  verily,  but  by  my  deeming,  ^s  g^^ 
jeopardy  of  my  life,  for  I  have  taken  cold,  this  night,  at  midnight,  here  came  a  number  of 
And  but  if  ^^  thou  do  now  as  I  bid  thee,  if  ever  I  5  ladies,  and  brought  hither  a  dead  corpse,  and 
may  see  thee,  I  shall  slay  thee  with  mine  own  prayed  me  to  bury  him;  and  here  they  offered 
hands;  for  thou  wouldst  for  my  rich  sword  see  an  hundred  tapers,  and  they  gave  me  an  hun- 
me  dead.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  dred  besants.^^  Alas,  said  Sir  Bedivere,  that 
went  to  the  sword,  and  lightly  took  it  up,  and  was  my  lord  King  Arthur,  that  here  lieth  buried 
went  to  the  water  side;  and  there  he  bound  the  10  in  this  chapel.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  swooned; 
girdle  about  the  hilts,  and  then  he  threw  the  and  when  he  awoke  he  prayed  the  hermit  he 
sword  as  far  into  the  water  as  he  might;  and  might  abide  with  him  still  there,  to  live  with 
there  came  an  arm  and  an  hand  above  the  water  fasting  and  prayers.  For  from  hence  will  I 
and  met  it,  and  caught  it,  and  shook  it  thrice  never  go,  said  Sir  Bedivere,  by  my  will,  but  all 
and  brandished,  and  then  vanished  away  the  15  the  days  of  my  hfe  here  to  pray  for  my  lord 
hand  with  the  sword  in  the  water.  So  Sir  Arthur.  Ye  are  welcome  to  me,  said  the  her- 
Bedivere  came  again  to  the  King,  and  told  him  mit,  for  I  know  you  better  than  ye  ween  that  I 
what  he  saw.  Alas,  said  the  king,  help  me  do.  Ye  are  the  bold  Bedivere,  and  the  full 
hence,  for  I  dread  me  I  have  tarried  over  long,  noble  duke  Sir  Lucan  the  Butler  was  your 
Then  Sir  Bedivere  took  the  king  upon  his  20  brother.  .  .  . 

back,  and  so  went  with  him  to  that  water  side.  More  of  the  death  of  King  Arthur  could  I 

And  when  they  were  at  the  water  side,  even  never  find,  but  that  ladies  brought  him  to  his 
fast  by  the  bank  hoved  a  little  barge  with  burial;  and  such  one  was  buried  there,  that  the 
many  fair  ladies  in  it,  and  among  them  all  was  hermit  bare  witness  that  sometime  was  Bishop 
a  queen,  and  all  they  had  black  hoods,  and  all  25  of  Canterbury,  but  yet  the  hermit  knew  not  in 
they  wept  and  shrieked  when  they  saw  King  certain  that  he  was  verily  the  body  of  King 
Arthur.  Now  put  me  into  the  barge,  said  the  Arthur:  for  this  tale  Sir  Bedivere,  knight  of  the 
king.  And  so  he  did  softly;  and  there  received  Table  Round,  made  it  to  be  written.  Yet  some 
him  three  queens  with  great  mourning;  and  so  men  say  in  many  parts  of  England  that  King 
they  set  them  down,  and  in  one  of  their  laps  30  Arthur  is  not  dead,  but  had  by  the  will  of  our 
King  Arthur  laid  his  head.  And  then  that  Lord  Jesu  into  another  place;  and  men  say  that 
queen  said,  Ah,  dear  brother,  why  have  ye  he  shall  come  again,  and  he  shall  win  the  Holy 
tarried  so  long  from  me?  A|as,  this  wound  Cross.  I  will  not  say  it  shall  be  so,  but  rather 
on  your  head  hath  caught  over  much  cold.  I  will  say,  here  in  this  world  he  changed  his 
And  so  then  they  rowed  from  the  land,  and  Sir  35  life.  But  many  men  say  that  there  is  written 
Bedivere  beheld  all  those  ladies  go  from  him.      upon  histomb  this  verse: 

Then  Sir  Bedivere  cried.  Ah,  my  lord  Arthur,  Hie  jacet  Arthurus  Rex,  quondam  Rex  que 

what  shall  become  of  me,  now  ye  go  from  me  futurus.^** 

and  leave  me  here  alone  among  mine  enemies? 

Comfort  thyseK,  said  the  king,  and  do  as  well  40  gjj^  LAUNCELOT 

as  thou  mayest,  for  in  me  is  no  trust  for  to 

trust  in,  for  I  will  into  the  vale  of  Avalon  to  And  when  Sir  Ector  heard  such  noise  and 

heal  me  of  my  grievous  wounds:  and  if  thou  light  in  the  choir  of  Joyous  Gard,  he  alit  and 
hear  never  more  of  me,  pray  for  my  soul,  put  his  horse  from  him,  and  came  into  the 
But  ever  the  queens  and  ladies  wept  and  45  choir,  and  there  he  saw  men  sing  and  weep, 
shrieked,  that  it  was  pity  to  hear.  And  as  And  all  they  knew  Sir  Ector,  but  he  knew  not 
soon  as  Sir  Bedivere  had  lost  the  sight  of  the  them.  Then  went  Sir  Bors  unto  Sir  Ector,  and 
barge,  he  wept  and  wailed,  and  so  took  the  told  him  how  there  lay  his  brother  Sir  Launce- 
forest;  and  so  he  went  all  that  night,  and  in  lot  dead;  and  then  Sir  Ector  threw  his  shield, 
the  morning  he  was  ware  betwixt  two  holts  50  sword,  and  helm  from  him.  And  when  he 
hoar,  18  of  a  chapel  and  an  hermitage.  beheld  Sir  Launcelot's  visage,  he  fell  down  in  a 

Then  was  Sir  Bedivere  glad,  and  thither  he  swoon.  And  when  he  waked  it  were  hard  any 
went;  and  when  he  came  into  the  chapel,  he  tongue  to  tell  the  doleful  complaints  that  he 
saw  where  lay  an  hermit  grovelling  on  all  four,  made  for  his  brother.  Ah,  Launcelot,  he  said, 
there  fast  by  a  tomb  was  new  graven.  When  55  thou  wert  head  of  all  christian  knights.  And 
the  hermit  saw  Sir  Bedivere  he  knew  him  well,  now  I  dare  say,  said  Sir  Ector,  thou  Sir  Launce- 
for  he  was  but  little  tofore  Bishop  of  Canter- 
bury,  that  Sir   Mordred  flemed."     Sir,   said         » gi^dging.^L  e.  I  know  not  certainly,  but  I  j^^^^ 

"  Unleas.      "  Hoary  woods  or  groves.      "  Banished.  20  Here  lies  King  Arthur,  one  time  King,  and  King  to  be. 


110  CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 

lot,  there  thou  liest,  that  thou  were  never  work,  neither  to  reply  against  the  saying  of  the 
matched  of  earthly  knight's  hands.  And  matters  touched  in  this  book,''  though  it 
thou  were  the  courteoust  knight  that  ever  bare  accord  not  unto  the  translation  of  others  which 
shield.  And  thou  were  the  truest  friend  to  thy  have  written  it.  For  divers  men  have  made 
lover  that  ever  bestrad  horse,  and  thou  were  5  divers  books,  which  in  all  points  accord  not,  as 
the  truest  lover  of  a  sinful  man  that  ever  loved  Dictes,^  Dares,^  and  Homer.  For  Dictes  and 
woman.  And  thou  were  the  kindest  man  that  Homer,  as  Greeks,  say  and  write  favourably 
ever  strake  with  sword.  And  thou  were  the  for  the  Greeks,  and  give  to  them  more  worship 
goodliest  person  that  ever  came  among  the  than  to  the  Trojans;  and  Dares  writeth  other- 
press  of  knights.  And  thou  was  the  meekest  lO  wise  than  they  do.  And  also  as  for  the  proper 
man  and  the  gentlest  that  ever  ate  in  hall  names,  it  is  no  wonder  that  they  accord  not, 
among  ladies.  And  thou  were  the  sternest  for  some  one  name  in  these  days  has  divers 
knight  to  thy  mortal  foe  that  ever  put  spear  equivocations,  ^°  after  the  countries  that  they 
in  the  breast.  Then  there  was  weeping  and  dwell  in;  but  all  accord  in  conclusion  the  general 
dolour  out  of  measure.  Thus  they  kept  Sir  15  destruction  of  that  noble  city  of  Troy,  and  the 
Launcelot's  corpse  on  loft  fifteen  days,  and  death  of  so  many  noble  princes,  as  Kings, 
then  they  buried  it  with  great  devotion.  Dukes,  Earls,  Barons,  Knights  and  common 

people,  and  the  ruin  irreparable  of  that  city 

that  never  since  was  reedified,^^  which  may  be 
William    CaPtOn  20en8ample  to  all  men  during  the  world  how 

^^^^^^^^  ^^^  jeopardous  it  is  to  begin  a  war, 

1422-1491  ^jj(j  ^jj^^  harms,  losses,  and  death  foUoweth. 

_    _  ^.„„r  -.^^^r^^^rr.-r^^^  ^-r.  -,^-r. -r^^r^^^^^      Thcrefore   the  Apostlei2   saith,    "All   that  is 

THE  NEW  INVENTION  OF  PRINTING     ^j^ten   is   written   to   our  doctrine,"   which 

(From  The  RecuyeW  of  the  Histories  of  Troi/e,  ^^  doctrine  for  the  common  weal  I  beseech  God 

Epilogue  to  Book  III   1475?)  ^^^  "®  taken  m  such  place  and  time  as  shall  be 

most  needful  in  increasing  of  peace,  love,  and 
Thus  end  I  this  book,  which  I  have  trans-      charity;  which  grant  us  He  that  suffered  for 
lated  after  mine  author  as  nigh  as  God  hath      the  same  to  be  crucified  on  the  rood  tree.    And 
given  me  cunning,  ^  to  whom  be  given  the  laud  30  say  we  all  Amen,  for  charity, 
and  praising.     And  for  as  much  as  in  the 

writing  of  the  same,  my  pen  is  worn,  mine  trr^r    a-rt-ttttr 

hand  weary,  and  not  steadfast,  mine  eyen^  HIJNU  AKiMUK 

dimmed  with  overmuch  looking  on  the  white  (prom  Caxton's  Prologue  to  his  edition  of 
paper,  and  my  courage  not  so  prone  and  ready  35  Malory's  Morte  d' Arthur,  1485) 

to  labour  as  it  hath  been,  and  that  age  creepeth 

on  me  daily  and  feebleth  all  the  body,  and  also  .  After  that  I  had  accomplished  and  finished 
because  I  have  promised  to  divers  gentlemen  divers  histories,  as  well  of  contemplation  as  of 
and  to  my  friends  to  address  to  them  as  hastily  other  historical  and  worldly  acts  of  great 
as  I  might  this  said  book;  therefore  I  have  40  conquerors  and  princes,  and  also  certain  books 
practised  and  learned,  at  my  great  charge  and  of  ensamples  and  doctrine,  many  noble  and 
dispense,*  to  ordain^  this  said  book  in  print,  divers  gentlemen  of  this  realm  of  England 
after  the  manner  and  form  as  ye  may  here  see;  came  and  demanded  me  many  and  ofttimes, 
and  (it)  is  not  written  with  pen  and  ink,  as  wherefore  that  I  have  not  done  made  and 
other  books  be,  to  the  end  that  every  man  may  45  imprinted  the  noble  history  of  the  Sangrael, 
have  them  attones.^  For  all  the  books  of  this  and  of  the  most  renowned  Christian  king,  first 
story,  named  the  recule  of  the  histories  of  and  chief  of  the  three  best  Christian  and 
Troye,  thus  imprinted  as  ye  here  see,  were  worthy.  King  Arthur,  which  ought  most  to  be 
begun  in  one  day,  and  also  finished  in  one  day :  remembered  among  us  English  men  tofore  all 
which  book  I  have  presented  to  my  said  re- 50  other  Christian  kings.  For  it  is  notoriously 
doubted  lady  as  afore  is  said.    And  she  hath 

weU  accepted  it  and  hath  largely  rewarded  me,  YieJr'sid  Sin^*'^^*'''''  *°  *^^  ^^^^'''''  "touched."  or  re- 
wherefore  I  beseech  Almighty  God,  to  reward  s  a  Cretan,  said  to  have  taken  part  in  the  Trojan  War 
her  everlasting  bliss  after  this  life,  praying  her      ^^^  to  have  written  a  history  of  the  contest.    A  book 

.  ,    ~  1      11    .1  .1     i     1     11  1,1  •         was  put  forth  m  the  time  of  Nero,  which  purported  to 

said  Grace,  and  all  them  that  shall  read  this  55  be  a  translation  of  Dictes'  work. 

book,    not    to    disdain    the    simple    and    rude  'A  priest,  mentioned  in  the  /Ziod      He  was  believed 

'  ^  to  have  wntten  a  work  on  the  fall  of  Troy.    A  book  pre- 

1  Collection;  binding,  or  bringing  together.     (Fr.  Re-  tending  to  be  a  translation  of  Dares'  work  into  Latin, 
yueil.)  was  formerly  believed  to  be  genuine. 

2  Knowledge;  skill.  '  Eyes.  *  Expense.  i"  Meanings.  ^i  RebuUt  (Lat.  re  find  OBdificare). 
6  Prepare;  make  ready.    ^  At  the  same  time;  at  once.               i^  St.  Paul,  Rom.  xv.  4. 


WILLIAM  CAXTON  HI 

known  through  the  universal  world  that  there  of  Boccaccio,  in  his  book  De  Casu  Principum, 
be  nine  worthy  and  the  best  that  ever  were;  part  of  his  noble  acts,  and  also  of  his  fall, 
that  is  to  wit  three  Paynims,  three  Jews,  and  Also  Galfridus  in  his  British  book  recounteth 
three  Christian  men.  As  for  the  Paynims  his  life;  and  in  divers  places  of  England  many 
they  were  tofore  the  Incarnation  of  Christ,  5  remembrances  be  yet  of  him  and  shall  remain 
which  were  named, — the  first.  Hector  of  Troy,  perpetually,  and  also  of  his  knights.  First  in 
of  whom  the  history  is  come  both  in  ballad  and  the  Abbey  of  Westminster,  at  Saint  Edward's 
in  prose;  the  second,  Alexander  the  Great;  and  shrine,  remaineth  the  print  of  his  seal  in  red 
the  third,  Julius  Caesar,  Emperor  of  Rome,  of  wax  closed  in  beryl,  in  which  is  written  Patri- 
whom  the  histories  be  well-known  and  had.  lo  cius  Arthurus,  Britanniae,  Galliae,  Germaniae, 
And  as  for  the  three  Jews  which  also  were  Dadae,  Imperator.  Item,  in  the  castle  of  Dover 
tofore  the  Incarnation  of  our  Lord,  of  whom  the  ye  may  see  Gawain's  skull  and  Craddock's 
first  was  Duke  Joshua,  which  brought  the  mantle:  at  Winchester  the  Round  Table:  in 
children  of  Israel  into  the  land  of  behest;  other  places  Launcelot's  sword  and  many  other 
the  second,  David,  King  of  Jerusalem;  and  the  15  things.  Then  all  these  things  considered,  there 
third  Judas  Maccabaeus:  of  these  three  the  can  no  man  reasonably  gainsay  but  here  was  a 
Bible  rehearseth  all  their  noble  histories  and  king  of  this  land  named  Arthur.  For  in  all 
acts.  .  And  sith  the  said  Incarnation,  have  been  places.  Christian  and  heathen,  he  is  reputed 
three  noble  Christian  men  stalled  and  admitted  and  taken  for  one  of  the  nine  worthy,  and  the 
through  the  universal  world  into  the  number  20  first  of  the  three  Christian  men.  And  also  he  is 
of  the  nine  best  and  worthy,  of  whom  was  more  spoken  of  beyond  the  sea,  more  books 
first  the  noble  Arthur,  whose  noble  acts  I  made  of  his  noble  acts  than  there  be  in  England, 
purpose  to  write  in  this  present  book  here  as  well  in  Dutch,  Italian,  Spanish,  and  Greek, 
following.  The  second  was  Charlemagne,  or  as  in  French.  And  yet  of  record  remain  in 
Charles  the  Great,  of  whom  the  history  is  had  25  witness  of  him  in  Wales,  in  the  town  of  Camelot 
in  many  places  both  in  French  and  English;  the  great  stones  and  marvellous  works  of  iron, 
and  the  third  and  last  was  Godfrey  of  Boulogne,  lying  under  the  ground,  and  royal  vaults,  which 
of  whose  acts  and  life  I  made  a  book  unto  the  divers  now  living  hath  seen.  Wherefore  it  is  a 
excellent  prince  and  king  of  noble  memory,  marvel  why  he  is  no  more  renowned  in  his  own 
King  Edward  the  Fourth.  The  said  noble  30  country,  save  only  it  accordeth  to  the  word  of 
gentlemen  instantly  required  me  to  imprint  God,  which  saith  that  no  man  is  accept  for  a 
the  history  of  the  said  noble  king  and  con-  prophet  in  his  own  country.  Then  all  these 
queror.  King  Arthur,  and  of  his  knights,  with  things  aforesaid  alleged,  I  could  not  well  deny 
the  history  of  the  Sangrael,  and  of  the  death  but  that  there  was  such  a  noble  king  named 
and  ending  of  the  said  Arthur;  affirming  that  35  Arthur,  and  reputed  one  of  the  nine  worthy, 
I  ought  rather  to  imprint  his  acts  and  noble  and  first  and  chief  of  the  Christian  men;  and 
feats,  than  of  Godfrey  of  Boulogne,  or  any  of  many  noble  volumes  be  made  of  him  and  of  his 
the  other  eight,  considering  that  he  was  a  man  noble  knights  in  French,  which  I  have  seen  and 
born  within  this  realm,  and  king  and  emperor  of  read  beyond  the  sea,  which  be  not  had  in  our 
the  same;  and  that  there  be  in  French  divers  40  maternal  tongue,  but  in  Welsh  be  many  and 
and  many  noble  volumes  of  his  acts,  and  also  also  in  French,  and  some  in  Enghsh,  but  no- 
of  his  knights.  To  whom  I  answered,  that  where  nigh  all.  Wherefore,  such  as  have  late 
divers  men  hold  opinion  that  there  was  no  been  drawn  out  briefly  into  EngUsh  I  have, 
such  Arthur,  and  that  all  such  books  as  be  made  after  the  simple  cunning  that  God  hath  sent  to 
of  him  be  but  feigned  and  fables,  by  cause  that  45  me,  under  the  favour  and  correction  of  all 
some  chronicles  make  of  him  no  mention,  nor  noble  lords  and  gentlemen,  emprised  to  im- 
remember  him  nothing,  nor  of  his  knights,  print  a  book  of  the  noble  histories  of  the  said 
Whereto  they  answered,  and  one  in  special  King  Arthur,  and  of  certain  of  his  knights, 
said,  that  in  him  that  should  say  or  think  that  after  a  copy  unto  me  deHvered,  which  copy  Sir 
there  was  never  such  a  king  called  Arthur,  60  Thomas  Malory  did  take  out  of  certain  books 
might  well  be  credited  great  folly  and  blind-  of  French,  and  reduced  it  into  English.  And  I, 
ness;forhesaid  that  there  were  many  evidences  according  to  my  copy,  have  done  set  it  in 
of  the  contrary;  first  ye  may  see  his  sepulture  imprint,  to  the  intent  that  noble  men  may  see 
in  the  Monastery  of  Glastonbury.  And  also  and  learn  the  noble  acts  of  chivalry,  the  gentle 
in  "Polychronicon,"  in  the  fifth  book,  the  sixth  55  and  virtuous  deeds  that  some  knights  used  in 
chapter,  and  in  the  seventh  book,  the  twenty-  those  days,  by  which  they  came  to  honour;  and 
third  chapter,  where  his  body  was  buried,  and  how  they  that  were  vicious  were  punished  and 
after  found  and  translated  into  the  said  oft  put  to  shame  and  rebuke;  humbly  beseech- 
monastery.     Ye  shall  see  also  in  the  history     ing  all  noble  lords  and  ladies,  with  all  othei 


112 


CHAUCER  TO  WYATT  AND  SURREY 


estates,  of  what  estate  or  degree  they  be  of, 
that  shall  see  and  read  in  this  said  book  and 
work,  that  they  take  the  good  and  honest  acts 
in  their  remembrance,  and  to  follow  the  same. 
Wherein  they  shall  find  many  joyous  and 
pleasant  histories,  and  noble  and  renowned 
acts  of  humanity,  gentleness,  and  chivalry. 
For  herein  may  be  seen  noble  chivalry,  courtesy, 
humanity,  friendliness,  hardiness,  love,  friend- 
ship, cowardice,  murder,  hate,  virtue,  and  sin. 
Do  after  the  good  and  leave  the  evil,  and  it 
shall  bring  you  to  good  fame  and  renown.   And 


for  to  pass  the  time  this  book  shall  be  pleasant 
to  read  in;  but  for  to  give  faith  and  beHeve  that 
all  is  true  that  is  contained  herein,  ye  be  at 
your  liberty;  but  all  is  written  for  our  doctrine, 
5  and  for  to  beware  that  we  f aU  not  to  vice  nor 
sin,  but  to  exercise  and  follow  virtue;  by  which 
we  may  come  and  attain  to  good  fame  and 
renown  in  this  life,  and  after  this  short  and 
transitory  life,  to  come  unto  everlasting  bhss  in 
10  heaven,  the  which  He  grant  us  that  reigneth  in 
heaven,  the  Blessed  Trinity.   Amen. 


Nll^ 


r^ 

f 


IV.  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF 

BEN  JONSON 


c.  1525-1637 


WYATT  AND  SURREY  AND  THE 
EARLY  ELIZABETHANS 

c.  1525-1579 

^ir  Gliomas?  W^^tt 

1503-1542 

THE  LOVER'S  LIFE  COMPARED  TO  THE 
ALPS 

(From  TotteVs  Miscellany,  1557) 

Like  unto  these  unmeasurable  mountains 
So  is  my  painful  life,  the  burden  of  ire; 
For  high  be  they,  and  high  is  my  desire; 
And  I  of  tears,  and  they  be  full  of  fountains: 
Under  craggy  rocks  they  have  barren  plains;   5 
Hard  thoughts  in  me  my  woful  mind  doth 

tire: 
Small  fruit  and  many  leaves  their  tops  do 
attire: 
With  small  effect  great  trust  in  me  remains: 
The  boisterous  winds  oft  their  high  boughs  do 
blast; 
Hot  sighs  in  me  continually  be  shed :  i  o 

Wild  beasts  in  them,  fierce  love  in  me  is  fed; 
Unmovable  am  I,  and  they  steadfast. 

Of  singing  birds  they  have  the  tune  and 

note; 
And  I  always  plaints  passing  through  my 
throat. 


And  have  no  more  pity,  20 

Of  him  that  loveth  thee? 

Alas!  thy  cruelty! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 

Say  nay!  say  nay! 


J^enr^  l^otDarD^  €ml  of  ^urrei^ 

c.  1517-1547 
DESCRIPTION  OF  SPRING 

(From  TotteVs  Miscellany,  1557) 

The  soote^  season  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 
brings, 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the 
vale. 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings; 
The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs,  5 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the 
pale; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  slings; 
The  fishes  fleet  with  new  repaired  scale; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings; 

The  swift  swall6w  pursueth  the  flies  smale;^ 

The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings  f  11 

Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowers'  bale. 

And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 

Each   care  decays,   and  yet  my  sorrow 

springs! 


AND   WILT   THOU   LEAVE   ME  THUS? 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay!  say  nay!  for  shame! 
To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame.^ 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus?  5 

Say  nay!  say  nay! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
That  hath  lov'd  thee  so  long? 
In  wealth  and  woe  among: 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong  10 

As  for  to  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay!  say  nay! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart 
Never  for  to  depart;  15 

Neither  for  pain  nor  smart: 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay!  say  nay! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 


I  Sorrow. 


THE  FRAILTY  OF  BEAUTY 

(From  TotteVs  Miscellany,  1557) 

Brittle  beauty,  that  Nature  made  so  frail. 
Whereof  the  gift  is  small,  and  short  the  sea- 
son; 
Flowering  to-day,  tomorrow  apt  to  fail; 

Tickle  treasure,  abhorred  of  reason : 
Dangerous  to  deal  with,  vain,  of  no  avail;  5 

Costly  in  keeping,  past  not  worth  two  pea- 
son  ;i 
Slipper 2  in  sliding,  as  is  an  eel's  tail; 

Hard  to  obtain,  once  gotten,  not  geason:' 
Jewel  of  jeopardy,  that  peril  doth  assail; 

False  and  untrue,  enticed  oft  to  treason ;       10 
Enemy  to  youth,  that  most  may  I  bewail; 
Ah!  bitter  sweet,  infecting  as  the  poison, 
Thou  farest  as  fruit  that  with  the  frost  is 

taken; 
To-day  ready  ripe,  tomorrow  all  to  shaken. 

1  Sweet.  2  Small.         « Mingles. 

1  Two  peas.  ^  Slippery.   '  Extraordinary,  uncommon. 


113 


114  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


THE  MEANS  TO  ATTAIN  A  HAPPY  LIFE 
(From  TotteVs  Miscellany,  1557) 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 
The  happy  life,  be  these,  I  find: 

The  riches  left,  not  got  with  pain; 
The  fruitful  ground,  the  quiet  mind: 

The  equal  friend,  no  grudge,  no  strife;      6 
'  No  charge  of  rule,  nor  governance; 

Without  disease,  the  healthful  life; 
The  household  of  continuance: 

The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare; 

True  wisdom  join'd  with  simpleness;  10 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care; 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress: 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate; 

Such  sleeps  as  may  beguile  the  night. 
Contented  with  thine  own  estate;  15 

Ne  wish  for  death,  ne  fear  his  might. 

SELECTIONS  FROM  TRANSLATION  OF 
AENEID 

(1557) 

THE  DEATH  OP  LAOCOON 

Us  caitiffs  then  a  far  more  dreadful  chance 
Befel,  that  troubled  our  unarmed  breasts. 
While  Laocoon,  that  chosen  was  by  lot 
Neptunus'  priest,  did  sacrifice  a  bull 
Before  the  holy  altar;  suddenly  5 

From  Tenedon,  behold !  in  circles  great 
By  the  calm  seas  came  floating  adders  twain, 
Which  plied  towards  the  shore  (I  loath  to  teU) 
With  reared  breast  lift  up  above  the  seas; 
Whose  bloody   crests  aloft  the  waves  were 

seen;  10 

The  hinder  part  swam  hidden  in  the  flood. 
Their  grisly  backs  were  linked  manifold. 
With  sound  of  broken  waves  they  gat  the 

strand, 
With  glowing  eyen,  tainted  with  blood  and  fire; 
Whose  welt'ring  tongues  did  hck  their  hissing 

mouths.  15 

We  fled  away;  our  face  the  blood  forsook: 
But  they  with  gait  direct  to  Lacon  ran. 
And  first  of  all  each  serpent  doth  enwrap 
The  bodies  small  of  his  two  tender  sons; 
Whose    wretched    limbs    they    bit,    and    fed 

thereon.  20 

Then  raught^  they  him,  who  had  his  weapon 

caught 
To  rescue  them;  twice  winding  him  about. 
With  folded  knots  and  circled  tails,  his  waist: 
Their  scaled  backs  did  compass  twice  his  neck, 
With  reared  heads  aloft  and  stretched  throats. 
He  with  his  hands  strave  to  unloose  the  knotSj26 
(Whose  sacred  fillets  all-besprinkled  were 
With  filth  of  gory  blood,  and  venom  rank) 
And  to  the  stars  such  dreadful  shout  he  sent. 
Like  to  the  sound  the  roaring  bull  forth  lows,  30 
Which  from  the  altar  wounded  doth  astart, 
» Reached. 


The  swerving  axe  when  he  shakes  from  his  neck. 
The  serpents  twain,  with  hasted  trail  they  ghde 
To  Pallas'  temple,  and  her  towers  of  height: 
Under  the  feet  of  the  which  Goddess  stem,       35 
Hidden  behind  her  target's  boss  they  crept. 


It  was  then  night;  the  sound  and  quiet  sleep 
Had  through  the  earth  the  wearied  bodies 

caught; 
The  woods,  the  raging  seas  were  fallen  to  rest; 
When  that  the  stars  had  half  their  course  de- 
clined. 
The  fields  whist,  beasts,  and  fowls  of  divers  hue, 
And  whatso  that  in  the  broad  lakes  remained,  6 
Or  yet  among  the  bushy  thicks  of  brier. 
Laid  down  to  sleep  by  silence  of  the  night 
'Gan  swage  their  cares,  mindless  of  travails 
past. 


George  ^a^cotgne 

c.  1536-1577 

THE  LULLABY  OF  A  LOVER 

(From  The  Posies,  1575) 

Sing  lullaby,  as  women  do, 

Wherewikh  they  bring  their  babes  to  rest, 

And  lullaby  can  I  sing  too, 

As  womanly  as  can  the  best. 

With  lullaby  they  still  the  child,  0 

And  if  I  be  not  much  beguiled. 

Full  many  wanton  babes  have  I, 

Which  must  be  stilled  with  lullaby. 

First  lullaby  my  youthful  years, 
It  is  now  time  to  go  to  bed,  10 

For  crooked  age  and  hoary  hairs, 
Have  won  the  haven  within  my  head: 
With  lullaby  then  youth  be  still. 
With  lullaby  content  thy  will, 
Since  courage  quails  and  comes  behind,      15 
Go  sleep,  and  so  beguile  thy  mind. 

Next  lullaby  my  gazing  eyes. 
Which  wonted  were  to  gaze  apace; 
For  every  glass  may  now  suffice. 
To  shew  the  furrows  in  my  face:  20 

With  lullaby  then  wink  awhile. 
With  lullaby  your  looks  beguile: 
Let  no  fair  face,  nor  beauty  bright, 
Entice  you  eft^  with  vain  delight. 

And  lullaby  my  wanton  will,  23 

Let  Reason's  rule  now  reign  thy  thought, 
Since  all  too  late  I  find  by  skill. 
How  dear  I  have  thy  fancies  bought. 
With  lullaby  now  take  thine  ease, 
With  lullaby  thy  doubts  appease:  30 

For  trust  to  this,  if  thou  be  still, 
My  body  shall  obey  thy  will.  .  .  • 
1  Afterward. 


THOMAS  SACKVILLE,  LORD  BUCKHURST  AND  EARL  OF  DORSET  115 


Thus  lullaby  my  youth,  mine  eyes, 
My  will,  my  ware,  and  all  that  was, 
I  can  no  more  delays  devise,  35 

But  welcome  pain,  let  pleasure  pass: 
With  lullaby  now  take  your  leave, 
With  lullaby  your  dreams  deceive, 
And  when  you  rise  with  waking  eye. 
Remember  then  this  lullaby.  40 


DE  PROFUNDIS 

(From  the  same) 

From  depth  of  dole  wherein  my  soul  doth  dwell, 
From  heavy  heart  which  harbours  in  my  breast, 
From  troubled  spirit  which  seldom  taketh  rest. 
From  hope  of  heaven,  from  dread  of  darksome 

hell, 
O  gracious  God,  to  thee  I  cry  and  yell.  5 

My  God,  my  Lord,  my  lovely  Lord  alone, 
To  thee  I  call,  to  thee  I  make  my  moan. 
And  thou  (good  God)  vouchsafe  in  gree^  to 

take. 
This  woeful  plaint 

Wherein  I  faint.  10 

Oh  hear  me  then  for  thy  great  mercies'  sake.  .  .  . 

If  thou,  good  Lord,  should'st  take  thy  rod  in 
hand, 
If  thou  regard  what  sins  are  daily  done, 
If  thou  take  hold  where  we  our  works  begun. 
If  thou  decree  in  judgement  for  to  stand,  15 

And  be  extreme  to  see  our  excuses  scanned. 
If  thou  take  note  of  everything  amiss. 
And  write  in  rolls  how  frail  our  nature  is, 
O  glorious  God,  O  King,  O  Prince  of  power. 
What  mortal  wight  20 

May  then  have  light 
To  feel  thy  frown,  if  thou  have  list  to  lower? 

But  thou  art  good  and  hast  of  mercy  store, 
Thou  not  delight'st  to  see  a  sinner  fall. 
Thou  hearknest  first,  before  we  come  to  call.    25 
Thine  ears  are  set  wide  open  evermore. 
Before  we  knock  thou  comest  to  the  door. 
Thou  art  more  pressed  to  hear  a  sinner  cry, 
Than  he  is  quick  to  climb  to  thee  on  high. 
Thy  mighty  name  be  praised  then  alway,         30 
Let  faith  and  fear 
True  witness  bear, 

How  fast   they  stand   which  on   thy  mercy 
stay.  .  .  . 

Before  the  break  or  dawning  of  the  day, 
Before  the  light  be  seen  in  lofty  skies,  35 

Before  the  Sun  appear  in  pleasant  wise, 
Before  the  watch  (before  the  watch  I  say) 
Before  the  ward  that  waits  therefore  alway: 
My  soul,  my  sense,  my  secret  thought,  my 

sprite, 
My  will,  my  wish,  my  joy,  and  my  delight ;      40 
Unto  the  Lord  that  sits  in  Heaven  on  high. 
With  hasty  wing 
From  me  doth  fling, 
And  striveth  still  unto  the  Lord  to  fly.  .  .  . 

1  Good  will. 


He  will  redeem  our  deadly  drooping  state,    45 
He  will  bring  home  the  sheep  that  go  astray, 
He  will  help  them  that  hope  in  him  alway: 
He  will  appease  our  discord  and  debate. 
He  will  soon  save  though  we  repent  us  late. 
He  will  be  ours  if  we  continue  his,  60 

He  will  bring  bale  to  joy  and  perfect  bUss^ 
He  will  redeem  the  flock  of  his  elect, 
From  all  that  is. 
Or  was  amiss. 
Since  Abraham's  heirs  did  first  his  laws  reject.  65 


®tioma0  §)ackt)illet  iloru  llBucfelium 
ano  Carl  of  moxsitt 

1536-1608 

INDUCTION  TO  A  MIRROUR  FOR  MAG- 
ISTRATES 

(1559) 

The  wrathful  winter,  'proching  on  apace 
With  blustering  blasts  had  all  ybared  the  treen,* 
And  old  Saturnus,  with  his  frosty  face, 
With   chilling   cold    had   pierced   the   tender 

green; 
The  mantles  rent,  wherein  enwrapped  been     5 
The  gladsome  groves  that  now  lay  overthrowen, 
The    tapets''  torn,   and    every  bloom    down 

blowen. 

The  soil  that  erst  so  seemly  was  to  seen. 

Was  all  despoiled  of  her  beauty's  hue; 

And  sweet  fresh  flowers  (where  with  the  sum- 
mer's queen  10 

Had  clad  the  earth)  now  Boreas'  blasts  down 
blew, 

And  small  fowles  flocking,  in  their  song  did  rue 

The  winter's  wrath,  where  with  each  thing 
defaste^ 

In  woeful  wise  bewailed  the  summer  past. 

Hawthorne  had  lost  his  motley  livery,  15 

The  naked  twigs  were  shivering  all  for  cold. 
And  dropping  down  the  tears  abundantly; 
Each  thing  (me  thought)  with  weeping  eye  me 

told 
The  cruel  season,  bidding  me  withhold 
Myselfe  within,  for  I  was  gotten  out  20 

Into  the  fields,  whereas"  I  walked  about. 

When,  lo,  the  night  with  misty  mantles  spread, 
Gan  dark  the  day,  and  dim  the  azure  skies. 
And  Venus  in  her  message  Hermes  sped 
To  bloody  Mars,  to  will  him  not  to  rise,         25 
While  she  herself  approached  in  speedy  wise; 
And  Virgo  hiding  her  disdainful  breast, 
With  Thetis  now  had  lain  her  down  to  rest. 

Whiles  Scorpio  dreading  Sagittarius'  dart, 
Whose  bow  prest^  bent  in  fight,  the  string  had 
slipt,  30 


1  Trees. 
•  Where. 


2  Tapestry,  foliage. 


s  Defaced, 
s  Ready. 


116  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Down  slid  into  the  ocean  flood  apart, 

The  Bear,  that  in  the  Irish  seas  had  dipt 

His  grisly  feet,   with  speed  from  thence  he 

whipt; 
For  Thetis,  hasting  from  the  Virgin's  bed 
Pursued  the  Bear,  that  ere  she  came  was  fled.  35 

And  Phaeton  now  reaching  to  his  race 

With  glistering  beams,  gold  streaming  where 

they  bent, 
Was  prest  to  enter  in  his  resting  place. 
Erythius  that  in  the  cart  first  went, 
Had  even  now  attained  his  journey's  stent :"     40 
And  fast  declining  hid  away  his  head, 
While  Titan  couched  him  in  his  purple  bed. 

And  pale  Cynthia  with  her  borrowed  light. 
Beginning  to  supply  her  brother's  place, 
Was  past  the  noonstead  six  degrees  in  sight,     45 
When  sparkling  stars  amid  the  heaven's  face, 
With  twinkling  light  shone  on  the  earth  apace, 
That  while  they  brought  about  the  nightes 

chare,^ 
The  dark  had  dimmed  the  day  ere  I  was  ware. 

And  sorrowing  I  to  see  the  summer  flowers,  50 
The  lively  green,  the  lusty  leas  forlorne. 
The  sturdy  trees  so  shattered  with  the  showers, 
The  fields  so  fade  that  flourished  so  befome; 
It  taught  me  well  all  earthly  things  be  borne 
To  die  the  death,  for  nought  long  time  may  last; 
The  summer's  beauty  yields  to  winter's  blast.56 

Then  looking  upward  to  the  heaven's  leames,' 
With  nightes  stars  thick  powdered  everywhere, 
Which  erst  so  glistened  with  the  golden  streams 
That  cheerf ull  Phoebus  spread  down  from  his 
sphere,  60 

Beholding  dark  oppressing  day  so  near; 
The  sudden  sight  reduced^  to  my  mind, 
The  sundry  changes  that  in  earth  we  find. 

That  musing  on  this  worldly  wealth  in  thought. 
Which  comes  and  goes  more  faster  than  we  see. 
The   flickering   flame   that   with   the   fire   is 

wrought,  66 

My  busy  mind  presented  unto  me 
Such  fall  of  peers  as  in  this  realm  had  be; 
That  oft  I  wisht  some  would  their  woes  de- 

scryve,^° 
To  warn  the  rest  whom  fortune  left  alive.         70 

And  straight  forth  stalking  with  redoubled  pace 
For  that  I  saw  the  night  drew  on  so  fast. 
In  black  all  clad  there  fell  before  my  face 
A  piteous  wight,  whom  woe  had  all  forwaste. 
Forth  from  her  eyen  the  crystal  tears  outbrast,^^ 
And  sighing  sore,  her  hands  she  wrong  and 
fold,  76 

Tare  all  her  hair,  that  ruth  was  to  behold. 

Her  body  small  forewithered  and  f orespent, 
As  is  the  stalk  that  summer's  drought  opprest. 
Her  wealked^^  f^gQ  ^j^^jj  woeful  tears  besprent, 


"  Limit,  end. 
9  Brought  back. 


7  Car. 

10  Describe. 
"Withered. 


B  Gleams,  lights. 
11  Out-burst. 


Her  colour  pale,  and  (as  it  seemed  her  best)      81 
In  woe  and  plaint  reposed  was  her  rest. 
And  as  the  stone  that  drops  of  water  wears; 
So  dented  were  her  cheeks  with  fall  of  tears. 

Her  eyes  swollen  with  flowing  streams  afloat,  85 
Wherewith  her  looks  throwen  up  full  piteously, 
Her  forceless  hands  together  oft  she  smote. 
With  doleful  shrieks,  that  echoed  in  the  sky; 
Whose  plaint  such  sighs  did  straight  accompany, 
That  in  my  doom^^  was  never  man  did  see  90 
A  wight  but  half  so  woebegone  as  she. 

I  stood  aghast,  beholding  all  her  plight, 
Tween  dread  and  dolour  so  distraind  in  heart. 
That  while  my  hairs  upstarted  with  the  sight, 
The   tears   out-streamed   for   sorrow   of   her 
smart:  95 

But  when  I  saw  no  end  that  could  apart 
The  deadly  dole,  which  she  so  sore  did  make. 
With  doleful  voice  then  thus  to  her  I  spake. 

"Unwrap  thy  woes  whatever  wight  thou  be, 
And  stint^^  in  time  to  spill  thyself  with  plaint; 
Tell  what  thou  art,  and  whence,  for  well  I 
see  101 

Thou  canst  not  dure  with  sorrow  thus  attaint." 
And  with  that  word  of  sorrow  all  forfaint. 
She  looked  up,  and,  prostrate  as  she  lay, 
With  piteous  sound,  lo,  thus  she  gan  to  say,   105 

"Alas,  I  wretch  whom  thus  thou  seest  dis- 
trained 
With  wasting  woes,  that  never  shall  aslake. 
Sorrow  I  am,  in  endless  torments  pained 
Among  the  Furies  in  the  infernal  lake; 
Where  Pluto,  god  of  hell,  so  grisly  black  110 

Doth  hold  his  throne  and  Letheus  deadly  taste 
Doth  reave  remembrance  of  each  thing  forepast. 

"Whence  come  I  am,  the  dreary  destiny 
And  luckless  lot  for  to  bemoan  of  those. 
Whom  Fortune  in  this  maze  of  misery,  115 

Of  wretched  chance,  most  woeful  mirrours  chose 
That  when  thou  seest  how  lightly  they  did  lose 
Their  pope,  their  power,  and  that  they  thought 

most  sure. 
Thou  may  est  soon  deem  no  earthly  joy  may 

dure." 

Whose  rueful  voice  no  sooner  had  out  brayed 
Those  woeful  words,  wherewith  she  sorrowed 

so,  121 

But  out,  alas,  she  shrieked  and  never  stayed. 
Fell  down,  and  all  to-dashed  herself  for  woe. 
The  cold  pale  dread  my  limbs  gan  overgo. 
And  so  I  sorrowed  at  her  sorrows  eft,  ^^  125 

That,  what  with  grief  and  fear,  my  wits  were 

reft. 

I  stretched  myseK,  and  straight  my  heart  re- 
vives. 
That  dread  and  dolour  erst  did  so  appale;^' 
Like  him  that  with  the  fervent  fever  strives, 


13  Judgment. 
1*  Again,  oft. 


"  Stop. 
»  AppaU. 


IIOMAS  SACKVILLE,  LORD  BUCKHURST  AND  EARL  OF  DORSET    117 


When   sickness   seeks   his    castle's   health   to 
scale:  130 

With  gathered  spirits  so  forced  I  fear  to  avail; 
And,  rearing^^  her  with  anguish  all  fordone, 
My  spirits  return'd,  and  then  I  thus  begonne. 

"O  Sorrow,  alas,  sith  sorrow  is  thy  name, 

And  that  to  thee  this  drere'^  doth  well  pertain. 

In  vain  it  were  to  seek  to  cease  the  same :        136 

But  as  a  man  himself  with  sorrow  slain, 

So  I,  alas,  do  comfort  thee  in  pain, 

That  here  in  sorrow  art  forsunk  so  deep, 

That  at  thy  sight  I  can  but  sigh  and  weep."   140 

I  had  no  sooner  spoken  of  a  stike,^' 

But  that  the  storm  so  rumbled  in  her  breast, 

As  -/Eolus  could  never  roar  the  like. 

And  showers  down  rained  from  her  eyen  so 

fast. 
That  all  bedreynt-°  the  place,  till  at  the  last  145 
Well  eased  they  the  dolour  of  her  mind, 
As  rage  of  rain  doth  swage  the  stormy  wind. 

For  forth  she  paced  in  her  fearful  tale: 
"Come!  come!"  quoth  she,  "and  see  what  I 

shall  shewe. 
Come  hear  the  plaining  and  the  bitter  bale     150 
Of  worthy  men,  by  fortune  overthrowe. 
Come  thou  and  see  them  ruing  all  in  rowe, 
They  were  but  shades  that  erst  in  mind  thou 

rolde.2i 
Come,  come,  with  me,  thine  eyes  shall  them 

behold.'^ 

What  could  these  words  but  make  me  more 
aghast:  155 

To  hear  her  tell  whereon  I  mused  while  ere  '.^^ 
Musing  upon  her  words  and  what  they  were, 
All  suddenly  well  lessened  was  my  fear: 
For  to  my  mind  returned  how  she  tclde  160 

Both  what  she  was,  and  where  her  wim^'  she 
helde. 

Whereby  I  knew  that  she  a  goddess  was, 
And,  therewithall,  resorted  to  my  mind 
My  thought  that  late  presented  me  the  glass 
Of  brittle  state,  of  cares  that  here  we  find,       165 
Of  thousand  woes  to  silly  men  assigned : 
And  how  she  now  bid  me  come  and  behold, 
To  see  with  eye  that  erst  in  thought  I  rolde. 

Flat  down  I  fell,  and  with  all  reverence 
Adored  her,  perceiving  now  that  she,  170 

A  goddess  sent  by  godly  providence 
In  earthly  shape  thus  showed  herself  to  me. 
To  wail  and  rue  this  world's  uncertainty: 
And  while  I  honoured  thus  her  godhead's  might 
With  plaining  voice  these  words  to  me  she 
shright:^*  175 

"  Raising.  is  Gloom. 

19  Some  connect  stike  with  stick  (Cr.  stikos)  a  verse, 
and  suppose  the  speaker  to  mean  tliat  he  has  barely 
completed  his  speech  (which  fills  a  stike,  or  stanza) 
wlien  "the  storm"  etc.  Others  connecting  stike  with  the 
Scotch  steigh,  take  it  to  mean  a  sigh,  ami  think  that  the 
reference  is  to  the  word  sigh  in  the  preceding  line. 

20  Bedrenched.        21  Considered.       "  Shortly  before. 
23  Dwelling.  24  Shrieked,  cried. 


"I  shall  thee  guide  first  to  the  grisly  lake, 
And  thence  unto  the  blissful  place  of  rest. 
Where  thou  shalt  see  and  hear  the  plaint  they 

make, 
That  whilom  here  bare  swingers  among  the 

best. 
This  shalt  thou  see,  but  great  is  the  unrest      180 
That  thou  must  bide,  before  thou  canst  attain 
Unto  the  dreadful  place  where  these  remain." 

And  with  these  words  as  I  upraised  stood, 
And  gan  to  follow  her  that  straight  forth  paced, 
Ere  I  was  ware,  into  a  desert  wood  185 

We  now  were  come:  where  hand  in  hand  em- 
braced. 
She  led  the  way  and  through  the  thicke^^  so 

traced, 
As  but  I  had  been  guided  by  her  might, 
It  was  no  way  for  any  mortal  wight. 

But  lo,  while  thus  amid  the  desert  dark,  190 

We  passed  on  with  steps  and  pace  unmeet: 
A  rumbling  roar,  confused  with  howl  and  bark 
Of  dogs,  shook  all  the  ground  under  our  feet. 
And  struck  the  din  within  our  ears  so  deep 
As,  half  distraught,  unto  the  ground  I  fell,      195 
Besought  return,  and  not  to  visit  hell. 

But  she,  forthwith,  uplifting  me  apace, 
Removed  my  dread,  and  with  a  steadfast  mind 
Bade  me  come  on,  for  here  was  now  the  place, 
The  place  where  we  our  travail's  end  should 
find.  200 

Wherewith  I  arose,  and  to  the  place  assigned 
Astoynde^^    I    stalk,    when    straight    we    ap- 
proached near 
The  dreadful  place,  that  you  will  dread  to  hear. 

An  hideous  hole  all  vast,  withouten  shape, 
Of  endless  depth,   o'erwhelmed  with  ragged 
stone,  205 

With  ugly  mouth,  and  grisly  jaws  doth  gape. 
And  to  our  sight  confounds  itseK  in  one. 
Here  entered  we,  and  yeding^s  forth,  anone 
An  horrible  loathly  lake  we  might  discern 
As  black  as  pitch,  that  cleped^^  is  Averne .       210 

A  deadly  guK  where  nought  but  rubbish  grows, 
With  foul  black  swelth  in  thickened  lumpes^" 

lies. 
Which  up  in  the  an*  such  stinking  vapours 

throws. 
That  over  there  may  fly  no  fowl  but  dies. 
Choked  with  the  pestilent  savours  that  arise.  215 
Hither  we  came,  whence  forth  we  still  did  pace. 
In  dreadful  fear  amid  the  dreadful  place. 

And  first  within  the  porch  and  jaws  of  hell. 
Sat  deep  Remorse  of  Conscience,  all  besprent 
With  tears:  and  to  her  self  oft  would  she  tell  220 
Her  wretchedness,  and  cursing,  never  stent^^ 
To  sob  and  sigh :  but  ever  thus  lament, 
With  thoughtful  care,  as  she  that,  all  in  vain, 
Would  wear  and  waste  continually  in  pain. 

25  Sway.        26  Thicket.        27  Astonished.        28  Going. 
28  Called.  '"  Swollen  masses.  'i  Cease. 


118  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Her  eyes  unsteadfast,  rolling  here  and  there,  225 
Whirled  on  each  place,  as  place  that  vengeance 

brought. 
So  was  her  mind  continually  in  fear, 
Tossed  and  tormented  with  the  tedious  thought 
Of    those   detested    crimes   which    she    had 

wrought: 
With  dreadful  cheer,  and  looks  thrown  to  the 

sky,  230 

Wishing  for  death,  and  yet  she  could  not  die. 

Next  saw  we  Dread,  all  trembling  how  he  shook. 
With  foot  uncertain  proffered  here  and  there: 
Benumbed  of  speech,  and  with  a  ghastly  look 
Searched  every  place,  all  pale  and  (^ad  for  fear. 
His  cap  borne  up  with  starting  of  his  heare,32 
'Stoin'd^s  and  amazed  at  his  own  shade  for 
dread,  237 

And  fearing  greater  dangers  than  was  need. 

And  next,  within  the  entry  of  this  lake, 

Sat  fell  Revenge,  gnashing  her  teeth  for  ire,      240 

Devising  means  how  she  may  vengeance  take. 

Never  in  rest  till  she  have  her  desire: 

But  frets  within  so  far  forth^*  with  the  fire 

Of  wreaking  flames,  that  now  determines  she 

To  die  by  death,  or  'venged  by  death  to  be.  245 

When  fell  Revenge,  with  bloody  foul  pretence 

Had  shewed  herself,  as  next  in  order  set. 

With  trembling  limbs  we  softly  parted  thence. 

Till  in  our  eyes  another  sight  we  met: 

When  fro  my  heart  a  sigh  forthwith  I  fet,^^     250 

Rueing,  alas,  upon  the  woful  plight 

Of  Misery,  that  next  appeared  in  sight. 

His  face  was  lean,  and  somedeaP*  pined  away, 
And  eke  his  hands  consumed  to  the  bone. 
But  what  his  body  was  I  cannot  say,  255 

For  on  his  carcass  raiment  had  he  none, 
Save  cloutes  and  patches  pieced  one  by  one. 
With  staff  in  hand,  and  scrip  on  shoulders  cast, 
His  chief  defence  against  the  winter's  blast. 

His  food,  for  most,  was  wild  fruits  of  the  tree. 
Unless  sometimes  some  crumbs  fell  to  his  share. 
Which  in  his  wallet  long,  God  wot,  kept  he,  262 
As  on  the  which  full  daint'ly  would  he  fare. 
His  drink  the  running  stream:  his  cup  the  bare 
Of  his  palm  closed:  his  bed  the  hard  cold 
ground:  265 

To  this  poor  life  was  Misery  ybound. 

Whose  wretched  state  when  we  had  well  beheld, 

With  tender  ruth  on  him  and  on  his  fears. 

In  thoughtful  cares  forth  then  our  pace  we 

held; 
And  by  and  by  another  shape  appears,  270 

Of  greedy  Care,  still  brushing  up  the  breres," 
His  knuckles  knob'd,  his  flesh  deep  dented  in. 
With  tawed  hands,  and  hard  ytanned  skin. 

**  Hair.  »«  Astonished.  '<  Exceedingly. 

»»  Fetched.  »  Somewhat. 

"  Cutting  or  trimming  the  briars.  Care  is  always  busy 
trimming  the  roughest,  most  thankless  growths;  his 
tawed  (hardened)  hands  are  the  horny,  battered  hands  of 
the  laborer. 


The  morrow  gray  no  sooner  had  begun 

To  spread  his  light,  even  peeping  in  our  eyes,  275 

When  he  is  up  and  to  his  work  yrun: 

But  let  the  night's  black  misty  mantles  rise, 

And  with  the  foul  dark  never  so  much  disguise 

The  fair  bright  day,  yet  ceaseth  he  no  while, 

But  hath  his  candles  to  prolong  his  toil.  280 

By  him  lay  heavy  Sleep,  the  cousin  of  Death, 
Flat  on  the  ground,  and  still  as  any  stone, 
A  very  corpse,  save  yielding  forth  a  breath. 
Small  keep  took  he  whom  Fortune  frowned  on, 
Or  whom  she  lifted  up  into  the  throne  285 

Of  high  renown,  but  as  a  living  death. 
So  dead  alive,  of  life  he  drew  the  breath. 

The  body's  rest,  the  quiet  of  the  heart. 

The  travail's  ease,  the  still  night's  fere^s  was  he. 

And  of  our  life  in  earth  the  better  part;  290 

Reaver  of  sight,  and  yet  in  whom  we  see 

Things  oft  that  tide,^^  and  oft  that  never  be. 

Without  respect,  esteeming  equally 

King  Croesus'  pomp,  and  Irus'  poverty. 

And,  next  in  order,  sad  Old  Age  we  found,       295 
His  beard  all  hoar,  his  eyes  hollow  and  blind, 
With  drooping  cheer  still  poring  on  the  ground. 
As  on  the  place  where  nature  him  assigned 
To  rest,  when  that  the  Sisters  had  untwined 
His  vital  thread,  and  ended  with  their  knife  300 
The  fleeting  course  of  fast  declining  life. 

There  heard  we  him  with  broken  and  hollow 

plaint 
Rue  with  himself  his  end  approaching  fast. 
And  all  for  naught  his  wretched  mind  torment 
With  sweet  remembrance  of  his  pleasures  past, 
And  fresh  delights  of  lusty  youth  f orwaste ;  306 
Recounting  which,  how  would  he  sob  and  shriek 
And  to  be  young  again  of  Jove  beseek. 

But,  and  the  cruel  fates  so  fixed  be. 

That  time  f  orpast  can  not  return  again,  310 

This  one  request  of  Jove  yet  prayed  he: 

That  in  such  withered  plight  and  wretched  pain 

As  eld  (accompanied  with  his  loathsome  train) 

Had  brought  on  him,  all  were  it  woe  and  grief, 

He  might  a  while  yet  finger  forth  his  lief,  *°      315 

And  not  so  soon  descend  into  the  pit. 

Where  death,  when  he  the  mortal  corpse  hath 

slain. 
With  reckless  hand  in  grave  doth  cover  it; 
Thereafter  never  to  enjoy  again 
The  gladsome  light,  but  in  the  ground  ylain,  320 
In  depth  of  darkness  waste  and  wear  to  nought, 
As  he  had  never  into  the  world  been  brought. 

But  who  had  seen  him  sobbing,  how  he  stood 

Unto  himself,  and  how  he  would  bemoan 

His  youth  forpast,  as  though  it  wrought  him 

good  325 

To  talk  of  youth,  all  were  his  youth  foregone. 
He  would  have  mused  and  marvelled  much     ^ 

whereon 
This  wretched  Age  should  life  desire  so  fain. 
And  knows  full  well  life  does  but  length  his  pain. 
»  Companion.  »  Happen.  *•  Life. 


THOMAS  SACKVILLE,  LORD  BUCKHURST  AND  EARL  OF  DORSET  119 


Crook  backt  he  was,  toothshaken,  and  blear 

eyed,  330 

Went  on  three  feet,  and  sometimes  crept  on 

fower  *^ 
With  old  lame  bones  that  rattled  by  his  side. 
His  scalp  all  pilde,*^  an^  j^^  ^jth  eld  forlore: 
His  withered  fist  still  knocking  at  Death's  door, 
Fumbling    and    drivelling    as   he    draws   his 
breath,  335 

For  brief,  the  shape  and  messenger  of  Death. 

And  fast  by  him  pale  Malady  was  placed. 
Sore  sick  in  bed,  her  colour  all  forgone, 
Bereft  of  stomach,  savour,  and  of  taste,  339 

Ne  could  she  brook  no  meat,  but  broth  alone: 
Her  breath  corrupt,  her  keepers  every  one 
Abhorring  her,  her  sickness  past  recure,*' 
Detesting  physick,  and  all  physick's  cure. 

But  oh!  the  doleful  sight  that  then  we  see; 

We  turned  our  look  and  on  the  other  side       345 

A  grisly  shape  of  Famine  might  we  see. 

With  greedy  looks,  and  gaping  mouth,  that 

cried 
And  roar'd  for  meat,  as  she  should  there  have 

died; 
Her  body  thin  and  bare  as  any  bone. 
Whereto  was  left  nought  but  the  case  alone.  350 

And,  that,  alas,  was  gnawen  on  every  where. 
All  full  of  holes,  that  I  ne  might  refrain 
From  tears,  to  see  how  she  her  arms  could  tear, 
And  with  her  teeth  gnash  on  the  bones  in 

vain: 
When  all  for  nought  she  fain  would  all  sustain 
Her   starven   corpse,    that   rather   seemed   a 

shade,  356 

Than  any  substance  of  a  creature  made. 

Great  was  her  force,  whom  stone  wall  could  not 

stay, 
Her  tearing  nails  scratching  at  all  she  saw; 
With  gaping  jaws  that  by  no  means  ymay      360 
Be  satisfied  from  hunger  of  her  maw, 
But  eats  herself  as  she  that  hath  no  law: 
Gnawing,  alas,  her  carcass  all  in  vain, 
Where  you  may  count  each  sinew,  bone,  and 

vein. 

On  her  while  we  thus  firmly  fixed  our  eyes,    365 
That  bled  for  ruth  of  such  a  dreary  sight, 
Lo,  suddenly,  she  shrieked  in  so  huge  wise 
As  made  hell  gates  to  shiver  with  the  might. 
Wherewith,  a  dart  we  saw,  how  it  did  light 
Right  on  her  breast,  and  therewithal  pale  Death 
Enthrilling**  it,  to  reave*^  her  of  her  breath.  371 

And,  by  and  by,  a  dumb  dead  corpse  we  saw, 
Heavy  and  cold,  the  shape  of  Death  aright, 
That  daunts  all  earthly  creatures  to  his  law; 
Against  whose  force  in  vain  it  is  to  fight :         375 
Ne  peers,  ne  princes,  nor  no  mortal  wight, 
Ne  towns,  ne  realms,  cities,  ne  strongest  tower. 
But  all  perforce  must  yield  unto  his  power. 


*i  Four. 

M  Transfixing. 


««Bald. 


*'  Recovery. 
**  Deprive. 


His  dart  anon  out  of  the  corpse  he  took. 

And  in  his  hand  (a  dreadful  sight  to  see)         380 

With  great  tridmph  eftsoons^  the  same  he 

shook. 
That  most  of  all  my  fears  affrayed  me: 
His  body  dight  with  nought  but  bones,  pard6. 
The  naked  shape  of  man  there  saw  I  plain, 
All  save  the  flesh,  the  sinew,  and  the  vein.      385 

Lastly  stood  War  in  glittering  arms  yclad. 
With  visage  grim,  stern  looks,  and  blackly 

hued; 
In  his  right  hand  a  naked  sword  he  had. 
That  to  the  hilts  was  all  with  blood  embrued; 
And  in  his  left  (that  kings  and  kingdoms  rued) 
Famine  and  fire  he  held,  and  therewithal        391 
He  razed  towns,  and  threw  down  towers  and 

all. 

Cities  he  sacked,   and  realms   (that  whilom 

flowered 
In  honour,  glory,  and  rule  above  the  best)  394 
He  overwhelmed,  and  all  their  fame  devoured, 
Consumed,  destroyed,  wasted,  and  never  ceased. 
Till  he  their  wealth,  their  name,  and  all  op- 
pressed: 
His  face  forehewed*^  with  wounds,  and  by  his 

side 
There  hung  his  targe  with  gashes  deep  and 
wide. 

In  midst  of  which,  depainted  there,  we  found 
Deadly  Debate,  all  full  of  snaky  hair,  401 

That  with  a  bloody  fillet  was  ybound. 
Out  breathing  nought  but  discord  everywhere: 
And  round  about  were  portrayed  here  and  there 
The  hugie  hosts,  Darius  and  his  power,  405 

His  kings,  princes,  his  peers,  and  all  his  flower; 

Whom  great  Macedo  vanquished  there  in  fight, 
With  deep  slaughter,  dispoiling  all  his  pride, 
Pierc'd  through  his  realms,  and  daunted  all  his 

might. 
Duke  Hannibal  beheld  I  there  beside,  410 

In  Canna's  field,  victor  how  he  did  ride, 
And  woeful  Romans  that  in  vain  withstood. 
And  Consul  Paulus  covered  all  with  blood. 

Yet  saw  I  more,  the  fight  at  Trasimene, 

And  Treby  field ,  and  eke  when  Hannibal        415 

And  worthy  Scipio  last  in  arms  were  seen 

Before  Carthago  gate,  to  try  for  all 

The  world's  empire,  to  whom  it  should  befall. 

There  saw  I  Pompey  and  Caesar  clad  in  arms 

Their  hosts  allied,  and  all  their  civil  harms  :*8. 

With  conquerors*  hands  forbathed  in  their  own 
blood,  421 

And  Caesar  weeping  over  Pompey 's  head. 
Yet  saw  I  Scilla  and  Marius  where  they  stood. 
Their  great  cruelty,  and  the  deep  bloodshed 
Of  friends :  Cyrus  I  saw  and  his  host  dead,      425 
And  how  the  queen  with  great  despight  hath 

flung 
His  head  in  blood  of  them  she  overcome. 
«6  Straightway.        «  Cut  in  front.        «  Broils,  evils. 


120    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Xerxes,  the  Persian  king,  yet  saw  I  there, 
With  his  huge  host  that  drank  the  rivers  dry. 
Dismounted  hills  and  made  the  vales  uprear,430 
His  host  and  all  yet  saw  I  slain,  pard6. 
Thebes  I  saw  all  razed  how  it  did  lie 
In  heaps  of  stones,  and  Tyrus  put  to  spoil. 
With  walls  and  towers  flat  evened  with  the  soil. 

But  Troy,  alas  (me  thought)  above  them  all,  435 
It  made  mine  eyes  in  very  tears  consume, 
When  I  beheld  the  woeful  wierd^^  befall, 
That  by  the  wrathful  will  of  gods  was  come: 
And  Jove's  unmoved  sentence  and  foredome*" 
On  Priam  king,  and  on  his  town  so  bent,  440 
I  could  not  lin,5i  ^^^  j  must  there  lament. 

And  that  the  more,  sith  Destiny  was  so  stem 
As,  force  perforce,  there  might  no  force  avail 
But  she  must  fall:  and,  by  her  fall,  we  learn 
That  cities,    towers,   wealth,   world,   and   all 

shall  quail; 52  445 

No  manhood,  might,  nor  nothing  might  prevail. 
All  were  there  prest,^^  full  many  a  prince  and 

peer; 
And  many  a  knight  that  sold  his  death  full  dear. 

Not  worthy  Hector,  worthiest  of  them  all, 

Her  hope,  her  joy;  his  force  is  now  for  nought. 

0  Troy,  Troy,  Troy,  there  is  no  boot  but  bale; 
The  hugy  horse  within  thy  walls  is  brought:  452 
Thy   turrets   fall,    thy   knights   that   whilom 

fought 
In  arms  amid  the  field,  are  slain  in  bed; 
Thy  gods  defiled,  and  all  thy  honour  dead.     455 

The  flames  upspring,  and  cruelly  they  creep 
From  wall  to  roof,  till  all  to  cinders  waste: 
Some  fire  the  houses  where  the  wretches  sleep, 
Some  rush  in  here,  some  run  in  there  as  fast; 
In  every  where  or  sword  or  fire  they  taste.      460 
The  walls  are  torn,  the  towers  whirled  to  the 

ground; 
There  is  no  mischief  but  may  there  be  found. 

Cassandra  saw  I  yet  there  how  they  haled 
From  Pallas'  house  with  spercled^*  tress  un- 
done. 
Her  wrists  fastbound,  and  with  Greeks'  rout 
empaled :  465 

And  Priam  eke,  in  vain  how  he  did  run 
To  arms,  when  Pyrrhus  with  despite  hath  done 
To  cruel  death,  and  bathed  him  in  the  baigne^^ 
Of  his  son's  blood,  before  the  altar  slain. 

But  how  can  I  describe  the  doleful  sight,         470 
That  in  the  shield  so  lifelike  fair  did  shine! 
Sith  in  this  world,  I  think  was  never  wight 
Could  have  set  forth  the  half,  nor  haK  so  fine. 

1  can  no  more  but  tell  how  there  is  seen 

Fair  Ilium  fall  in  burning  red  gledes^^  down,  475 
And,   from   the   soil,   great  Troy,   Neptunus' 
town. 

<•  Fate.        so  Predestined  judgment.        *'  Cease. 
8*  Die:  pasa  away.  *»  At  hand.  "*  Scattered. 

»6  Bath.  8«  Glowing  fragments. 


Herefrom  when  scarce  I  could  mine  eyes  with- 
draw. 
That  filled  with  tears  as  doth  the  springing  well, 
We  passed  on  so  far  forth  till  we  saw 
Rude  Acheron,  a  loathsome  lake  to  tell,  480 

That  boils  and  bubs  up  swelth"  as  black  as  hell, 
Where  grisly  Charon  at  their  fixed  tide 
Still  ferries  ghosts  unto  the  farther  side. 

The  aged  god  no  sooner  Sorrow  spied. 

But  hasting  straight  unto  the  bank  apace,      485 

With  hollow  call  unto  the  rout  he  cried 

To  swerve  apart  and  give  the  goddess  place. 

Straight  it  was  done,  when  to  the  shore  we  pace, 

Where  hand  in  hand  as  we  then  linked  fast, 

Within  the  boat  we  are  together  plaste.^^        490 

And  forth  we  launch  full  freighted  to  the  brink, 
When,  with  the  unwonted  weight,  the  rusty 

keel 
Began  to  crack  as  if  the  same  should  sink. 
We  hoist  up  mast  and  sail,  that  in  a  while 
We  fetched  the  shore,  where  scarcely  we  had 

while  495 

For  to  arrive,  but  that  we  heard  anone 
A  three-sound  bark  confounded  all  in  one. 

We  had  not  long  forth  past,  but  that  we  saw 
Black  Cerberus,  the  hideous  hound  of  hell. 
With  bristles  reared,  and  with  a  three-mouthed 

jaw,  500 

Foredinning  the  air  with  his  horrible  yell. 
Out  of  the  deep  dark  cave  where  he  did  dwell. 
The  goddess  straight  he  knew,  and  by  and  by. 
He  peaste*^  and  couched  while  that  we  passed 

by. 

Thence  came  we  to  the  horrour  and  the  hell,  505 
The  large  great  kingdoms  and  the  dreadful 

reign 
Of  Pluto  in  his  throne  where  he  did  dwell, 
The  wide  waste  places,  and  the  hugy  plain : 
The  wailings,  shrieks,  and  sundry  sorts  of  pain, 
The  sighs,  the  sobs,  the  deep  and  deadly  groan. 
Earth,   air,   and   all,   resounding   plaint   and 

moan.  5ii 

Here  puled  the  babes,  and  here  the  maids  un- 
wed 

With  folded  hands  their  sorry  chance  be- 
wailed; 

Here  wept  the  guiltless  slain,  and  lovers  dead. 

That  slew  themselves  when  nothing  else 
availed;  515 

A  thousand  sorts  of  sorrows  here  that  wailed 

With  sighs  and  tears,  sobs,  shrieks,  and  all 
yfere,^° 

That  (oh,  alas!)  it  was  a  hell  to  hear. 

We  stayed  us  straight,  and  with  a  rueful  fear  > 
Beheld  this  heavy  sight,  while  from  mine  eyes    > 
The    vapored    tears    downstilled^^    here    and 
there,  521 

"  Casts  up  lumps  of  putrid  matter.  **  Placed. 

6»  Became  silent.      s"  Together  mixed.      s*  Distilled. 


JOHN  BOURCHIER,  LORD  BERNERS  121 

And  Sorrow  eke  in  far  more  woeful  wise,  have  ensample  to  encourage  them  in  their  well 

Took  on  with  p^lamt,  upheaving  to  the  skies  doing,   I,   Sir  John  Froissart,  will  treat  and 

Her  wretched  hands,  that  with  her  cry  the  rout  record  an  history  of  great  louage3  and  praise 

Gan  all  m  heaps  to  swarm  us  round  about.      525  rj   ,       4tu     •     t  ■     lil   o     •    '^  ^  t'^f'^^- 

^  But,  or^  I  begin,  I  require  the  Saviour  of  all  the 

"Lo  here,"  said  Sorrow,  "princes  of  renown,      ^  ^orld,  who  of  nothing  created  aU  things,  that 

That  whilom  sat  on  top  of  Fortune's  wheel  ^^  will  give  me  such  grace  and  understanding, 

Now  laid  full  low;  like  wretches  whirled  down  that  I  may  continue  and  persevere  in  such  wise, 

Even  with  one  frown  that  stayed  but  with  a  that  whoso  this  process  readeth  or  heareth  may 

smilej                                                          529  take  pastance,'^  pleasure  and  ensample.     It  is 
And  now  behold  the  thmg  that  thou  erewhile       iq  said  of  truth  that  all  buildings  are  masoned  and 

Saw  on^y  in  thought,  and  what  thou  now  shalt  wrought  of  divers  stones,  and  all  great  rivers 

Recount  the  same  to  Kesax,  King,  and  Peer."      a^^.g^g^f  and  assembled  of  divers  surges  and 

springs  of  water;  in  Ukewise  all  sciences  are 
Then  first  came  Henry,  Duke  of  Buckingham,      extraught^  and  compiled  of  divers  clerks;  of 
His  cloak  of  black  all  pilled^^  and  quite  forworn,  15  that    one    writeth,    another    peradventure    is 
Wringing  his  hands,   and   Fortune  oft  doth      ignorant;  but  by  the  famous  writing  of  ancient 
blame,  535      authors  all  things  ben  known  in  one  place  or 

Which  of  a  duke  hath  made  him  now  her  scorn,  other.  Then  to  attain  to  the  matter  that  I  have 
With  ghastly  looks,  as  one  in  manner  lorn,  enterprised,  I  will  begin  first  by  the  grace  of 

Oft  spread  his  arms,  stretched  hands  he  ]oms  as  ^^  ^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^^^  blessed  Virgin  our  Lady  Saint 

With  rueful  cheer,  and  vapored  eyes  upcast,      ^^^y*  \^^^  "^^^^  ^^^  comfort  and  consolation 

proceedeth,  and  will  take  my  foundation  out  of 
His  cloak  he  rent,  his  manly  breast  he  beat,  540  the  true  chronicles  sometime  compiled  by  the 
His  hair  all  torn  about  the  place  it  lay,  right  reverend,  discreet  and  sage  master  John 

My  heart  so  molt^^  ^q  ^^q  jjjg  gj-igf  so  great  25  le  Bel,^  sometime  canon  in  Saint  Lambert's  of 

As  feelingly,  me  thought,  it  dropped  away:  Liege,  who  with  good  heart  and  due  diligence 
His  eyes  they  whirled  about  withouten  stay,      did   his   true    devoir^   in   writing   this   noble 

in  following  the  truth  as  near  as  he  might,  to 
Thrice  he  began  to  tell  his  doleful  tale.  30  his  great  charge  and  cost  in  seeking  to  have  the 

And  thrice  the  sighs  did  swallow  up  his  voice,  perfect  knowledge  thereof.  He  was  also  in  his 
At  each  of  which  he  shrieked  so  withal,  life's   days   well   beloved    and   of   the   secret 

As  through  the  heavens  rived  with  the  noise;  council  with  the  lord  Sir  John  of  Hainault,  who 

Till  at  the  last  recovering  his  voice,  551      is  often  remembered,  as  reason  requireth,  here- 

Siippmg  the  tears  that  all  his  breast  berained,«4  35  af^gj.  -^^  ^.j^jg  ^ook,  for  of  many  fair  and  noble 
On  cruel  Fortune  weeping  thus  he  plained.  adventures  he  was  chief  causer,  and  by  whose 

means  the  said  Sir  John  le  Bel  might  well  know 

3l0l)n  ^OUtCl)iet^  ilOrtl   115^nerfi>  i  ^^-4  ^^^^  ^^  "^^^y  divers  and  noble  deeds,  the 

which  hereafter  shall  be  declared.    Truth  it  is 
1467-1533  40  that  I,  who  have  enterprised  this  book  to  ordain 

for  pleasure  and  pastance,  to  the  which  always 

SELECTION  I  have  been  inclined,  and  for  that  intent  I  have 

From   The  Chronicles  of  Sir  John  Froissart,      followed  and  frequented  the  company  of  divers 

1360-c.  1390  noble  and  great  lords,  as  well  in  France,  Eng- 

,  .  45  land,  and  Scotland,  as  in  divers  other  countries, 

(Berner  s  translation,  1524-5)  ^^^  1^^^^  j^^^  knowledge  by  them,  and  always 

To  the  intent  that  the  honourable  and  noble  to  my  power  justly  have  enquired  for  the 
adventures  of  feats  of  arms,  done  and  achieved  truth  of  the  deeds  of  war  and  adventures  that 
by  the  wars  of  France  and  England,  should  have  fallen,  and  especially  sith  the  great  battle 
notably  be  en  registered  and  put  in  perpetual  50  of  Poitiers,  ^'^  whereas  the  noble  king  John  of 
memory,  whereby  the  prewe^  and  hardy  may      France  was  taken  prisoner,  as  before  that  time 

I  was  but  of  a  young  age  or  understanding. 

62  Threadbare.      63  Melted.       64  Rained  down  upon. 

I  Chancellor  of  Exchequer  under   Henry  VIII.      He  '  Glory.  *  Ere.  ^  Pastime, 

enjoyed  the  King's  favor  for  an  unusually  long  time.    He  6  Turned  into  whirlpools, 

made   his  translation  of   Froissart    (a  notable  work  of  ^  Extracted. 

Early  Tudor  prose)  at  the  command  of  the  King.    Frois-  ^  Flourished  in  the  early  14th    century.     While  living 

sart  was  a  contemporary  of  Chaucer,  who  enjoyed  the  with  Sir  John  of  Hainault,  in  France,  he  compiled  two 

patronage  of  Philippa,  queen  of  Edward  III.     He  wrote  volumes  of  Chronicles  on  contemporary  history, 
his  Chronicles  of  the  wars  of  his  age  in  France,  England,  *  Duty,  service. 

Scotland  and  Spain,  between  1360  and  1390  in  the  French  i"  Fought  in  France,   1356,  a  famous  victory  of  the 

tongue.  2  Gallant.  English  over  the  French. 


122  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

Howbeit,  I  took  on  me,  as  soon  as  I  came  from  case  to  do  any  great  deed  of  arms:  we  have  more 
school,  to  write  and  recite  the  said  book,  and  need  of  rest."  These  words  came  to  the  earl  of 
bare  the  same  compiled  into  England,  and  Alengon,  who  said:  "A  man  is  well  at  ease  to  be 
presented  the  volume  thereof  to  my  lady  charged  with  such  a  sort  of  rascals,  to  be  faint 
Philippa  of  Hainault,^^  noble  Queen  of  Eng-  5  and  fail  now  at  most  need."  Also  the  same 
land,  who  right  amiably  received  it  to  my  great  season  there  fell  a  great  rain  and  a  clipse^  with  a 
profit  and  advancement.  And  it  may  be  so  terrible  thunder,  and  before  the  rain  there 
that  the  same  book  is  not  as  yet  examined  or  came  flying  over  both  battles  a  great  number  of 
corrected  so  justly  as  such  a  case  requireth;  for  crows  for  fear  of  the  tempest  coming.  Then 
feats  of  arms  dearly  bought  and  achieved,  the  10  anon  the  air  began  to  wax  clear,  and  the  sun  to 
honour  thereof  ought  to  be  given  and  truly  shine  fair  and  bright,  the  which  was  right  in  the 
divided  to  them  that  by  prowess  and  hard  Frenchmen's  eyen,  and  on  the  Englishmen's 
travail  have  deserved  it.  Therefore  to  acquit  backs.  When  the  Genoways  were  assembled 
me  in  that  behalf,  and  in  following  the  truth  as  together  and  began  to  approach,  they  made  a 
near  as  I  can,  I,  John  Froissart,  have  enter- 15  great  leap  and  cry  to  abash  the  Englishmen,  but 
prised  this  history  on  the  foresaid  ordinance  and  they  stood  still  and  stirred  not  for  all  that;  then 
true  foundation,  at  the  instance  and  request  of  a  the  Genoways  again  the  second  time  made 
true  lord  of  mine,  Robert  of  Namur,  Knight,  another  leap  and  a  fell  cry,  and  stept  forward  a 
lord  of  Beaufort,  to  whom  entirely  I  owe  love  little,  and  the  Englishmen  removed  not  one 
and  obeisance,  and  God  grant  me  to  do  that  20  foot:  thirdly,  again  they  leapt  and  cried,  and 
thing  that  may  be  to  his  pleasure.   Amen.  went  forth  till  they  came  within  shot;  then 

they    shot    fiercely    with    their    cross-bows. 

Oh    IHH.   BAllLH.  Ub    (^Ki^bbY  and  let  fly  their  arrows  so  wholly  [together]  and 

Between  the  king  of  England  and  the  French  25  so  thick,   that  it  seemed  snow.     When  the 

l^jjg  Genoways  felt  the  arrows  piercmg  through 

heads,  arms  and  breasts,  many  of  them  cast 

The  Englishmen,  who  were  in  three  battles  down  their  cross-bows  and  did  cut  their  strings 
lying  on  the  ground  to  rest  them,  as  soon  as  they  and  returned  discomfited.  When  the  French 
saw  the  Frenchmen  approach,  they  rose  upon 30 king  saw  them  fly  away,  he  said:  "Slay  these 
their  feet  fair  and  easily  without  any  haste  and  rascals,  for  they  shall  let®  and  trouble  us  with- 
arranged  their  battles. ^  The  first,  which  was  out  reason."  Then  ye  should  have  seen  the 
the  prince's  battle,  the  archers  there  stood  in  men  of  arms  dash  in  among  them  and  killed  a 
the  manner  of  a  herse^  and  the  men  of  arms  in  great  number  of  them:  and  ever  stiU  the 
the  bottom  of  the  battle.  The  earl  of  North-  35  Englishmen  shot  whereas  they  saw  thickest 
ampton  and  the  earl  of  Arundel  with  the  second  press;  the  sharp  arrows  ran  into  the  men  of 
battle  were  on  a  wing  in  good  order,  ready  to  arms  and  into  their  horses,  and  many  fell, 
comfort  the  prince's  battle,  if  need  were.  horse  and  men,  among  the  Genoways,  and  when 

The  lords  and  knights  of  France  came  not  to  they  were  down,  they  could  not  relieve''  again, 
the  assembly  together  in  good  order,  for  some  40  the  press  was  so  thick  that  one  overthrew 
came  before  and  some  came  after  in  such  haste  another.  And  also  among  the  Englishmen 
and  evil  order,  that  one  of  them  did  trouble  there  were  certain  rascals  that  went  afoot  with 
another.  When  the  French  King  saw  the  great  knives,  and  they  went  in  among  the 
Englishmen,  his  blood  changed,  and  said  to  his  men  of  arms,  and  slew  and  murdered  many  as 
marshals:  "Make  the  Genoways*  go  on  before 45 they  lay  on  the  ground,  both  earls,  barons, 
and  begin  the  battle  in  the  name  of  God  and  knights,  and  squires,  whereof  the  king  of 
Saint  Denis."  There  were  of  the  Genoways  England  was  after  displeased,  for  he  had  rather 
cross-bows  about  a  fifteen-thousand,  but  they  they  had  been  taken  prisoners, 
were  so  weary  of  going  afoot  that  day  a  six  The  valiant  king  of  Bohemia  called  Charles  of 
leagues  armed  with  their  cross-bows,  that  50  Luxembourg,  for  all  that  he  was  nigh  blind, 
they  said  to  their  constables:  "We  be  notweU  when  he  understood  the  order  of  the  battle, 
ordered  to  fight  this  day,  for  we  be  not  in  the      he  said  to  them  about  him:  "Where  is  the  lord 

Ji  Queen  of  Edward  III,  and  mother  of  the  Black      Charles  my  SOU? "    His  men  said:  "Sir,  wecan- 

^1n^'      n       •..     ^  r^u    ^  *.i  t     ^..  ■        not  tell;  we  think  he  be  fighting."    Then  he 

1  Generally  wntten  Crecy.    The  Battle  was  fought  in  •  i    ,,o..  ^         =*         . 

1346.  55  said:    Sirs,  ye  are  my  men,  my  companions  and 

2  Lines  in  battle  array. 

'  Probably  a  wedge-formation  of  archers  shaped  like  a  ^A   mistranslation   for    "une    esclistre,"    or   flash   of 

triangular  narrow  herse  (or  harrow),  back  of  which  and  on  lightning. — Macaulay. 

the  flanks  of  which  were  the  men-of-arms.    Cf .  Oman  in  6  Hinder. 

Social  England,  Vol.  II,  pp.  174-5.  ^  Rise.     Relieve  is  a  mistranslation  of  "releves,"  for 

*  Genoese.  "se  relever." 


JOHN  BOURCHIER,   LORD  BERNERS  123 

friends  in  this  journey:  I  require  you  bring  me  archers  of  the  prince's  battle  and  came  and 
so  far  forward,  that  I  may  strike  one  stroke  fought  with  the  men  of  arms  hand  to  hand, 
with  my  sword."  They  said  they  would  do  Then  the  second  battle  of  the  Englishmen  came 
his  commandment,  and  to  the  intent  that  they  to  succor  the  prince's  battle,  the  which  was 
should  not  lose  him  in  the  press,  they  tied  all  5  time,  for  they  had  as  then  much  ado;  and  they 
their  reins  of  their  bridles  each  to  other  and  with  the  prince  sent  a  messenger  to  the  king, 
set  the  king  before  to  accomplish  his  desire,  who  was  on  a  little  windmill  hill.  Then  the 
and  so  they  went  on  their  enemies.  The  lord  knight  said  to  the  king:  "Sir,  the  earl  of  War- 
Charles  of  Bohemia  his  son,  who  wrote  himself  wick  and  the  earl  of  Oxford,  Sir  Raynold 
king  of  Almaine  and  bare  the  arms,  he  came  in  10  Cobham  and  other,  such  as  be  about  the 
good  order  to  the  battle;  but  when  he  saw  that  prince  your  son,  are  fiercely  fought  withal  and 
the  matter  went  awry  on  their  party,  he  de-  are  sore  handled;  wherefore  they  desire  you 
parted,  I  cannot  tell  you  which  way.  The  that  you  and  your  battle  will  come  and  aid 
king  his  father  was  so  far  forward  that  he  them;  for  if  the  Frenchmen  increase,  as  they 
strake  a  stroke  with  his  sword,  yea  and  more  15  doubt  they  will,  your  son  and  they  shall  have 
than  four,  and  fought  valiantly  and  so  did  his  much  ado."  Then  the  king  said:  "Is  my  son 
company;  and  they  adventured  themselves  dead  or  hurt  or  on  the  earth  felled? "  "No  sir," 
so  forward,  that  they  were  there  all  slain,  and  quoth  the  knight,  "but  he  is  hardly  matched; 
the  next  day  they  were  found  in  the  place  wherefore  he  hath  need  of  your  aid."  "Well," 
about  the  king,  and  all  their  horses  tied  each  to  20  said  the  king,  "return  to  him  and  to  them  that 
other.  sent  you  hither,  and  say  to  them  that  they  send 

The  earl  of  Alengon  came  to  the  battle  right  no  more  to  me  for  any  adventure  that  falleth, 
ordinately  and  fought  with  the  Englishmen,  as  long  as  my  son  is  alive:  and  also  say  to  them 
and  the  earl  of  Flanders  also  on  his  part.  These  that  they  suffer  him  this  day  to  win  his  spurs; 
two  lords  with  their  companies  coasted^  the  25  for  if  God  be  pleased,  I  will  this  journey^"  be  his 
English  archers  and  came  to  the  prince's  and  the  honour  thereof,  and  to  them  that  be 
battle,  and  there  fought  valiantly  long.  The  about  him."  Then  the  knight  returned  again 
French  king  would  fain  have  come  thither,  to  them  and  shewed  the  king's  words,  the  which 
when  he  saw  their  banners,  but  there  was  a  greatly  encouraged  them,  and  repoined"  in  that 
great  hedge  of  archers  before  him.  The  same  30  they  had  sent  to  the  king  as  they  did. 
day  the  French  king  had  given  a  great  black  Sir  Godfrey  of  Harcourt  would  gladly  that 
courser  to  Sir  John  of  Hainault,  and  he  made  the  earl  of  Harcourt  his  brother  might  have 
the  lord  Thierry  of  Senzeille  to  ride  on  him  and  been  saved;  for  he  heard  say  by  them  that  saw 
to  bear  his  banner.  The  same  horse  took  the  his  banner  how  that  he  was  there  in  the  field 
bridle  in  his  teeth  and  brought  him  through  all  35  on  the  French  party;  but  Sir  Godfrey  could  not 
the  currours^  of  the  Englishmen,  and  as  he  come  to  him  betimes,  for  he  was  slain  or  he 
would  have  returned  again,  he  fell  in  a  great  could  come  at  him,  and  so  was  also  the  earl  of 
dike  and  was  sore  hurt,  and  had  been  there  Aumale  his  nephew.  In  another  place  the  earl 
dead,  an  his  page  had  not  been,  who  foUowed  of  Alengon  and  the  earl  of  Flanders  fought 
him  through  all  the  battles  and  saw  where  his  40  valiantly,  every  lord  under  his  own  banner; 
master  lay  in  the  dike,  and  had  none  other  let  but  finally  they  could  not  resist  against  the 
but  for  his  horse,  for  the  Englishmen  would  puissance  of  the  Englishmen,  and  so  there  they 
not  issue  of  their  battle  for  taking  of  any  were  also  slain,  and  divers  other  knights  and 
prisoner.  Then  the  page  alighted  and  relieved  squires.  Also  the  earl  Louis  of  Blois,  nephew  to 
his  master:  then  he  went  not  back  again  the  45  the  French  king,  and  the  duke  of  Lorraine 
same  way  that  they  came,  there  was  too  many  fought  under  their  banners,  but  at  last  they 
in  his  way.  were  closed  in  among  a  company  of  Englishmen 

This  battle  between  Broye  and  Cressy  this  and  Welshmen,  and  there  were  slain  for  all 
Saturday  was  right  cruel  and  fell,  and  many  a  their  prowess.  Also  there  was  slain  the  earl  of 
feat  of  arms  done  that  came  not  to  my  knowl-  50  Auxerre,  the  earl  of  Saint-Pol  and  many  other, 
edge.    In  the  night  divers  knights  and  squires  In  the  evening  the  French  king,  who  had 

lost  their  masters,  and  sometime  came  on  the  left  about  him  no  more  than  a  three-score 
Englishmen,  who  received  them  in  such  wise  persons,  one  and  other,  whereof  Sir  John  of 
that  they  were  ever  nigh  slain;  for  there  was  Hainault  was  one,  who  had  remounted  once 
none  taken  to  mercy  nor  to  ransom,  for  so  the  65  the  king,  for  his  horse  was  slain  with  an  arrow, 
Englishmen  were  determined.  then  he  said  to  the  king:  "Sir,  depart  hence,  for 

In  the  morning  the  day  of  the  battle  certain  it  is  time;  lose  not  yourself  wilfully:  if  ye  have 
Frenchmen  and  Almains  perforce  opened  the      loss  at  this  time,  ye  shall  recover  it  again  an- 

8  Marched  on  the  flank  of.  '  Couriers.  i°  Day's  work,  day's  battle.  "  Repented. 


124  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

other  season."    And  so  he  took  the  king's  horse  and  Bedford.    These  unhappy  people  of  these 

by  the  bridle  and  led  him  away  in  a  manner  said  countries  began  to  stir,  because  they  said 

perforce.    Then  the  king  rode  till  he  came  to  the  they  were  kept  in  great  servage,  and  in  the 

castle  of  Broye.    The  gate  was  closed,  because  beginning  of  the  world,  they  said,  there  were 

it  was  by  that  time  dark:  then  the  king  called  5  no  bondmen,  wherefore  they  maintained  that 

the  captain,  who  came  to  the  walls  and  said:  none  ought  to  be  bond,  without  he  did  treason 

"Who  is  that  calleth  there  this  time  of  night?"  to  his  lord,  as  Lucifer  did  to  God;  but  they  said 

Then  the  king  said:  "Open  your  gate  quickly,  they  could  have  no  such  battle,  for  they  were 

for  this  is  the  fortune  of  France."    The  captain  neither  angels  nor  spirits,  but  men  formed  to 
knew  then  it  was  the  king,  and  opened  the  10  the  similitude  of  their  lords,  saying  why  should 

gate  and  let  down  the  bridge.    Then  the  king  they  then  be  kept  so  under  like  beasts;  the 

entered,  and  he  had  with  him  but  five  barons,  which  they  said  they  would  no  longer  suffer,  for 

Sir  John  of  Hainault,  Sir  Charles  of  Mont-  they  would  be  all  one,  and  if  they  laboured  or 

morency,  the  lord  of  Beaujeu,  the  lord  d'Aubi-  did  anything  for  their  lords,  they  would  have 
gny  and  the  lord  of  Montsault.    The  king  would  15  wages  therefor  as  well  as  other.    And  of  this 

not  tarry  there,  but  drank  and  departed  thence  imagination  was  a  foolish  priest  in  the  country 

about  midnight,  and  so  rode  by  such  guides  as  of  Kent  called  John  Ball,  for  the  which  foolish 

knew  the  country  till  he  came  in  the  morning  to  words  he  had  been  three  times  in  the  Bishop  of 

Amiens,  and  there  he  rested.  Canterbury's  prison:  for  this  priest  used  often- 
This  Saturday  the  Englishmen  never  de- 20  times  on  the  Sundays  after  mass,  when  the 

parted  from  their  battles  for  chasing  of  any  man,  people  were  going  out  of  the  minster,  to  go 

but  kept  still  their  field,  and  ever  defended  into  the  cloister  and  preach,  and  made  the 

themselves  against  all  such  as  came  to  assail  people  to  assemble  about  him,  and  would  say 

them.    This  battle  ended  about  evensong  time,  thus:  "Ah,  ye  good  people,  the  matters  goeth 

TTTF   qPFFPTT   OF    TOTTM   "RATH         ^^^^^  ^^^^  *^  P^^^  ^^  England,  nor  shall  not  do 
IHE   bFEECH   UJ^    JUHJN    BALL  until  everything  be  common,  and  that  there  be 

In  the  mean  season  while  this  treaty  was,  no  villains  nor  gentlemen,  but  that  we  may  be 
there  fell  in  England  great  mischief  and  all  unied^  together,  and  that  the  lords  be  no 
rebellion  of  moving  of  the  common  people,  by  greater  masters  than  we  be.  What  have  we 
which  deed  England  was  at  a  point  to  have  30  deserved,  or  why  should  we  be  kept  thus  in 
been  lost  without  recovery.  There  was  never  servage?  We  be  all  come  from  one  father  and 
realm  nor  country  in  so  great  adventure  as  it  one  mother,  Adam  and  Eve:  whereby  can  they 
was  in  that  time,  and  all  because  of  the  ease  say  or  shew  that  they  be  greater  lords  than  we 
and  riches  that  the  common  people  were  of,  be,  saving  by  that  they  cause  us  to  win  and 
which  moved  them  to  this  rebellion,  as  some-  35  labour  for  that  they  dispend.  They  are  clothed 
time  they  did  in  France,  the  which  did  much  in  velvet  and  camlet^  furred  with  grise,  and  we 
hurt,  for  by  such  incidents  the  realm  of  France  be  vestured  with  poor  cloth:  they  have  their 
hath  been  greatly  grieved.  wines,  spices  and  good  bread,  and  we  have  the 

It  was  a  marvellous  thing  and  of  poor  drawing  out  of  the  chaff  and  drink  water:  they 
foundation  that  this  mischief  began  in  England,  40  dwell  in  fair  houses,  and  we  have  the  pain  and 
and  to  give  ensample  to  all  manner  of  people  travail,  rain  and  wind  in  the  fields;  and  by 
I  will  speak  thereof  as  it  was  done,  as  I  was  that  that  cometh  of  our  labours  they  keep 
informed,  and  of  the  incidents  thereof.  There  and  maintain  their  estates:  we  be  called  their 
was  an  usage  in  England,  and  yet  is  in  divers  bondmen,  and  without  we  do  readily  them 
countries,  that  the  noblemen  hath  great  45  service,  we  be  beaten ;  and  we  have  no  sovereign 
franchise  over  the  commons  and  keepeth  them  to  whom  we  may  complain,  nor  that  will  hear 
in  servage,  that  is  to  say,  their  tenants  ought  us  nor  do  us  right.  Let  us  go  to  the  king,  he  is 
by  custom  to  labour  the  lord's  lands,  to  gather  young,  and  shew  him  what  servage  we  be  in, 
and  bring  home  their  corns,  and  some  to  and  shew  him  how  we  will  have  it  otherwise,  or 
thresh  and  to  fan,  and  by  servage  to  make  50  else  we  will  provide  us  of  some  remedy;  and  if 
their  hay  and  to  hew  their  wood  and  bring  it  we  go  together,  all  manner  of  people  that  be 
home.  All  these  things  they  ought  to  do  by  now  in  any  bondage  will  follow  us  to  the  intent 
servage,  and  there  be  more  of  these  people  in  to  be  made  free;  and  when  the  king  seeth  us,  we 
England  than  in  any  other  realm.  Thus  the  shall  have  some  remedy,  either  by  fairness,  or 
noblemen  and  prelates  are  served  by  them,  and  55  otherwise."  Thus  John  Ball  said  on  Sundays, 
specially  in  the  county  of  Kent,  Essex,  Sussex     when  the  people  issued  out  of  the  churches  in  \ , 

1  A  social  reformer  known  as  "the  mad  Priest  of  Kent."  '' 

One  of  the  leaders  in  the  Peasants'  Revolt  in  England  in  ^  United. 

1381.    He  was  executed  at  St.  Alban's  for  preaching  in-  ^  A  costly  Eastern  fabric,  but  applied  to  the  imitations 

surrection.  of  it.    Grise  was  a  kind  of  grey  fur. 


SIR  THOMAS  MORE  125 

the  villages;  wherefore  many  of  the  mean  they  differ,  yet  they  be  true.  I  was  in  the  city 
people  loved  him,  and  such  as  intended  to  no  of  Bordeaux  and  sitting  at  the  table  when 
goodness  said  how  he  said  truth;  and  so  they  king  Richard  was  born,  the  which  was  on  a 
would  murmur  one  with  another  in  the  fields  Tuesday  about  ten  of  the  clock.  The  same  time 
and  in  the  ways  as  they  went  together,  affirm-  5  there  came  thereas  I  was.  Sir  Richard  Pout- 
ing how  John  Ball  said  truth.  chardon,  marshal  as  then  of  Acquitaine,  and  he 

TTTF   RTTPTAT    OF  T?TPWAT?n  TT  said  to  me:  "Froissart,  write  and  put  in  memory 

IHiL   BURIAL  (Jb    RICHARD   11  ^j^^^  as  now  my  lady  princess  is  brought  abed 

It  was  not  long  after  that  true  tidings  ran  with  a  fair  son  on  this  Twelfth  day,  that  is  the 
through  London,  how  Richard  of  Bordeaux^  10  day  of  the  three  kings,  and  he  is  son  to  a  king's 
was  dead;  but  how  he  died  and  by  what  means,  son  and  shall  be  a  king."  This  gentle  knight 
I  could  not  tell  when  I  wrote  this  chronicle,  said  truth,  for  he  was  king  of  England  twenty- 
But  this  King  Richard  dead  was  laid  in  a  two  year;  but  when  this  knight  said  these 
litter  and  set  in  a  chare^  covered  with  black  words,  he  knew  full  little  what  should  be  his 
baudkin,^  and  four  horses  all  black  in  the  15  conclusion.  And  the  same  time  that  king 
chare,  and  two  men  in  black  leading  the  chare,  Richard  was  born,  his  father  the  prince  was  in 
and  four  knights  all  in  black  following.  Thus  Galice,^  the  which  king  Don  Peter  had  given 
the  chare  departed  from  the  Tower  of  London  him,  and  he  was  there  to  conquer  the  realm, 
and  was  brought  along  through  London  fair  Upon  these  things  I  have  greatly  imagined 
and  softly,  till  they  came  into  Cheapside,  20  sith;^  for  the  first  year  that  I  came  into  Eng- 
whereas  the  chief  assembly  of  London  was,  and  land  into  the  service  of  queen  Philippa,  king 
there  the  chare  rested  the  space  of  two  hours.  Edward  and  the  queen  and  all  their  children 
Thither  came  in  and  out  more  than  twenty  were  as  then  at  Berkhamstead,  a  manor  of  the 
thousand  persons  men  and  women,  to  see  him  prince  of  Wales  beyond  London.  The  king  and 
whereas  he  lay,  his  head  on  a  black  cushion,  25  the  queen  were  come  thither  to  take  leave  of 
and  his  visage^  open.  Some  had  on  him  pity  their  son  the  prince  and  princess,  who  were 
and  some  none,  but  said  he  had  long  deserved  going  into  Acquitaine,  and  there  I  heard  an 
death.  Now  consider  well,  ye  great  lords,  ancient  knight  devise'  among  the  ladies  and 
kings,  dukes,  earls,  barons  and  prelates,  and  all  said:  "There  is  a  book  which  is  called  le  Brut, 
men  of  great  lineage  and  puissance;  see  and  30  and  it  deviseth  that  the  prince  of  Wales,  eldest 
behold  how  the  fortunes  of  this  world  are  son  to  the  king,  nor  the  duke  of  Gloucester, 
marvellous  and  turn  diversely.  This  king  should  never  be  king  of  England,  but  the  realm 
Richard  reigned  king  of  England  twenty  two  and  crown  should  return  to  the  house  of 
year  in  great  prosperity,  holding  great  estate  Lancaster."  There  I,  John  Froissart,  author  of 
and  seignory.  There  was  never  before  any  35  this  chronicle,  considering  all  these  things, 
king  of  England  that  spent  so  much  in  his  house  I  say  these  two  knights.  Sir  Richard  Pont- 
as  he  did,  by  a  hundred  thousand  florins  every  chardon  and  Sir  Bartholomew  of  Burghersh, 
year;  for  I,  Sir  John  Froissart,  canon  and  said  both  truth;  for  I  saw,  and  so  did  all  the 
treasurer  of  Chimay,  knew  it  well,  for  I  was  in  world,  Richard  of  Bordeaux  twenty  two  year 
his  court  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  year  together,  40  king  of  England,  and  after  the  crown  returned 
ind  he  made  me  good  cheer,  because  that  in  to  the  house  of  Lancaster,  and  that  was  when 
my  youth  I  was  clerk  and  servant  to  the  noble  King  Henry  was  king,  the  which  he  had  never 
king  Edward  III,  his  grandfather,  and  with  my  been  if  Richard  of  Bordeaux  had  dealt  amiably 
lady  Philippa  of  Hainault,  queen  of  England  his  with  him;  for  the  Londoners  made  him  king 
grandam;  and  when  I  departed  from  him,  it  45  because  they  had  pity  on  him  and  on  his 
was  at  Windsor,  and  at  my  departing  the  king      children. 

sent  me  by  a  knight  of  his  called  Sir  John  g^jj.   ^fiojjxg[0   9^0tt 

Golofre  a  goblet  of  silver  and  gilt  weighing  two  "^^ 

mark  of  silver,  and  within  it  a  hundred  nobles,  1478-1535 

by  the  which  I  am  as  yet  the  better,  and  shall  50  -pHE  PEOPLE  ARE  URGED  TO  CHOOSE 
be  as  long  as  I  live;  wherefore  I  am  bound  to  RICHARD  FOR  THEIR  KING 

pray  to  God  for  his  soul,  and  with  much  sorrow      ,_         ^^  .  ___       . 

I  write  of  his  death;  but  because  I  have  con-  (^rom  History  of  Richard  III,  written  c.  1513) 
tinned  this  history,  therefore  I  write  thereof  to  When  the  Duke  had  said,  and  looked  that^- 

follow  it.  55  the  people  whom  he  hoped  that  the  Mayor 

In  my  time  I  have  seen  two  things:  though     had  framed^  before,  should  after  this  flattering 

proposition  made,  have  cried  King  Richard, 

i  Richard  II.  (1367-1400)  son  of  the  Black  Prince,  was  .  ^  ,•  •  .  o-  7  t^- 

born  at  Bordeaux.  Gahcia,  « Since.  ^  Discourse,  converse. 

^Gftr,  cart.  '  Rich  black  material.  *  Visor.  1  Prepared;  fitted  for  the  part  they  were  to  play. 


126    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

King  Richard,  all  was  still  and  mute,  and  not  the  nobles  of  the  realm  be,  to  have  this  noble 
one  word  answered  thereunto.  Wherewith  the  Prince,  now  Protector,  to  be  your  King."  At 
Duke  was  marvellously  abashed,  and  taking  these  words  the  people  began  to  whisper  among 
the  Mayor  nearer  to  him,  with  other  that  themselves  secretly,  that  the  voice  was  neither 
were  about  him  privy  to  that  matter,  said  unto  5  loud  nor  distinct,  but  as  it  were  the  sound  of  a 
them  softly;  "What  meaneth  this,  that  the  swarm  of  bees,  till  at  the  last  at  the  nether  end 
people  be  so  still?"  "Sir,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  of  the  hall,  a  bushment^  of  the  Duke's  servants 
"parcase^  they  perceive  you  not  well."  "That  and  one  Nashfield,  and  others  longing^  to  the 
shall  we  amend,"  quoth  he,  "if  that  will  help."  Protector,  with  some  prentices  and  lads  that 
And  by  and  by  somewhat  louder,  he  rehearsed  10  thrust  into  the  hall  among  the  press,  began 
them  the  same  matter  again  in  other  order  and  suddenly  at  men's  backs  to  cry  out  as  loud  as 
other  words,  so  well  and  ornately,  and  natheles  their  throats  would  give:  King  Richard^ 
so  evidently  and  plain,  with  voice,  gesture,  and  King  Richard,  and  threw  up  their  caps  in  token 
countenance  so  comely  and  convenient,  tiiat  of  joy.  And  they  that  stood  before,  cast  back 
every  man  much  marvelled  that  heard  him,  and  15  their  heads  marvelling  thereat,  but  nothing 
thought  that  they  never  had  in  their  lives  heard  they  said.  And  when  the  Duke  and  the  mayor 
so  evil  a  tale  so  well  told.  But  were  it  for  saw  this  manner,  they  wisely  turned  it  to  their 
wonder  or  fear,  (or)  that  each  looked  that  purpose.  And  said  it  was  a  goodly  cry  and  a 
other  should  speak  first;  not  one  word  more  was  joyful,  to  hear  every  man  with  one  voice,  and 
there  answered  of  all  the  people  that  stood  20  no  man  saying  nay.  "Wherefore  friends," 
before,  but  all  were  as  still  as  the  midnight,  not  quoth  the  Duke,  "since  we  perceive  that  it  is 
so  much  as  rowning^  among  them,  by  which  your  whole  minds  to  have  this  nobleman  for 
they  might  seem  to  commune  what  was  best  to  your  King,  whereof  we  shall  make  his  Grace  so 
do.  When  the  Mayor  saw  this,  he  with  other  effectual  report,  that  we  doubt  not  but  it  shall 
partners  of  the  Council,  drew  about  the  Duke,  25  redound  unto  your  great  weal  and  commonal- 
and  said  that  the  people  had  not  been  accus-  ity.^  We  therefore  require  you  that  tomorrow 
tomed  thus  to  be  spoken  unto  but  by  the  ye  go  with  us,  and  we  with  you,  unto  his  noble 
Recorder,  which  is  the  mouth  of  the  city,  and  Grace,  to  make  your  humble  request  unto  him 
haply  to  him  they  will  answer.  With  that  the  in  manner  before  remembered."  And  therefore 
Recorder,  called  Thomas  Fitz  William,  a  sad^so  with,^°  the  lords  came  down,  and  the  company 
man  and  an  honest,  which  was  so  new  come  into  dissolved  and  departed,  the  most  part  all  sad, 
that  office  that  he  never  had  spoken  to  the  some  with  glad  semblance  that  were  not  very 
people  before,  and  loath  he  was  with  that  merry,  and  some  of  those  that  came  hither  with 
matter  to  begin,  notwithstanding  being  there-  the  Duke,  not  able  to  dissemble  their  sorrow, 
unto  commanded  by  the  Mayor,  made  a  re-  35  were  fain,  at  his  back,  to  turn  their  face  to  the 
hearsal  to  the  commons  of  that  the  Duke  had  wall,  while  the  dolour  of  their  hearts  burst  out 
twice  rehearsed  them  himself.  But  the  Re-  of  their  eyes, 
corder  so  tempered  his  tale,  that  he  showed 

everything  as  the  Duke's  words  were,  and  no  ^    TTTIPOPF    POTSTTT?  A «5TTrn 

part  his  own.    But  aU  this  made  no  change  in  40  UTOPIA   AND    EUROPE   CONTRAbTIi.D 

the  people,  which,  alway  after  one, ^  stood  as      (^^.^jj^  Uto-pia,  1516,  Ralph  Robinson's  transla- 
they  had  been  men  amazed.    Whereupon  the  ^^       gg^ond  and  revised  ed.  1556) 

Duke   rowned®   unto    the    Mayor   and   said: 

"This  is  a  marvellous  obstinate  silence."  And  Now^  I  have  declared  and  described  unto 
therewith  he  turned  unto  the  people  again  with  45  you,  as  truly  as  I  could,  the  form  and  order  of 
these  words:  "Dear  friends,  we  come  to  move  that  Commonwealth,  which  verily  in  my  judg- 
you  to  that  thing  which,  peradventiu'e  we  ment  is  not  only  the  best,  but  also  that  which 
greatly  needed  not,  but  that  the  lords  of  this  alone  of  good  right  may  claim  and  take  upon  it 
realm  and  the  commons  of  other  parties,  the  name  of  a  common  wealth,  or  public  weal.^ 
might  have  sufficed,  saving  such  love  we  bear  50  7  a  body  of  men  in  hiding,  or  in  ambush, 
you,  and  so  much  set  by  you,  that  we  would  not  J  Belonging, 
gladly  do  without  you,  that  thing  in  which  to        i^FortSdtht  thereupon. 

%(^be  partners  is  your  weal  and  honour,  which,  as  1  The  speaker  is  a  fictitious   character,  one   Raphael 

to    us    seemeth,    you    see    not    or    weigh    not.  Hythloday,  whom  More  introduces  in  the  early  part  of 

„,,         -                  '    "^  .                ,        .                 °  the    narrative    as   a   Portuguese   scholar   and   explorer. 

Wherefore,  we  reqmre  you  to  give  us  an  answer  55  Hythloday  is  supposed  to  have  visited  Utopia  m  the  V 

one  way  or  other,  whether  ye  be  minded  as  all  r^^^^'se  qf  his  travels,  and  he  is  represented  as  relating  his  ^; 

^                     '                      -^  impressions  of  the  strange  land  to  More.     Ihe  greater    I 

2  Perhaps;  perchance.     (Lat.  per  casum.)  part  of  Mora's  book  consists  of  Hythloday's  narrative, 

« Whispering.                                     *  Discreet,  reliable.  and  his  reflections  on  the  Utopian  Commonwealth. 

«  All  the  time  in  the  same  manner.  2  Weal,  primarily  wealth,  riches,  and  hence  prosperity, 

•  Whispered.  success. 


SIR  THOMAS  MORE  127 

For  in  other  places  they  speak  still  of  the  much  pleasanter,  taking  no  thought  in  the 
Commonwealth,  but  every  man  procureth  his  mean  season  for  the  time  to  come.  But  these 
own  private  gain.  Here,  where  nothing  is  seely^  poor  wretches  be  presently  tormented 
private,  the  common  affairs  be  earnestly  looked  with  barren  and  unfruitful  labour.  And  the 
upon.  And  truly  on  both  parts  they  have  5  remembrance  of  their  poor,  indigent,  and 
good  cause  so  to  do  as  they  do.  For  in  other  beggarly  old  age,  killeth  them  up.  For  their 
countries  who  knoweth  not  that  he  shall  daily  wages  is  so  little,  that  it  will  not  suffice  for 
starve  for  hunger,  unless  he  make  some  severaP  the  same  day,  much  less  it  yieldeth  any  over- 
provision  for  himself,  though  the  Common-  plus,  that  may  daily  be  laid  up  for  the  relief  of 
wealth  flourish  never  so  much  in  riches?  And  10  old  age.  Is  not  this  an  unjust  and  unkind 
therefore  he  is  compelled,  even  of  very  neces-  public  weal,  which  giveth  great  fees  and  re- 
sity,  to  have  regard  to  himself,  rather  than  to  wards  to  gentlemen,  as  they  call  them,  and  to 
the  people,  that  is  to  say,  to  others.  Contrary-  goldsmiths,  and  to  such  other,  which  be  either 
wise  there,  where  all  things  be  common  to  idle  persons,  or  else  only  flatterers,  and  de- 
every  man,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  anyisvisers  of  vain  pleasures;  and  of  the  contrary 
man  shall  lack  anything  necessary  for  his  part,  maketh  no  gentle^  provision  for  poor 
private  uses;  so  that  the  common  store-houses  plowmen,  colliers,  labourers,  carters,  iron- 
and  barns  be  sufficiently  stored.  For  there  smiths,  and  carpenters;  without  whom  no 
nothing  is  distributed  after  a  niggish  sort,*  Commonwealth  can  continue?  But  after  it 
neither  is  there  any  poor  man  or  beggar.  An  20  hath  abused  the  labourers  of  their  lusty  and 
though  no  man  have  anything,  yet  every  man  is  flowering  age,  at  the  last,  when  they  be  op- 
rich.  For  what  can  be  more  rich  than  to  live  pressed  with  old  age  and  sickness, — being 
joyfully  and  merrily,  without  all  grief  and  needy,  poor,  and  indigent  of  all  things, — then 
pensiveness:  not  caring  for  his  own  living,  nor  forgetting  their  so  many  painful  watchings,  not 
vexed  or  troubled  with  his  wife's  importunate  25  remembering  their  so  many  and  so  great 
complaints,  nor  dreading  poverty  to  his  son,  nor  benefits,  recompenseth  and  aquitteth'^  them 
sorrowing  for  his  daughter's  dowry?  Yea,  they  most  unkindly  with  miserable  death.  And 
take  no  care  at  all  for  the  living  and  wealth  of  yet,  besides  this,  the  rich  men,  not  only  by 
themselves  and  all  theirs,  of  their  wives,  their  private  fraud,  but  also  by  common  laws,  do 
children,  their  nephews,  their  children's  chil- 30  every  day  pluck  and  snatch  away  from  the 
dren,  and  all  the  succession  that  ever  shall  poor  some  part  of  their  daily  living.  So, 
follow  in  their  posterity.  And  yet,  besides  this,  whereas  it  seemed  before  unjust  to  recompense 
there  is  no  less  provision  for  them  that  were  with  unkindness  their  pains  that  have  been 
once  labourers,  and  be  now  weak  and  impotent,  beneficial  to  the  public  weal,  now  they  have  to 
than  for  them  that  do  now  labour  and  take  35  this  their  wrong  and  imjust  dealing  (which  is 
pain.  Here  now  would  I  see  if  any  man  dare  be  yet  a  much  worse  point)  given  the  name  of 
so  bold  as  to  <iiompare  with  this  equity,  the  justice,  yea,  and  that  by  force  of  a  law.  There- 
justice  of  othe^i'  nations;  among  whom,  I  forsake  fore,  when  I  consider  and  weigh  in  my  mind  all 
God,  if  I  car  find  any  sign  or  token  of  equity  these  Commonwealths,  which  nowadays  any- 
and  justice  For  what  justice  is  this,  that  a  40  where  do  flourish,  so  God  help  me,  I  can  per- 
rich  goldsT*"'ith,  or  an  usurer,  or,  to  be  short,  ceive  nothing  but  a  certain  conspiracy  of  rich 
any  of  tb  *m  which  either  do  nothing  at  all,  or  men  procuring  their  own  commodities  under  the 
else  the^V  which  they  do  is  such  that  it  is  not  name  and  title  of  the  Commonwealth.  They 
very  r^/"pessary  to  the  commonwealth,  should  invent  and  devise  aU  means  and  crafts,  first  how 
have  V-.  pleasant  and  a  wealthy  living,  either  by  45  to  keep  safely,  without  fear  of  losing,  that  they 
idleness,  or  by  unnecessary  business;  when  in  have  imjustly  gathered  together,  and  next  how 
"^le  meantime  poor  labourers,  carters,  iron-  to  hire  and  abuse  the  work  and  labour  of  the 
smiths,  carpenters,  and  plowmen,  by  so  great  poor  for  as  little  money  as  may  be.  These 
and  continual  toil,  as  drawing  and  bearing  devices,  when  the  rich  men  have  decreed  (them) 
beasts  be  scant  able  to  sustain,  and  again  so  50  to  be  kept  and  observed  under  colour  of  the 
necessary  toil,  that  without  it  no  common-  commonalty,*  that  is  to  say,  also  of  the  poor 
wealth  were  able  to  continue  and  endure  one  people,  then  they  be  made  laws.  But  these 
year,  should  yet  get  so  hard  and  poor  a  living,  most  wicked  and  vicious  men,  when  they  have 
and  live  so  wretched  and  miserable  a  life,  that  by  their  unsatiable  covetessness  divided  among 
the  state  and  condition  of  the  labouring  beasts  55  themselves  all  those  things,  which  would  have 
naay  seem  much  better  and  wealthier?     For         s  Happy;  innocent;  simple. 

they   be  not  put  to   so   continual  labour,    nor  «  Suitable;  adequate.    (See  Cent.  Diet,  genteel.) 

their  living  is  not  much  worse,   yea  to  them  ^  gXr^h?''p"ret'e'nse  that  they  are  for  the  benefit  ol 

« Separate,  personal.  *  Niggardly  fashion.  the  common  people. 


128  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

sufficed  all  men,  yet  how  far  be  they  from  the  poverty  she  might  vex,  torment,  a»d  increase, 
wealth  and  felicity  of  the  Utopian  Common-  by  gorgeously  setting  forth  her  riches.  This 
wealth?  Out  of  the  which,  in  that  all  the  desire  hell  hound  creepeth  into  men's  hearts;  and 
of  money  with  the  use  thereof  is  utterly  se-  plucketh  them  back  from  entering  the  right 
eluded  and  banished,  how  great  a  heap  of  cares  5  path  of  life,  and  is  so  deeply  rooted  in  men's 
is  cut  away !  How  great  an  occasion  of  wicked-  breasts,  that  she  cannot  be  plucked  out. 
ness  and  mischief  is  plucked  up  by  the  roots!  This  form  and  fashion  of  a  weal  pubUc,  which 

For  who  knoweth  not,  that  fraud,  theft,  I  would  gladly  wish  unto  all  nations,  I  am  glad 
rapine,  brawling,  quarrelling,  brabbling,^  strife,  yet  that  it  hath  chanced  to  the  Utopians, 
chiding,  contention,  murder,  treason,  poison-  lo  which  have  followed  those  institutions  of  life, 
ing,  which  by  daily  punishments  are  rather  whereby  they  have  laid  such  foundations  of 
revenged  than  refrained,  do  die  when  money  their  Commonwealth,  as  shall  continue  and 
dieth?  And  also  that  fear,  grief,  care,  labours,  last  not  only  wealthily,  but  also  as  far  as  man's 
and  watchings  do  perish  even  the  very  same  wit  may  judge  and  conjecture,  shall  endure 
moment  that  money  perisheth?  Yea,  poverty  15  forever.  For,  seeing  the  chief  causes  of  ambi- 
itself,  which  only  seemed  to  lack  money,  if  tion  and  sedition  with  other  vices  be  plucked 
money  were  gone,  it  also  would  decrease  and  up  by  the  roots  and  abandoned  at  home,  there 
vanish  away.  And  that  you  may  perceive  this  can  be  no  jeopardy  of  domestical  dissension, 
more  plainly,  consider  with  yourselves  some  which  alone  hath  cast  under  foot  and  brought 
barren  and  unfruitful  year,  wherein  many  20  to  nought  the  well-fortified  and  strongly 
thousands  of  people  have  starved  for  hunger:  defenced  wealth  and  riches  of  many  cities. 
I  dare  be  bold  to  say,  that  in  the  end  of  that  But  forasmuch  as  perfect  concord  remaineth, 
penury  so  much  corn  or  grain  might  have  been  and  wholesome  laws  be  executed  at  home,  the 
found  in  the  rich  men's  barns,  if  they  had  been  envy  of  all  foreign  princes  be  not  able  to  shake 
searched,  as  being  divided  among  them  whom  25  or  move  the  Empire,  though  they  have  many 
famine  and  pestilence  then  consumed,  no  man  times  long  ago  gone  about  to  do  it,  being  ever- 
at  all  should  have  felt  that  plague  and  penury,      more  driven  back. 

So  easily  might  men  get  their  living,  if  that  Thus  when  RaphaeP'  had  made  an  end  of 

same  worthy  Princess,  Lady  Money,  did  not  his  tale,  though  many  things  came  to  my  mind, 
alone  stop  up  the  way  between  us  and  our  30  which  in  the  manners  and  laws  of  that  people 
living,  which,  a  God's  name,^°  was  very  ex-  seemed  to  be  instituted  and  founded  of  no  good 
cellently  devised  and  invented,  that  by  her  the  reason,  not  only  in  the  fashion  of  their  chivalry, 
way  thereto  should  be  opened.  I  am  sure  the  and  in  their  sacrifices  and  religions,  and  in  other 
rich  men  perceive  this,  nor  they  be  not  too  of  their  laws,  but  also,  yea,  and  chiefly,  in  that 
ignorant  how  much  better  it  were  to  lack  no  35  which  is  the  principal  foundation  of  all  their 
necessary  thing,  than  to  abound  with  over-  ordinances,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  community 
much  superfluity;  to  be  rid  out^^  of  innumerable  of  their  life  and  living,  without  any  occupying^* 
cares  and  troubles,  than  to  be  besieged  and  of  money,  by  the  which  things  only  are  nobility, 
encumbered  with  great  riches.  And  I  doubt  magnificence,  worship,  honour,  and  majesty, 
not  that  either  the  respect  of  every  man's  40  the  true  ornaments  and  honours,  as  the  com- 
private  commodity,  or  else  the  authority  of  our  mon  opinion  is,  of  a  Commonwealth,  utterly 
Saviour  Christ  (which  for  his  great  wisdom  be  overthrown  and  destroyed:  yet  because  I 
could  not  but  know  what  were  best,  and  for  his  knew  he  was  weary  of  talking,  and  was  not 
inestimable  goodness  could  not  but  counsel  to  sure  whether  he  could  abide  that  anything 
that  which  he  knew  to  be  best)  would  have  45  should  be  said  against  his  mind,  especially 
brought  all  the  world  long  ago  into  the  laws  of  remembering  that  he  had  reprehended  this 
this  weal  public,  if  it  were  not  that  one  only  fault  in  others,  which  be  afeard  lest  they 
beast,  the  princess  and  mother  of  all  mischief,  should  seem  not  to  be  wise  enough  unless  they 
Pride,  doth  withstand  and  let^^  {^  g^^  meas-  could  find  some  fault  in  other  men's  inventions; 
ureth  not  wealth  and  prosperity  by  her  own  50  therefore  I,  praising  both  their  institutions  and 
commodities,  but  by  the  miseries  and  incom-  his  communication,  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
modities  of  others;  she  would  not  by  her  good  led  him  in  to  supper;  saying  that  we  would 
will  be  made  a  goddess,  if  there  were  no  choose  another  time  to  weigh  and  examine  the 
wretches  left,  over  whom  she  might  like  a  same  matters,  and  to  talk  with  him  more  at 
scornful  lady  rule  and  triumph;  over  whose  55  large  therein.  Which  would  God  it  might  once 
miseries    her    feUcities    might    shine;    whose      come  to  pass.    In  the  mean  time,  as  I  cannot  \, 

9  Wrangling.  agree  and  conseut  to  all  things  that  he  Said, —   ' 

10  In  God's  name.    Ci.  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  I,  2,  195.         hpino-    pUp    wifhnnf    Hniiht    n    mart    «intrnl«rlv 

11  Delivered;  rescued.    Rid  out  of  =released  from.  "^^^^    ^^^^    WlUlOUt    QOUDt    a    man    smguiariy 

12  Prevent;  stop.    (See  Hamlet,  I,  4,  85.)  "  Raphael  Hythloday.  "  Holding;  iising. 


WILLIAM  ROPER  129 

well  learned,  and  also  in  all  worldly  matters  seen,  to  my  wife,  his  dearly  beloved  daughter, 
exactly  and  profoundly  experienced, — so  must  and  a  letter  written  with  a  coal,  contained  in 
I  needs  confess  and  grant  that  many  things  be  the  aforesaid  book  of  his  works,  plainly  ex- 
in  the  Utopian  weal  public,  which  in  our  cities  pressing  the  fervent  desire  he  had  to  suffer 
I  may  rather  wish  for  than  hope  after.  son  the  morrow,  in  these  words:  "I  cumber 

Thus  endeth  the  afternoon's  talk  of  Raphael  you,  good  Margaret,  much,  but  would  be  sorry 
Hythloday  concerning  the  laws  and  institu-  if  it  should  be  longer  than  tomorrow.  For 
tions  of  the  Island  of  Utopia.  tomorrow  is  St.  Thomas'  even,  and  the  Utas^  of 

St.  Peter,  and  therefore  tomorrow  I  long  to 

logo  to  God,  it  were  a  day  very  meet  and  con- 

'^tlUdiUt    l^Opft  venient  for  me.    Dear  Megg,  I  never  liked  your 

^^^'^^^  better  towards  me  than  when  you 

149d-1o75  kissed  me  last.     For  I  hke  when  daughterly 

_    „    ^,,-r.«^^,„-r^^-r     ^^    r.TT^     rw^TT^,  ,  .  o.      lovc  aud  dcar  charity  hath  no  leisure  to  look  to 

THE    EXECUTION    OF    SIR    THOMAS  ,5  worldly   courtesy."    And   so   upon   the   next 

MUKii.  morrow,  being  Tuesday,  St.  Thomas  his  even, 

(From  Life  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  first  printed,      J^^  ,*he  Utas  of  St.  Peter,  in  the  year  of  our 

IQ2Q)  Lord  1535,  accordmg  as  he  m  his  letter  the  day 

before  had  wished,  early  in  the  morning  came 
When  Sir  Thomas  More  came  from  West- 20  to  him  Sir  Thomas  Pope,  his  singular  good 
minster  to  the  Tower-ward^  again,  his  daughter,  friend,  on  message  from  the  King  and  his 
my  wife,  desirous  to  see  her  father,  whom  she  Council,  that  he  should  before  nine  of  the  clock 
thought  she^ would  never  see  in  this  world  after,  of  the  same  morning  suffer  death;  and  that 
and  also  to  have  his  final  blessing,  gave  attend-  therefore  he  should  forthwith  prepare  himself 
ance  about  the  Tower  Wharf,  where  she  knew  25  thereto.  "Master  Pope,"  saith  he,  "for  your 
he  should  pass  by,  before  he  could  enter  good  tidings  I  heartily  thank  you.  I  have  been 
into  the  Tower.  Where  tarrying  his  coming  as  always  much  bounden  to  the  King's  Highness 
soon  as  she  saw  him,  after  his  blessing  upon  for  the  benefits  and  honours  that  he  hath  still 
her  knees  reverently  received,  she,  hasting  from  time  to  time  most  bountifull  heaped  upon 
towards  him,  without  consideration  or  care  of  30  me,  and  yet  more  bounden  am  I  to  His  Grace 
herself,  pressing  in  amongst  the  midst  of  the  for  putting  me  into  this  place,  where  I  have  had 
throng  and  company  of  the  guard,  that  with  convenient  time  and  space  to  have  remem- 
halberds  and  bills  were  round  about  him,  brance  of  my  end.  And  so  help  me  God,  most 
hastily  ran  to  him,  and  there  openly  in  sight  of  of  all,  Master  Pope,  am  I  bounden  to  his 
them  all  embraced  him  and  took  him  about  the  35  Highness,  that  it  pleaseth  him  so  shortly  to 
neck  and  kissed  him.  Who  well  liking  her  most  rid  me  out  of  the  miseries  of  this  wretched 
natural  and  dear  daughterly  affection  towards  world,  and  therefore  will  I  not  fail  earnestly  to 
him,  gave  her  his  fatherly  blessing,  and  many  pray  for  his  Grace,  both  here,  and  also  in  the 
godly  words  of  comfort  besides.  From  whom  world  to  come."  "The  King's  pleasure  is 
after  she  was  departed,  she  not  satisfied  with  40  further,"  quoth  Master  Pope,  "that  at  your 
the  former  sight  of  her  dear  father,  and  like  execution  you  shall  not  use  many  words." 
one  that  had  forgotten  herself,  being  all  rav-  "Master  Pope"  quoth  he,  "you  do  well  to  give 
ished  with  the  entire  love  of  her  dear  father,  me  warning  of  his  Grace's  pleasure,  for  other- 
having  respect  neither  to  herself,  nor  to  the  wise,  at  that  time  had  I  purposed  somewhat 
press  of  people  and  multitude  that  were  about  45  to  have  spoken;  but  of  no  matter  wherewith  his 
him,  suddenly  turned  back  again,  and  ran  to  Grace  or  any  other  should  have  had  cause  to  be 
him  as  before,  took  him  about  the  neck,  and  offended.  Nevertheless,  whatsoever  I  had  in- 
divers  times  kissed  him  most  lovingly;  and  at  tended  I  am  ready  obediently  to  conform  my- 
last  with  a  full  heavy  heart,  was  fain  to  depart  self  to  his  Grace's  commandment;  and  I  be- 
from  him;  the  beholding  whereof  was  to  many  50  seech  you,  good  Master  Pope,  to  be  a  mean  to 
of  them  that  were  present  thereat  so  lamentable  his  Highness,  that  my  daughter  Margaret  may 
that  it  made  them  for  very  sorrow  thereof  to  be  at  my  burial."  "The  King  is  content  al- 
weep  and  mourn.  ready,"  quoth  Master  Pope,  "that  your  wife. 

So  remained  Sir  Thomas  More  in  the  Tower,  children,  and  other  friends  shall  have  liberty 
more  than  a  seven-night  after  his  judgment.  55  to  be  present  thereat."  "O  how  much  beholden 
From  whence  the  day  before  he  suffered,  he  then,"  said  Sir  Thomas  More,  "am  I  unto  his 
sent  his  shirt  of  hair,  not  willing  to  have  it      Grace,  that  unto  my  poor  burial  vouchsafeth 

1  More  had  been  tried  and  condemned  in  Westminster  *  The  eighth  day  after  St.  Peter's  day,  i.  e.,  the  6th  of 

Hall,  after  which  he  was  taken  back  to  the  Tower.  July. 


130  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

to  have  so  gracious  consideration!"  Where-  of  whose  doings  ourselves  have  had  these  many 
withal  Master  Pope  taking  his  leave  of  him,  years  no  small  experience,  we  would  rather  have 
could  not  refrain  from  weeping.  Which  Sir  lost  the  best  city  of  our  dominions,  than  have 
Thomas  More  perceiving,  comforted  him  in  lost  such  a  worthy  Counsellor."  Which  matter 
this  wise,  "Quiet  yourself,  good  Master  Pope,  5  was  by  the  same  Sir  Thomas  Eliott  to  myself, 
and  be  not  discomforted,  for  I  trust  that  we  to  my  wife,  to  Mr.  Clement  and  his  wife,  to 
shall  once  in  heaven  see  each  other  full  merrily,  Mr.  John  Heywood  and  his  wife,  and  unto 
where  we  shall  be  sure  to  live  and  love  together,  divers  others  his  friends  accordingly  reported, 
in  joyful  bliss  eternally."  Upon  whose  de- 
parture Sir  Thomas  More,  as  one  that  has  been  10 

invited  to  some  solemn  feast,  changed  himself  J&Uglj    flStlUt^t 

into  his  best  apparel.    Which  Master  Lieuten- 
ant espying,  advised  him  to  put  it  off,  saying,  ^-  1491-1555 
that  he  who  should  have  it  was  but  a  javill.' 

''What,  Master  Lieutenant?"  quoth  he,  "shaU  15  THE  PLOWERS 

I  account  him  a  javiU   that  shall  do  me  this      ^^rom  a  Sermon  preached  at  St.  Paul's,  18th 
day  so  singular  a  benefit?    Nay,  I  assure  you,  January   1548) 

were  it  cloth  of  gold,  I  should  think  it  well  ' 

bestowed  on  him,  as  St.  Cyprian  did,  who  gave  I  told  you  in  my  first  sermon,  honourable 

his  executioner  thirty  pieces  of  gold."  And  20  audience,  that  I  purposed  to  declare  unto  you 
albeit  at  length,  through  Master  Lieutenant's  two  things.  'The  one,  what  seed  should  be 
importunate  persuasion,  he  altered  his  apparel,  sown  in  God's  field,  in  God's  plough  land, 
yet,  after  the  example  of  the  holy  martyr  St.  And  the  other,  who  should  be  the  sowers. 
Cyprian,  did  he,  of  that  little  money  that  was  That  is  to  say,  what  doctrine  is  to  be  taught  in 
left  him,  send  an  angeP  of  gold  to  his  execu- 25  Christ's  church  and  congregation,  and  what 
tioner.  And  so  was  he  brought  by  Master  men  should  be  the  teachers  and  preachers  of 
Lieutenant  out  of  the  Tower,  and  from  thence  it.  The  first  part  I  have  told  you  in  the  three 
led  towards  the  place  of  execution.  Where,  sermons  past,  in  which  I  have  assayed  to  set 
going  up  the  scaffold,  which  was  so  weak  that  forth  my  plough,  to  prove  what  I  could  do. 
it  was  ready  to  fall,  he  said  merrily  to  theso  And  now  I  shall  tell  you  who  be  the  ploughers: 
Lieutenant,  "I  pray  you.  Master  Lieutenant,  for  God's  word  is  a  seed  to  be  sown  in  God's 
see  me  safe  up,  and  for  my  coming  down  let  field,  that  is,  the  faithful  congregation,  and  the 
me  shift  for  myself."  And  then  desired  he  all  preacher  is  the  sower.  And  it  is  in  the  gospel: 
the  people  thereabout  to  pray  for  him,  and  to  Exivit  qui  seminal  seminare  semen  suum:  "He 
bear  witness  with  him,  that  he  should  now  35  that  soweth,  the  husbandman,  the  ploughman, 
there  suffer  death  in  and  for  the  faith  of  the  went  forth  to  sow  his  seed."  So  that  a  preacher 
holy  Catholic  Church.  Which  done,  he  kneeled  is  resembled  to  a  ploughman,  as  it  is  in  another 
down,  and,  after  his  prayers  said,  turned  to  the  place:  Nemo  admota  arato  manu,  et  a  tergo 
executioner  with  a  cheerful  countenance,  and  respiciens,  aptus  est  regno  Dei.  "No  man  that 
said  unto  him,  "Pluck  up  thy  spirits,  man,  and  40putteth  his  hand  to  the  plough,  and  looketh 
be  not  afraid  to  do  thine  office:  my  neck  is  very  back,  is  apt  for  the  kingdom  of  God."  That  is 
short,  take  heed,  therefore,  thou  strike  not  to  say,  let  no  preacher  be  negligent  in  doing  his 
awry  for  saving  of  thine  honesty."  So  passed  office.  .  .  .  For  preaching  of  the  gospel  is  one 
Sir  Thomas  More  out  of  this  world  to  God,  of  God's  ploughworks,  and  the  preacher  is 
upon  the  very  same  day  which  he  most  desired.  45  one  of  God's  ploughmen.  Ye  may  not  be 
Soon  after  his  death  came  intelligence  thereof  offended  with  my  similitude,  in  that  I  compare 
to  the  Emperor  Charles.^  Whereupon  he  preaching  to  the  labour  and  work  of  ploughing, 
sent  for  Sir  Thomas  Eliott,  our  English  am-  and  the  preacher  to  a  ploughman.  Ye  may  not 
bassador,  and  said  to  him,  "My  Lord  ambas-  be  offended  with  this  my  similitude;  for  I  have 
sador,  we  understand  that  the  King,  your  50  been  slandered  of  some  persons  for  such 
master,  hath  put  his  faithful  servant  and  grave  things.  ...  A  prelate  is  that  man  whatsoever 
wise  counsellor.  Sir  Thomas  More,  to  death."  he  be,  that  hath  a  flock  to  be  taught  of  him; 
Whereupon  Sir  Thomas  Eliott  answered  that  whosoever  hath  any  spiritual  charge  in  the 
he  understood  nothing  thereof.  "Well,"  said  faithful  congregation,  and  whosoever  he  be  that 
the  Emperor,  "it  is  too  true:  and  this  will  we  55  hath  cure  of  souls.  .  .  .  And  how  few  of  them\, 
say,  that  had  we  been  master  of  such  a  servant,  there  be  throughout  this  realm  that  give  meat  r 
» A  low  worthless  fellow,  a  scoundrel.  to  their  flock  as  they  should  do,  the  visitors  can 

*  A  gold  coin  firet  struck  in  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  [5^3^  ^ell.    Too  few,  too  few;  the  more  is  the 

'Charles  I.,  King  of  Spam,  who  became  rloly  Uoman  .,  ,  .  '  ' 

Emperor  as  Charles  V.  in  1519,  pity,  and  never  SO  few  as  now. 


HUGH  LATIMER  131 

By  this,  then,  it  appeareth  that  a  prelate,  or  butterfly  gldrieth  not  ir  her  own  deeds,  nor 
any  that  hath  cure  of  souls,  must  diligently  and  preferreth  the  traditions  of  men  before  God's 
substantially  work  and  labour.  Therefore  word;  it  committeth  not  idolatry,  nor  wor- 
saith  Paul  to  Timothy,  Qui  episcopatum  shippeth  false  gods.  But  London  cannot  abide 
desiderat,  hie  bonum  opus  desiderat:  "He  that  5  to  be  rebulced;  such  is  the  nature  of  man.  If 
desireth  to  have  the  office  of  a  bishop,  or  a  they  be  pricked,  they  will  kick;  if  they  be 
prelate,  that  man  desireth  a  good  work."  Then  rubbed  on  the  gall,  they  will  wince;  but  yet  they 
if  it  be  a  good  work,  it  is  work:  ye  can  make  but  will  not  amend  their  faults,  they  will  not  be  ill 
a  work  of  it.  It  is  God's  work,  God's  plough,  spoken  of.  But  how  shall  I  speak  well  of  them? 
and  that  plough  God  would  have  still  going,  lo  If  you  could  be  content  to  receive  and  follow 
Such  then  as  loiter  and  hve  idly,  are  not  good  the  word  of  God,  and  favour  good  preachers,  if 
prelates,  or  ministers.  .  .  .  How  many  such  you  could  bear  to  be  told  of  your  faults,  if  you 
prelates,  how  many  such  bishops.  Lord,  for  could  amend  when  you  hear  of  them,  if  you 
thy  mercy,  are  there  now  in  England?  And  would  be  glad  to  reform  that  is  amiss;  if  I 
what  shall  we  in  this  case  do?  shaU  we  company  15  might  see  any  such  inclination  in  you,  that 
with  them?  O  Lord,  for  thy  mercy!  shall  we  leave  to  be  merciless,  and  begin  to  be  charitable, 
not  company  with  them?  O  Lord,  whither  I  would  then  hope  well  of  you.  But  London 
shall  we  flee  from  them?  But  "cursed  be  he  was  never  so  iU  as  it  is  now.  In  times  past 
that  doth  the  work  of  God  negligently  or  men  were  full  of  pity  and  compassion,  but  now 
guilefully."  A  sore  word  for  them  that  are  20  there  is  no  pity;  for  in  London  their  brother 
negligent  in  discharging  their  office,  or  have  shall  die  in  the  streets  for  cold,  he  shall  lie  sick 
done  it  fraudulently;  for  that  is  the  thing  that  at  the  door  between  stock  and  stock, ^  I  cannot 
maketh  the  people  ill.  tell  what  to  call  it,  and  perish  there  for  hunger; 

But  true  it  must  be  that  Christ  saith,  MuUi  was  there  any  more  unmercifulness  in  Nebo? 
sunt  vocati,  paud  vero  elecli:  "Many  are  called,  25 1  think  not.  In  times  past,  when  any  rich  man 
but  few  are  chosen,"  .  .  .  Now  what  shall  we  died  in  London,  they  were  wont  to  help  the 
say  of  these  rich  citizens  of  London?  What  poor  scholars  of  the  university  with  exhibition, 
shall  I  say  of  them?  Shall  I  call  them  proud  When  any  man  died,  they  would  bequeath 
men  of  London,  maUcious  men  of  London,  great  sums  of  money  toward  the  relief  of  the 
merciless  men  of  London?  No,  no,  I  may  not  30  poor.  When  I  was  a  scholar  in  Cambridge 
say  so;  they  will  be  offended  with  me  then,  myself ,  I  heard  very  good  report  of  London,  and 
Yet  must  I  speak.  For  is  there  not  reigning  in  knew  many  that  had  relief  of  the  rich  men  of 
London  as  much  pride,  as  much  covetousness,  London,  but  now  I  can  hear  no  such  good 
as  much  cruelty,  as  much  oppression,  as  much  report,  and  yet  I  enquire  of  it,  and  hearken  for 
superstition,  as  was  in  Nebo?i  Yes,  I  think,  35  it;  but  now  charity  is  waxen  cold,  none  helpeth 
and  much  more  too.    Therefore  I  say,  repent,      the  scholar,  nor  yet  the  poor.    And  in  those 

0  London;  repent,  repent.  Thou  hearest  thy  days,  what  did  they  when  they  helped  the 
faults  told  thee,  amend  them,  amend  them,      scholars?     Marry,  they  maintained  and  gave 

1  think  if  Nebo  had  had  the  preaching  that  them  livings  that  were  very  papists,  and  pro- 
thou  hast,  they  would  have  converted.  And,  40  fessed  the  pope's  doctrine;  and  now  that  the 
you  rulers  and  officers,  be  wise  and  circumspect,  knowledge  of  God's  word  is  brought  to  light, 
look  to  your  charge,  and  see  you  do  your  duties;  and  many  earnestly  study  and  labour  to  set  it 
and  rather  be  glad  to  amend  your  ill  living  than  forth,  now  almost  no  man  helpeth  to  maintain 
to  be  angry  when  you  are  warned  or  told  of      them. 

your  fault.  What  ado  was  there  made  in  45  Oh  London,  London!  repent,  repent;  for  I 
London  at  a  certain  man,  because  he  said  (and  think  God  is  more  displeased  with  London  than 
indeed  at  that  time  on  a  just  cause),  "Bur-  ever  He  was  with  the  city  of  Nebo.  Repent 
gesses!"  quoth  he,  "nay.  Butterflies."  Lord,  therefore,  repent,  London,  and  remember  that 
what  ado  there  was  for  that  word!  And  yet  the  same  God  liveth  now  that  punished  Nebo, 
would  God  they  were  no  worse  than  butter-50even  the  same  God,  and  none  other;  and  He  will 
flies!  Butterflies  do  but  their  nature:  the  punish  sin  as  well  now  as  He  did  then:  and  He 
butterfly  is  not  covetous,  is  not  greedy  of  other  will  punish  the  iniquity  of  London,  as  well  as  He 
men's  goods;  is  not  full  of  envy  and  hatred,  is  did  then  of  Nebo.  Amend  therefore.  And  ye 
not  malicious,  is  not  cruel,  is  not  merciless.  The  that  be  prelates,  look  well  to  your  office:  for 
1 1  city  on  the  east  side  of  the  Jordan,  which  was  55  right  prelating,  is  busy  labouring,  and  not 
taken  from  the  Israelites  by  the  Moabites.    Latimer      lording.      Therefore   preach   and    teach,    and 

says  m  a  foregomg  passage:     Among  (the  cities  of  Moab)  ,  ^       ,         ,    ,        ,    •  -cr     ,       ,      t  j^-i     i. 

there  was  one  called  Nebo,  which  was  much  reproved  for  let  yOUr  plough  be  domg.     Ye  lordS,  i  Say,  that 

idolatry,   superstition,   pride,   avarice,   cruelty,   tyranny  jj^g    yj^g    loiterers,    look    well    to    yOUr    office: 

and  for  hardness  of  heart;  and  for  these  sins  was  plagued  ^    ^    "^   ^    ^^     ^^  ^     ,  j 

of  God  and  destroyed."  2  Post  and  post. 


132    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

the  plough  is  your  office  and  charge.  If  you  live  body,  so  must  we  also  have  the  other  for  the 
idle  and  loiter,  you  do  not  your  duty,  you  satisfaction  of  the  soul,  or  else  we  cannot  live 
follow  not  your  vocation:  let  your  plough  there-  long  ghostly.*  For  as  the  body  wasteth  and 
fore  be  going,  and  not  cease,  that  the  ground  consumeth  away  for  lack  of  bodily  meat,  so 
may  bring  forth  fruit.  5  doth  the  soul  pine  away  for  default  of  ghostly 

But  now  methinketh  I  hear  one  say  unto  me:  meat.  But  there  be  two  kinds  of  inclosing, 
Wot  ye  what  you  say?  Is  it  a  work?  Is  it  a  to  let  or  hinder  both  these  kinds  of  ploughing; 
labour?  How  then  hath  it  happened  that  we  the  one  is  an  inclosing  to  let  or  hinder  the 
have  had  so  many  hundred  years  so  many  bodily  ploughing,  and  the  other  to  let  or  hinder 
unpreaching  prelates,  lording  loiterers,  and  idle  10  the  holiday-ploughing,  the  church  plough- 
ministers?  Ye  would  have  me  here  to  make  ing.  .  .  .  And  as  diligently  as  the  husbandman 
answer,  and  to  shew  the  cause  thereof.  Nay,  plougheth  for  the  sustentation  of  the  body,  so 
this  land  is  not  for  me  to  plough;  it  is  too  diligently  must  the  prelates  and  ministers 
stony,  too  thorny,  too  hard  for  me  to  plough,  labour  for  the  feeding  of  the  soul:  both  the 
They  have  so  many  things  that  make  for  them,  15  ploughs  must  still  be  going,  as  most  necessary 
many  things  to  lay  for  themselves,  that  it  is  for  man.  And  wherefore  are  magistrates  or- 
not  for  my  weak  team  to  plough  them.  They  dained,  but  that  the  tranquility  of  the  corn- 
have  to  lay  for  themselves  long  customs,  monweal  may  be  confirmed,  limiting  both 
ceremonies  and  authority,  placing  in  parlia-      ploughs. 

ment,  and  many  things  more.  And  I  fear  me  20  But  now  for  the  default  of  unpreaching 
this  land  is  not  yet  ripe  to  be  ploughed :  for,  prelates,  methinks  I  could  guess  what  might  be 
as  the  saying  is,  it  lacketh  weathering :3  this  said  for  excusing  of  them.  They  are  so  troubled 
gear  lacketh  weathering;  at  least  way  it  is  not  with  lordly  living,  they  be  so  placed  in  palaces, 
for  me  to  plough.  For  what  shaU  I  look  for  couched  in  courts,  ruffling  in  their  rents,* 
among  thorns,  but  pricking  and  scratching?  25  dancing  in  their  dominions,  burdened  with 
What  among  stones,  but  stumbling?  What  embassages,  pampering  of  their  paunches,  like  a 
(I  had  almost  said)  among  serpents,  but  sting-  monk  that  maketh  his  jubilee;  munching  in 
ing?  But  this  much  I  dare  say,  that  since  their  mangers,  and  moiling  in  their  gay  manors 
lording  and  loitering  hath  come  up,  preaching  and  mansions,  and  so  troubled  with  loitering 
hath  come  down,  contrary  to  the  apostles'  30  in  their  lordships,  that  they  cannot  attend  it. 
times:  for  they  preached  and  lorded  not,  and  They  are  otherwise  occupied,  some  in  the  king's 
now  they  lord  and  preach  not.  For  they  that  matters,  some  are  ambassadors,  some  of  the 
be  lords  will  ill  go  to  plough:  it  is  no  meet  privy  council,  some  to  furnish  the  court, 
office  for  them;  it  is  not  seeming  for  their  state,  some  are  Lords  of  the  Parliament,  some 
Thus  came  up  lording  loiterers:  thus  crept  in  35  are  presidents,  and  some  comptrollers  of 
unpreaching  prelates;  and  so  have  they  long      mints.  .  .  . 

continued.  For  how  many  unlearned  prelates  And  now  I  would  ask  a  strange  question: 
have  we  now  at  this  day?  And  no  marvel:  for  who  is  the  most  diligent  bishop  and  prelate  in 
if  the  ploughmen  that  now  be  were  made  all  England,  that  passeth  all  the  rest  in  doing 
lords,  they  would  clean  give  over  ploughing;  40  his  office?  I  can  tell,  for  I  know  him,  who  it  is: 
they  would  leave  off  their  labour,  and  fall  to  I  know  him  well.  But  now  I  think  I  see  you 
lording  outright,  and  let  the  plough  stand:  and  listening  and  hearkening  that  I  should  name 
then  both  ploughs  not  walking,  nothing  should  him.  There  is  one  that  passeth  all  the  other, 
be  in  the  commonweal  but  hunger.  For  ever  and  is  the  most  diligent  prelate  and  preacher  in 
since  the  prelates  were  made  lords  and  nobles,  45  all  England.  And  will  ye  know  who  it  is? 
the  plough  standeth,  there  is  no  work  done,  I  will  tell  you:  it  is  the  Devil.  He  is  the  most 
the  people  starve.  They  hawk,  they  hunt,  they  diligent  preacher  of  all  other;  he  is  never  out 
card,  they  dice;  they  pastime  in  their  prelacies  of  his  diocese;  he  is  never  from  his  cure;  ye 
with  gallant  gentlemen,  with  their  dancing  shall  never  find  him  unoccupied;  he  is  ever  in 
minions,  and  with  their  fresh  companions,  so  50  his  parish;  he  keepeth  residence  at  all  times; 
that  ploughing  is  set  aside:  and  by  the  lording  ye  shall  never  find  him  out  of  the  way,  call  for 
and  loitering,  preaching  and  ploughing  is  clean  him  when  you  will  he  is  ever  at  home;  the 
gone.  And  thus  if  the  ploughmen  of  the  diligentest  preacher  in  all  the  realm;  he  is  ever 
country  were  as  negligent  in  their  office  as  at  his  plough:  no  lording  nor  loitering ,  can 
prelates  be,  we  should  not  long  live,  for  lack  of  55  hinder  him;  he  is  ever  applying  his  business,\ 
sustenance.  And  as  it  is  necessary  for  to  have  ye  shall  never  find  him  idle,  I  warrant  you.  ... 
this   ploughing   for   the   sustentation   of   the 

*  Spiritually, 

*  Putting  on  airs,  or  swaggering,  because  of  their  riches 
»  Exposure  to  the  air  for  drying  purposes.                    or  rents. 


ROGER  ASCHAM  133 

Oh  that  our  prelates  would  be  as  diligent  to  Mogft   ^0Cl)3nt 

sow  the  corn  of  good  doctrine,  as  Satan  is  to 

sow  cockle  and  darnel!  .  .  .  1515-1568 

but  the  devil  is  diligent  at  his  plough.    He  is  no  ^^^   13UUK 

unpreaching  prelate:  he  is  no  lordly  loiterer  (prom  the  Preface  to  The  Schoolmaster,  pub. 
from  his  cure,^  but  a  busy  ploughman;  so  that  1570) 

among  all  the  prelates,  and  among  all  the  pack 

of  them  that  have  cure,  the  devil  shall  go  for  10  Yet  some  men,  friendly  enough  of  nature, 
my  money ,^  for  he  still  applieth  his  business,  but  of  small  judgment  in  learning,  do  think  I 
Therefore  ye  unpreaching  prelates,  learn  of  the  take  too  much  pains  and  spend  too  much  time 
devil:  to  be  diligent  in  doing  of  your  office,  in  setting  forth  these  children's  affairs.  But 
learn  of  the  devil:  and  if  you  will  not  learn  of  those  good  men  were  never  brought  up  in 
God  nor  of  good  men  for  shame  learn  of  the  15  Socrates'  school,  who  saith  plainly,  that  no 
devil.  Howbeit  there  is  now  very  good  hope  man  goeth  about  a  more  goodly  purpose,  than 
that  the  king's  majesty,  being  by  the  help  of  he  that  is  mindful  of  the  good  bringing  up  both 
good  governance  of  his  most  honourable  of  his  own  and  other  men's  children, 
counsellors,  he  is  trained  and  brought  up  in  Therefore,  I  trust,  good  and  wise  men  will 

learning,  and  knowledge  of  God's  word,  will  20  think  well  of  this  my  doing.  And  of  other, 
shortly  provide  a  remedy,  and  set  an  order  that  think  otherwise,  I  will  think  myself,  they 
herein;  which  thing  that  it  may  so  be,  let  us  are  but  men  to  be  pardoned  for  their  folly  and 
pray  for  him.  Pray  for  him,  good  people:  pitied  for  their  ignorance, 
pray  for  him.  Ye  have  great  cause  and  need  to  In  writing  this  book,  I  have  had  earnest 
pray  for  him.  25  respect  to  three  special  points,  truth  of  religion, 

honesty  in  Uving,  right  order  in  learning.    In 

which  three  ways,  I  pray  God,  my  poor  children 

may  diligently  walk;  for  whose  sake,  as  nature 

DESCRIPTION  OF  HIS  FATHER  would  and  reason  required  and  necessity  also 

30  somewhat  comf>elled,  I  was  the  willinger  to 
(From   First   Sermon   preached   before   King      take  these  pains, 

Edward  Vlth,  March  8th,  1549)  For,  seeing  at  my  death  I  am  not  like  to 

leave  them  any  great  store  of  living,  therefore 
My  Father  was  a  yeoman,  and  had  no  lands  in  my  lifetime  I  thought  good  to  bequeath  unto 
of  his  own,  only  he  had  a  farm  of  three  or  four  35  them  in  this  little  book,  as  in  my  Will  and 
pounds  by  year  at  the  uttermost,  and  hereupon  Testament,  the  right  way  to  good  learning: 
he  tilled  so  much  as  kept  half  a  dozen  men.  which  if  they  follow  with  the  fear  of  God,  they 
He  had  walk^  for  a  hundred  sheep;  and  my  shall  very  well  come  to  sufficiency  of  living, 
mother  milked  thirty  kine.    He  was  able  and  I  wish  also,  with  all  my  heart,  that  young 

did  find  the  king  a  harness,  with  himself  and  40  Mr.  Rob.  Sackville^  may  take  that  fruit  of  this 
his  horse,  while  he  came  to  the  place  that  he  labour,  that  his  worthy  grandfather  purposed 
should  receive  the  king's  wages.  I  can  remem-  he  should  have  done;  and  if  any  other  do  take 
ber  that  I  buckled  his  harness  when  he  went  either  profit  or  pleasure  hereby,  they  have 
unto  Blackheath  field.  He  kept  me  to  school,  cause  to  thank  Mr.  Robert  Sackville,  for  whom 
or  else  I  had  not  been  able  to  have  preached  45  specially  this  my  Schoolmaster  was  provided, 
before  the  king's  majesty  now.   He  married  my 

sisters   with  five    pounds,    or   twenty   nobles  rpTri^  rpT.  AiMTMr  nw  PTTTT  r»PT?M 

apiece;  so  that  he  brought  them  up  in  godliness  ^HE  TRAINING  OF  CHILDREN 

and  fear  of  God.     He  kept  hospitality  for  his  (From  the  same) 

poor  neighbors,  and  some  alms  he  gave  to  the  50 

poor.     And  all  this  did  he  of  the  said  farm,  Yet,  some  will  say,  that  children  of  nature^ 

where  he  that  now  hath  it  payeth  sixteen  love  pastime,  and  mislike  learning:  because,  in 
pounds  by  year,  or  more,  and  is  not  able  to  do  their  kind,  the  one  is  easy  and  pleasant,  the 
anything  for  his  prince,  for  himself,  nor  for  other  hard  and  wearisome,  which  is  an  opinion 
his  children,  or  give  a  cup  of  drink  to  the  55  not  so  true  as  some  men  ween:  for,  the  matter 
poor.  lieth  not  so  much  in  the  disposition  of  them 

I  Second  Earl  of  Dorset  (1561-1609),  whose  education 
6  Parish.  was  entrusted  to  Ascham  by  his  grandjfather,  Sir  Richard 

^  i.  e.  1 11  stake  my  money  on  the  devil.  Sackville. 

1 A  sheep-walk  in  a  pasture.  i  Naturally. 

/ 


134  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

that  be  young,  as  in  the  order  and  manner  of  allured  from  innoeency,  delighted  -in  vain 
bringing  up,  by  them  that  be  old,  nor  yet  in  sights,  filled  with  foul  talk,  crooked  with 
the  difference  of  learning  and  pastime.  For,  wilfulness,  hardened  with  stubbornness,  and 
beat  a  child,  if  he  dance  not  well,  and  cherish  let  loose  to  disobedience,  surely  it  is  hard  with 
him  though  he  learn  not  well,  ye  shall  have  him  5  gentleness,  but  unpossible  with  severe  cruelty, 
unwilling  to  go  to  dance,  and  glad  to  go  to  his  to  call  them  back  to  good  frame  again.  For, 
book.  Knock  him  always,  when  he  draweth  where  the  one  perchance  may  bend  it,  the  other; 
his  shaft^  ill,  and  favour  him  again,  though  he  shall  surely  break  it;  and  so  instead  of  some' 
fault  at  his  book,  ye  shall  have  him  very  loth  to  hope,  leave  an  assured  desperation,  and  shame- 
be  in  the  field,  and  very  willing  to  be  in  the  10  less  contempt  of  all  goodness,  the  farthest 
school.  Yea,  I  say  more,  and  not  of  myself,  point  in  all  mischief,  as  Xenophon  doth  most 
but  by  the  judgment  of  those,  from  whom  few  truely  and  most  wittily  mark, 
wise  men  will  gladly  dissent,  that  if  ever  the  Therefore,  to  love  or  to  hate,  to  like  or  con- 
nature  of  man  be  given  at  any  time,  more  than  temn,  to  ply  this  way  or  that  way  to  good  or  to 
other,  to  receive  goodness,  it  is  in  innoeency  of  15  bad,  ye  shall  have  as  ye  use  a  child  in  his  youth, 
young  years,  before  that  experience  of  evil  have  And  one  example,  whether  love  or  fear  doth 
taken  root  in  him.  For,  the  pure  clean  wit  of  a  work  more  in  a  child,  for  virtue  and  learning,  I 
sweet  young  babe  is  like  the  newest  wax,  most  will  gladly  report :  which  may  be  heard  with 
able  to  receive  the  best  and  fairest  printing:  some  pleasure,  and  followed  with  more  profit, 
and  like  a  new  bright  silver  dish  never  occupied,  20  Before  I  went  into  Germany,  I  came  to  Brode- 
to  receive  and  keep  clean  any  good  thing  that  gate  in  Leicestershire,  to  take  my  leave  of  that 
is  put  into  it.  noble  Lady  Jane  Grey,*  to  whom  I  was  exceed- 

And  thus,  will  in  children,  wisely  wrought  ing  much  beholden.  Her  parents,  the  Duke  and 
withal,  may  easily  be  won  to  be  very  well  Duchess,  with  all  the  household.  Gentlemen 
willing  to  learn.  And  wit  in  children,  by  25  and  Gentlewomen,  were  hunting  in  the  Park: 
nature,  namely  memory,  the  only  key  and  I  found  her,  in  her  chamber,  reading  Phcedon 
keeper  of  all  learning,  is  readiest  to  receive,  Platonis^  in  Greek,  and  that  with  as  much 
and  surest  to  keep  any  manner  of  thing,  that  is  delight,  as  some  gentlemen  would  read  a  merry 
learned  in  youth:  this,  lewd^  and  learned,  by  tale  in  Bocace.^  After  salutation,  and  duty 
common  experience,  know  to  be  most  true.  30  done,  with  some  other  talk,  I  asked  her  why  she 
For  we  remember  nothing  so  well  when  we  be  would  lose  such  pastime  in  the  Park?  Smiling 
old,  as  those  things  which  we  learned  when  we  she  answered  me:  I  wisse,'^  all  their  sport  in  the 
were  young:  and  this  is  not  strange,  but  com-  Park  is  but  a  shadow  to  that  pleasure,  that  I 
mon  in  all  nature's  works.  Every  man  sees  find  in  Plato:  Alas  good  folk,  they  never  felt 
(as  I  said  before)  new  wax  is  best  for  printing:  35  what  true  pleasure  meant.  And  how  came  you 
new  clay,  fittest  for  working:  new  shorn  wool,  Madame,  quoth  I,  to  this  deep  knowledge  of 
aptest  for  soon  and  surest  dying:  new  fresh  pleasure,  and  what  did  chiefly  allure  you  unto 
flesh,  for  good  and  durable  salting.  And  this  it:  seeing,  not  many  women,  but  very  few 
similitude  is  not  rude,  nor  borrowed  of  the  men  have  attained  thereunto?  I  will  tell  you, 
larder  house,  but  out  of  his  schoolhouse,  of  40  quoth  she,  and  tell  you  a  truth,  which  per- 
whom  the  wisest  of  England  need  not  be  chance  ye  will  marvel  at.  One  of  the  greatest 
ashamed  to  learn.  Young  grafts  grow  not  only  benefits,  that  ever  God  gave  me,  is  that  he 
soonest,  but  also  fairest,  and  bring  always  forth  sent  me  so  sharp  and  severe  parents,  and  so 
the  best  and  sweetest  fruit:  young  whelps  learn  gentle  a  schoolmaster.  For  when  I  am  in 
easily  to  carry:  young  poppin jays  learn  quickly  45  presence  either  of  father  or  mother,  whether 
to  speak:  and  so,  to  be  short,  if  in  all  other  I  speak,  keep  silence,  sit,  stand,  or  go,  eat, 
things,  though  they  lack  reason,  sense,  and  drink,  be  merry,  or  sad,  be  sewing,  playing, 
life,  the  similitude  of  youth  is  fittest  to  all  dancing,  or  doing  anything  else,  I  must  do  it,  as 
goodness,  surely  nature,  in  mankind,  is  most  it  were,  in  such  weight,  measure,  and  number, 
beneficial  and  effectual  in  this  behalf .  50  even  so  perfectly  as  God  made  the  world,  or 

Therefore,  if  to  the  goodness  of  nature  be  else  I  am  so  sharply  taunted,  so  cruelly  threat- 
joined  the  wisdom  of  the  teacher,  in  leading  ened,  yea  presently  sometimes  with  pinches, 
young  wits  into  a  right  and  plain  way  of  nips,  and  bobs,  and  other  ways,  which  I  will  not 
learning,  surely,  children,  kept  up  in  God's  name,  for  the  honour  I  bear  them,  so  without 
fear,  and  governed  by  His  grace,  may  most  55  measure  misordered,  that  I  think  myself  in  \ 
easily  be  brought  well  to  serve  God  and  country         .x  j    t      n      r    mo-r  ikka\        *        j  j      u. 

1     , ,   ,         •  .             J      •    1  *  Lady  Jane  Grey  (e.  1537-1554),  great  grand-daughter 

both  by  virtue  and  wisdom.  of  Henry  VITth  was  made  queen  at  17,  by  ambitious 

But  if  will  and  wit,  by  farther  age,  be  once  ^"^  self-seeking  men.     She  reigned  for  nine  days  and 

'      "^                       °  '  was  then  beheaded  m  the  tower. 

2  Arrow.                                                       3  Unlearned.  &  The  Phosdo  of  Plato.          6  Boccaccio.         ^  Indeed. 


JOHN  FOXE  135 

hell,  till  time  come,  that  I  must  go  to  M.  Elmer, ^  honoured:  because  time  was,  when  Italy  and 
who  teacheth  me  so  gently,  so  pleasantly,  with  Rome  have  been,  to  the  great  good  of  us  that 
such  fair  allurements  to  learning,  that  I  think  now  live,  the  best  breeders  and  bringers  up  of 
all  the  time  nothing,  whiles  1  am  with  him.  the  worthiest  men,  not  only  for  wise  speaking 
And  when  I  am  called  from  him,  I  fall  on  5  but  also  for  well  doing,  in  all  Civil  affairs,  that 
weeping,  because,  whatsoever  I  do  else  but  ever  was  in  the  world.  But  now,  that  the  time 
learning,  is  full  of  grief,  trouble,  fear,  and  is  gone,  and  though  the  place  remain,  yet  the 
whole  niisliking  unto  me:  and  thus  my  book  old  and  present  manners  do  differ  as  far,  as 
hath  been  so  much  my  pleasure,  and  bringeth  black  and  white,  as  virtue  and  vice.  Virtue 
daily  to  me  more  pleasure  and  more,  that  in  10  once  made  that  country  mistress  over  all  the 
respect  of  it,  all  other  pleasures,  in  very  deed,  be  world.  Vice  now  maketh  that  country  slave  to 
but  trifles  and  troubles  unto  me.  I  remember  them  that  before  were  glad  to  serve  it.  All 
this  talk  gladly,  both  because  it  is  so  worthy  of  men  seeth  it:  they  themselves  confess  it, 
memory,  and  because  also,  it  was  the  last  talk  namely  such  as  be  best  and  wisest  amongst 
that  ever  1  had,  and  the  last  time  that  ever  1 15  them.  For  sin,  by  lust  and  vanity,  hath  and 
saw  that  noble  and  worthy  Lady.  doth  breed  up  everywhere  common  contempt 

of  God's  word,  private  contention  in  many 

TTTF  FVTT  FNrTTANTMFNT  HV  TTATV  ^^"^^^^^S'  ^P^^  factions  in  every  city:  and  so, 
IHE  EVIL  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ITALY      making  themselves  bond  to  vanity  and  vice  at 

(From  the  same)  ^^  home,  they  are  content  to  bear  the  yoke  of 

serving  strangers  abroad.     Italy  now,  is  not 
Sir  Richard  Sackville,^  that  worthy  gentle-      that  Italy  that  it  was  wont  to  be  and  therefore 

,  man  of  worthy  memory,  as  I  said  in  the  begin-  now  not  so  fit  a  place,  as  some  do  count  it,  for 
ning,  in  the  Queen's  privy  Chamber  at  Windsor,  young  men  to  fetch  either  wisdom  or  honesty 
after  he  had  talked  with  me  for  the  right  choice  25  from  thence.  For  surely  they  will  make  other 
'  of  a  good  wit  in  a  child  for  learning,  and  of  the  but  bad  scholars,  that  be  so  ill  masters  to  them- 
true  difference  betwixt  quick  and  hard  wits,  of  selves.  Yet,  if  a  gentleman  will  needs  travel 
alluring  young  children  by  gentleness  to  love      into  Italy,  he  shall  do  well  to  look  on  the  life 

^  learning,  and  of  the  special  care  that  was  to  be  of  the  wisest  traveller  that  ever  travelled  thither, 
had  to  keep  young  men  from  licentious  living,  30  set  out  by  the  wisest  writer  that  ever  spake  with 
he  was  most  earnest  with  me  to  have  me  say  tongue,  God's  doctrine  only  excepted:  and  that 
my  mind  also,  what  I  thought  concerning  the  is  Ulysses  in  Homer.  Ulysses  and  his  travel  I 
fancy  that  many  young  gentlemen  of  England  wish  our  travelers  to  look  upon,  not  so  much  to 
liave  to  travel  abroad,  and  namely  to  lead  a  fear  them  with  the  great  dangers  that  he  many 
long  life  in  Italy.  His  request,  both  for  his  35  times  suffered,  as  to  instruct  them  with  his 
authority  and  good  will  toward  me,   was  a      excellent  wisdom  which  he  always  and  every- 

'  sufficient  commandment  unto  me  to  satisfy  his  where  used.  Yea  even  those  that  be  learned 
pleasure  with  uttering  plainly  my  opinion  in  and  witty  travellers,  when  they  be  disposed  to 
that  matter.  Sir,  quoth  I,  I  take  going  thither  praise  travelling,  as  a  great  commendation 
and  living  there,  for  a  young  gentleman,  that  40  and  the  best  Scripture  they  have  for  it,  they 
doth  not  go  under  the  keep  and  guard  of  such  a      gladly  recite  the  third  verse  of  Homer  in  his 

I   man  as  both  by  wisdom  can  and  authority  dare      first  book  of  Odyssey,  containing  a  great  praise 

i   rule  him,  to  be  marvelous  dangerous.     And      of  Ulysses  for  the  wit  he  gathered  and  wisdom 
why  I  said  so  then,  I  will  declare  at  large  now,      he  used  in  travelling, 
which  I  said  then  privately  and  write  now  45 
openly,  not  because  I  do  contemn,  either  the 

knowledge  of  strange  and  diverse  tongues,  and  3i0l)n    JfO]l^^ 

namely  the  Italian  tongue,   which   next  the  ^ 

Greek  and  Latin  tongue  I  like  and  love  above  lolo-1587 

all  other:  or  else  because  I  do  despise  the  learn-  50  .  ^^^  ^ ,  ^-.tt,  ^-o-nTT-t 

ing  that  is  gotten,  or  the  experience  that  is  THE  EXECUTION  OF  LADY  JANE  GREYi 
gathered  in  strange  countries :  or  for  any  private  .^^^^  ^^^^    .  Martyrs,  1563) 

malice  that  I  bear  to  Italy:  which  country 
and  in  it  namely  Rome,  I  have  always  specially  When  she  first  mounted  the  scaffold,  she 

.T  u     *  .        ,,.o.  ,^n.N  .  .     .    T  J    T       55  spake  to  the  spectators  in  this  manner:  Good 

^^^John  Aylmer  (1521-1594).  was  a  tutor  to  Lady  Jane       ^^^^^^^  ^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^.^^  ^^^  ^^  ^  j^^ 

1  Under  treasurer  of  the  Exchequer,  and  who  occupied       I     am     condemned    tO    the    same.       The    fact 

many  high  places,  was  a  most  influential  man  of  his  time,      against  the  Quecn's  highness  was  unlawful,  and 

It  was  he  who  encouraged  Ascham  to  write  The  School-       "■fe"!^"^^"  ^"^^^  H"^  t>  ' 

master.  ^  See  p.  134,  note  4. 


136    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


the  consenting  thereunto  by  me:  but,  touching 
the  procurement  and  desire  thereof  by  me,  or 
on  my  behalf,  I  do  wash  my  hands  thereof  in 
innocency  before  God,  and  the  face  of  you, 
good  christian  people,  this  day:  and  therewith 
she  wrung  her  hands,  wherein  she  had  her 
book.  .Then  she  said,  I  pray  you  all,  good 
christian  people,  to  bear  me  witness  that  I  die  a 
good  christian  woman,  and  that  I  do  look  to  be 


day  the  Lord  Guildford,^  her  husband,  one  of 
the  Duke  of  Northumberland's  sons,  was  like- 
wise beheaded,  two  innocents  in  comparison 
of  them  that  sat  upon  them.  For  they  were 
5  both  very  young,  and  ignorantly  accepted  that 
which  others  had  contrived,  and  by  open  proc- 
lamation consented  to  take  from  others,  and 
give  to  them. 

Touching  the  condemnation  of  this  pious 


saved  by  no  other  means,  but  only  by  the  10  lady,  it  is  to  be  noted,  that  Judge  Morgan^  who 
mercy  of  God  in  the  blood  of  his  only  Son  gave  sentence  against  her,  soon  after  he  had 
Jesus  Christ:  and  I  confess,  that  when  I  did  condemned  her,  fell  mad,  and  in  his  raving 
know  the  word  of  God,  I  neglected  the  same,  cried  out  continually,  to  have  the  lady  Jane 
loved  myself  and  the  world,  and  therefore  this  taken  away  from  him,  and  so  he  ended  his  life, 
plague  and  punishment  is  happily  and  worthily  15 
happened  unto  me  for  my  sins:  and  yet  I 
thank  God,  that  of  his  goodness  he  hath  thus 
given  me  a  time  and  a  respite  to  repent:  and 
now,  good  people,  while  I  am  alive,  I  pray  you 
assist  me  with  your  prayers.  And  then,  20 
kneeling  down,  she  turned  to  Feckenham,^ 
saying,  Shall  I  say  this  psalm?  and  he  said.  Yea. 
Then  she  said  the  Psalm  of  Miserere  mei 
Deus,'  in  English,  in  a  most  devout  manner 
throughout  to  the  end;  and  then  she  stood  up,  25 
and  gave  to  her  maid,  Mrs.  Ellen,  her  gloves 
and  handkerchief,  and  her  book  to  Mr.  Bruges; 
and  then  she  untied  her  gown,  and  the  execu- 
tioner pressed  upon  her  to  help  her  off  with  it: 
but  she,  desiring  him  to  let  her  alone,  turned  so 
toward  her  two  gentlewomen,  who  helped  her 
off  therewith,  and  also  with  her  frowcs,^  paste, ^ 
and  neckerchief,  giving  to  her  a  fair  handker- 
chief to  put  about  her  eyes. 

Then   the  executioner  kneeled  down,   and  35 
asked  her  forgiveness,  whom  she  forgave  most 
willingly.    Then  he  desired  her  to  stand  upon 
the  straw;  which  doing,  she  saw  the  block. 
Then  she  said,  I  pray  you  despatch  me  quickly. 
Then  she  kneeled  down,  saying.  Will  you  take  it  40 
off  before  I  lay  me  down?    And  the  executioner 
said,  No,  madam.    Then  she  tied  the  handker- 
chief about  her  eyes,  and  feeling  for  the  block, 
she  said.  What  shall  I  do?    Where  is  it?    Where 
is  it?     One  of  the  standers-by  guiding  her  45 
thereunto,  she  laid  her  head  down  upon  the 
block,  and  then  stretched  forth  her  body,  and 
said.   Lord,  into  thy  hands  I  commend  my 
spirit:  and  so  finished  her  life,  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord  1554,  the  12th  day  of  February,  about  50 
the  seventeenth  year  of  her  age. 


THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH 

c.  1579-1637 

CDmunti  ^pmutt 

1552-1599 

THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 

(1590) 

BOOK  I 


Lo!  I,  the  mani  whose  Muse  whylome  did 

maske. 
As   time  her  taught,   in  lowly  Shephards 

weeds. 
Am  now  enforst,  a  farre  unfitter  taske. 
For  trumpets  sterne  to  chaunge  mine  oaten 

reeds. 
And  sing  of  knights  and  ladies  gentle  deeds;  5 
Whose  praises  having  slept  in  silence  long. 
Me,  all  too  meane,  the  sacred  Muse  areeds^ 
To    blazon    broade    emongst    her    learned 

throng:  ,  ^         . 

Fierce  warres  and  faithfull  loves  shall  moralize 

my  song. 


Thus  died  the  Lady  Jane:  and  on  the  same 

*  John  of  Feckenham  (15187-1585),  private  Chaplain 
and  Confessor  to  Queen  Mary.  He  was  sent  to  Lady 
Jane  Grey  before  her  execution,  to  attempt  her  conver- 
sion to  the  Romish  faith.  He  acknowledged  he  felt  him- 
self htter  to  be  her  disciple  than  her  teacher. 

»  Psalm  51,  "Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  God." 

*  Possibly  a  false  wig, 

*  Some  kind  of  headdress  apparently  made  on  a  paste- 
board foundation. 


Helpe  then,  O  holy  vu-gin,^  chiefe  of  nyne,    10 
Thy  weaker  ndvice  to  performe  thy  will; 
Lay  forth  out  of  thine  everlS,sting  scryne* 
The  antique  roUes,  which  there  lye  hidden 

still. 
Of  Faerie  knights,  and  fayrest  Tanaquill,^ 

«  The  fourth  son  of  the  Duke  of  Northumberland.  He 
was  executed  immediately  after  his  wife. 

^  Sir  Richard  Morgan  Cd.  1556)  was  a  member  of  the 
commission  for  the  trial  of  Lady  Jane  Grey,  and  was  the 
one  to  pass  sentence  upon  her. 

» An  allusion  to  Spenser's  first  important  work,  The 
Shepherd's  Calendar,  a  pastoral,  1579. 

!  Y^I^^H'  ^"^insels.  3  The  muse  Clio. 

*  A  box  for  keepmg  books.    See  Lat.  scrinium. 

6  Spenser  evidently  refers  to  Queen  Elizabeth  under 
this  name.     Kitchm    and   others   assert   that    Tanaquill 
was  a  British  princess.    Spenser  may  have  had  Tanaquill,  \ 
the  wife  of  Tarquinius  Priscus,  ia  mind.  ^ 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


137 


Whom  that  most  noble  Briton  Prince  so 
long  15 

Sought  through  the  world,  and  suffered  so 
much  ill, 

That  1  must  rue  his  undeserved  wrong: 
O,  helpe  thou  my  weake  wit,  and  sharpen  my 
dull  tong! 


Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor'd,        50 
For  soveraine  hope,  which  in  his  helpe  he 

had, 
Right,  faithfull,  true  he  was  in  deede  and 

word; 
But  of  his  cheere  did  seeme  too  solemne  sad; 
Yet  nothing  did  he  dread,  but  ever  was  ydrad.^" 


And  thou,  most  dreaded  impe^  of  highest  Jove, 
Faire   Venus   sonne,   that  with   thy   cruell 

dart  20 

At  that  good  knight  so  cunningly  didst  rove. 
That  glorious  fire  it  kindled  in  his  hart; 
Lay  now  thy  deadly  heben^  bo  we  apart, 
And  with  thy  mother  mylde  come  to  mine 

ayde; 
Come,  both;  and  with  you  bring  triumphant 

Mart,8  25 

In  loves  and  gentle  jollities  arraid. 
After  his  murderous  spoyles  and  bloudie  rage 

allay  d. 

IV 

And  with  them  eke,  O  Goddesse  heavenly 

bright, 
Mirrour  of  grace,  and  maiestie  divine, 
Great  ladie  of  the  greatest  Isle,  whose  light  30 
Like  Phoebus  lampe  throughout  the  world 

doth  shine. 
Shfed  thy  faire  beames  into  my  feeble  eyne, 
And  raise  my  thoughtes,  too  humble  and  too 

vile. 
To  thinke  of  that  true  glorious  type  of  thine,^ 
The  argument  of  mine  afflicted  stile:  35 

The    which    to    heare    vouchsafe,    O    dearest 

Dread,  a  while. 

Canto  I 
The  patron  of  true  Holinesse, 

Foule  Errour  doth  defeate; 
Hypocrisie,  him  to  entrappe. 

Doth  to  his  home  entreate. 


A  gentle  Knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine, 
Ycladd  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde, 
Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did 
remain  e,  39 

The  cruell  markes  of  manx  a  bloody  fielde; 
Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  ne  never  wield: 
His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming  bitt. 
As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield: 
Full  iolly  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did  sitt, 
As  one  for  knightly  giusts  and  fierce  encounters 

fitt.  45 


And  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  crosse  he  bore, 
The  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 
For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge  he 

wore. 
And  dead,  as  living  ever,  him  ador'd : 

•Cupid  or  Eros.     Imp  was  formerly  used  in  a  good 
!nse,  and  meant  simply  child,  or  scion. 
^  Ebony.  '  Mars. 

»  Una,   the  type  of  his   "Goddess  heavenly  bright," 
Queen  Elizabeth,  aa  well  as  of  Truth, 


Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bond,  55 

That  greatest  Gloriana^^  to  him  gave. 
That  greatest  glorious  Queene  of  Faery  lond. 
To  winne  him  worshippe,  and  her  grace  to 

have, 
Which  of  all  earthly  thinges,  he  most  did 

crave: 

And  ever  as  he  rode,  his  hart  did  earne,^^ 

To  prove  his  puissance  in  battell  brave         61 

Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  learne; 

Upon  his  foe,  a  Dragon^^  horrible  and  stearne. 


A  lovely  Ladie^^  rode  him  faire  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  asse  more  white  then  snow;     65 
Yet  she  much  whiter;  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a  vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  low; 
And  over  all  a  blacke  stole  shee  did  throw: 
As  one  that  inly  mournd,  so  was  she  sad, 
And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfry  slow;  70 

Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had; 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milke-white  lambe  she 

lad. 

v 
So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  lambe, 
She  was  in  life  and  every  vertuous  lore; 
And  by  descent  from  royall  lynage  came       75 
Of  ancient  kinges  and  queenes,  that  had  of 

yore 
Their  scepters  stretcht  from  east  to  westerne 

shore. 
And  all  the  world  in  their  subiection  held; 
Till  that  infernall  feend  with  foule  uprore 
Forwasted  all  their  land,  and  them  expeld; 
Whom  to  avenge  she  had  this  Knight  from  far 

compeld.  81 

VI 

Behind  her  farre  away  a  Dwarfe^^  ^[^  lag. 
That  lasie  seemd,  in  being  ever  last. 
Or  wearied  with  bearing  of  her  bag 
Of  needments  at  his  backe.     Thus  as  they 
past, ,  85 

The  day  with  cloudes  was  suddeine  over- 
cast, 
And  angry  love  an  hideous  storme  of  raine 
Did  poure  into  his  lemans  lap  so  fast. 
That  everie  wight  to  shrowd  it  did  constrain; 
And  this  faire  couple  eke  to  shroud  themselves 
were  fain.  90 

10  Dreaded.  "  Queen  Elizabeth.  ^J  Yearn. 

13  Error,  or  more  particularly  the  false  doctrines  of  the 
Romish  church,  which  the  Red  Cross  Knight,  or  Re- 
formed England,  must  combat. 

'<  Una,  or  Truth,  which  is  one,  in  contrast  to  Duessa, 
Falsehood,  or  Doubleness.  Una  is  also,  in  a  more  de- 
finite sense.  Truth  as  embodied  in  the  true  Church. 

!!>  Supposed  by  some  to  represent  Common  sense,  or 
Prudence. 


138    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


VII 

Enforst  to  seeke  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shadie  grove"  not  farr  away  they  spide, 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  withstand; 
Whose  lof tie  trees,  yclad  with  sommers  pride. 
Did  spred  so  broad,  that  heavens  hght  did 

hide.  95 

Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  starr : 

And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleles  wide, 

With  footing  worne,  and  leading  inward  farr: 

Faire  harbour  that  them  seemes;  so  in  they 

entred  ar. 

VIII 

And  foorth  they  passe,  with  pleasure  forward 

led,  100 

loying  to  heare  the  birdes  sweete  harmony. 
Which,  therein  shrouded  from  the  tempest 

dred, 
Seemed  in  their  song  to  scome  the  cruell  sky. 
Much  can  they  praise  the  trees  so  straight 

andhy,  j  J?^ 

The  sayhng  pine;  the  cedar  proud  and  tall; 
The  vine-prop  ehne;  the  poplar  never  dry: 
The  builder  oake,  sole  king  of  forrests  all; 
The    aspine    good   for   staves;    the   cypresse 

funerall; 

IX 

The  laurell,  meed  of  mightie  conquerours 
And  poets  sage;  the  firre  that  weepeth  still; 
The  willow,  worne  of  f orlorne  paramours ;  1 1 1 
The   eugh,   obedient   to   the  benders   will; 
The  birch  for  shaftes;  the  sallow  for  the 

mill;i7  .     u- 

The  mirrhe  sweete-bleeding  in  the  bitter 

wound; 
The  warlike  beech ;  the  ash  for  nothing  ill ;  1 1 5 
The  fruitfull  olive;  and  the  platane  round; 
The  carver  holme  ;*»  the  maple  seeldom  inward 

sound. 

X 

Led  with  delight,  they  thus  beguile  the  way, 
Untill  the  blustring  storme  is  overblowne; 
When,  weening  to  retume  whence  they  did 

stray,  120 

They  cannot  finde  that  path,  which  first  was 

showne 
But  wander  too  and  fro  in  waies  unknowne, 
Furthest  from  end  then,  when  they  neerest 

weene, 
That  makes  them  doubt  their  wits  be  not 

their  owne; 
So  many  pathes,  so  many  turnings  scene,  125 
That  which  of  them  to  take,  in  diverse  doubt 

they  been. 

XI 

At  last  resolving  forward  still  to  fare, 
Till  that  some  end  they  finde,  or  in  or  out, 
That  path  they  take,  that  beaten  seemd  most 

bare. 
And  like  to  lead  the  labyrinth  about;  130 

••The  thick  wood  of  Error,  into  which  the  heavenly 
light  of  the  stars  cannot  penetrate. 

"  The  wood  of  the  sallow,  or  voillow,  made  the  best 
charcoal  for  the  manufacture  of  Gunpowder;  the  bark 
of  the  willow  is  also  used  for  tanning. 

u  Holly,  which  is  especially  fit  for  carving. 


Which   when   by   tract   they   hunted   had 

throughout. 
At  length  it  brought  them  to  a  hoUowe  cave, 
Amid  the  thickest  woods.     The  Champion 

stout 
Ef tsoones  dismounted  from  his  courser  brave, 
And  to  the  Dwarfe  a  while  his  needlesse  spere 

he  gave.  135 


"Be  well  aware,"   quoth  then  that  Ladie 

milde, 
"Least  suddaine  mischief e  ye  too  rash  pro- 
voke: 
The  danger  hid,  the  place  unknowne  and 

wilde, 
Breedes  dreadfull  doubts:  oft  fire  is  without 

smoke. 
And   perill  without   show:   therefore   your 

stroke,  140 

Sir    Knight,    withhold,    till    further    tryall 

made." 
"Ah,  Ladie,"  sayd  he,  "shame  were  to  revoke 
The  forward  footing  for  an  hidden  shade: 
Vertue  gives  her  selfe  light  through  darknesse 

for  to  wade." 

XIII 

"Yea,  but,"  quoth  she,  "the  perill  of  this 
place  145 

I  better  wot  then  you:  though  nowe  too  late 

To  wish  you  backe  retume  with  foule  dis- 
grace. 

Yet  wisedome  warnes,  whilst  foot  is  in  the 
gate, 

To  stay  the  steppe,  ere  forced  to  retrate. 

This  is  the  wandring  wood,  this  Errours  den, 

A  monster  vile,  whom  God  and  man  does 
hate:  151 

Therefore   I   read^^  beware."      "Fly,   fly," 
quoth  then 
The  fearful  Dwarfe;  "This  is  no  place  for  living 
men." 

XIV 

But,  full  of  fire  and  greedy  hardiment, 

The  youthfuU  Knight  could  not  for  ought  be 

staide;  155 

But  forth  unto  the  darksom  hole  he  went. 
And  looked  in :  his  glistring  armor  made 
A  litle  glooming  light,  much  like  a  shade; 
By  which  he  saw  the  ugly  monster  plaine, 
Halfe  like  a  serpent  horribly  displaide,        160 
But  th'other  halfe  did  womans  shape  re- 

taine. 
Most  lothsom,  filthie,  foule,  and  full  of  vile 

disdaine. 

[The  Red  Cross  Knight,  assisted  by  Una, 
does  battle  with  the  dragon.  Error.  As  the 
combat  progresses,  the  hideous  serpent-brood 
of  Error,  "deformed  monsters,  foul  and  black 
as  ink,"  swarming  about  the  Knight  sorely 
encumber  him.  The  poet  thus  compares  them 
to  a  cloud  of  gnats.] 

^*  Counsel 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


139 


XXIII 


/  As  gentle  shepheard  in  sweete  eventide,       244 
I  When  ruddy  Phebus  gins  to  welke^o  in  west, 
High  on  an  hill,  his  flocke  to  vewen  wide, 
Markes  which  doe  byte  their  hasty  supper  ^ 

best; 
A  cloud  of  cumbrous  gnattes  doe  him  molest, 
All  striving  to  infixe  their  feeble  stinges, 
That  from  their  noyance  he  no  where  can 
rest;  250 

But  with  his  clownish  hands  their  tender 
wings 
He  brusheth  oft,  and  oft  doth  mar  their  mur- 
murings. 

XXIV 

Thus  ill  bestedd,  and  fearefull»more  of  shame 

Then  of  the  certeine  perill  he  stood  in, 

Halfe  furious  unto  his  foe  he  came,  255 

Resolved  in  minde  all  suddenly  to  win. 

Or  soone  to  lose,  before  he  once  would  lin;" 

And  stroke  at  her  with  more  then  manly 

force. 
That  from  her  body,  full  of  filthie  sin,        259 
He  raft  her  hatefull  heade  without  remorse; 
A  streame  of  cole-black  blood  forth  gushed 

from  her  corse.  .  .  . 

XXVII 

His  Lady  seeing  all  that  chaunst,  from  farre, 
Approcht  in  hast  to  greet  his  victorie ;  290 
And    saide,    "Faire    Knight,    borne    under 

happie  starre, 
Who  see  your  vanquisht  foes  before  you  lye; 
Well  worthie  be  you  of  that  armory. 
Wherein  ye  have  great  glory  wonne  this 

day,  .    . 

And  proov'd  your  strength  on  a  strong  enimie; 
Your  first  adventure :  Many  such  I  pray,     296 
And  henceforth  ever  wish  that  hke  succeed  it 
may!" 
[Having   re-mounted   his   steed,    the   Red- 
Cross  Knight  and  Una  at  length  meet  in  the 
forest  an  "aged  sire"  clad  in  black,  having  a 
gray  beard  and  a  sober  aspect.    The  Knight, 
having  saluted  him,  is  conducted  to  a  hermitage 
on  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  where  the  old  man 
tells  him  in  pleasing  words  about  Saints  and 
popes:  so  they  pass  the  evening  in  discourse.l 

XXXVI 

The  drouping  night  thus  creepeth  on  them 

fast;  . 

And  the  sad  humor  loading  their  eyehddes, 
As  messenger  of  Morpheus,  on  them  cast  381 
Sweet  slombring  deaw,  the  which  to  sleep 

them  biddes. 
Unto  their  lodgings  then  his  guestes  he  riddes 
Where  when  all  drownd  in  deadly  sleepe  he 

findes. 
He  to  his  studie  goes;  and  there  amiddes     385 
His  magick  bookes,   and  artes  of  sundrie 

kindes, 
He  seeks  out  mighty  charmes  to  trouble  sleepy 

minds. 
M  To  fade.  '  "  Cease. 


Then  choosing  out  few  words  most  horrible, 
(Let  none  them  read!)   thereof  did  verses 

frame; 
With  which,  and  other  spelles  like  terrible,  390 
He  bad  awake  blacke  Plutoes  griesly  dame;^^ 
And   cursed   heven;   and   spake   reprochful 

shame 
Of  highest  God,  the  Lord  of  life  and  light. 
A  bold  bad  man!  that  dar'd  to  call  by  name 
Great  Gorgon,  ^^  prince  of  darknes  and  dead 

night;  395 

At  which  Cocytus  quakes,  and  Styx  is  put  to 

flight. 

XXXVIIl 

And  forth  he  cald  out  of  deepe  darknes  dredd 
Legions  of  sprights,  the  which,  like  litle  flyes, 
Fluttring  about  his  ever-damned  hedd, 
Awaite  whereto  their  service  he  applyes,  400 
To  aide  his  friendes,  or  fray  his  enimies: 
Of  those  he  chose  out  two,  the  falsest  twoo. 
And  fittest  for  to  forge  true-seeming  lyes; 
The  one  of  them  he  gave  a  message  too. 
The  other  by  him  selfe  staide  other  worke  to 
doo.  405 

XXXIX 

He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  ayre 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and 

deepe. 
To  Morpheus  house  doth  hastily  repaire. 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steepe. 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never 

peepe,  ^i^ 

His  dwelling  is;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steepe 
In  silver  deaw  his  ever-drouping  hed, 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black 

doth  spred. 


Whose    double    gates^*    he    findeth    locked 
fast'  4^5 

The   one  faire   fram'd   of  burnisht  yvory, 
The  other  all  with  silver  overcast ; 
And  wakeful  dogges  before  them  farre  doe 

IVG 

Watching  to  banish  Care  their  enimy, 
Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleepe.    420 
By  them  the  Sprite  doth  passe  in  quietly. 
And  unto  Morpheus  comes,  whom  drowned 

deepe  ,  .       ,     ^  , 

In  drowsie  fit  he  findes;  of  nothing  he  takes 

keepe. 

22  Proserpina  had  both  a  creative  and  a  destroying 
power.  As  the  daughter  of  Demeter  we  think  of  her 
m  the  first,  and  as  the  wife  of  Pluto  and  queen  of 
Erebus,  in  the  second  capacity.  She  is  here  called  griesly, 
or  terrible,  because  the  poet  has  the  dark  and  death- 
dealing  side  of  her  function  in  mind.  •  x  j      -^u 

23  Demogorgon,  a  mysterious  divinity,  associated  witn 
darkness  and  the  underworld.  

24  Spenser  here  follows  Homer  and  Vergil.  According 
to  these  poets,  true  dreams  were  supposed  to  pass  through 
a  gate  of  horn,  false  dreams  through  one  of  ivory,  ine 
second  gate  is  here  spoken  of  as  "overcast     with  sUver. 


140    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


XLI 

And,  more  to  luUe  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling 

downe,  425 

And  ever-drizling  raine  upon/,he  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the 

sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  caste  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous  cryes. 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard;  but  carelesse  Quiet 

lyes,  431 

Wrapt  in  eternsill  silence  farre  from  enimyes. 


The  ^messenger  approching  to  hini  spake; 
But  his  waste  words  retournd  to  him  in  vaine. 
So  sound  he  slept,  that  nought  mought  him 

awake.  435 

Then  rudely  he  him  thrust,  and  pusht  with 

paine, 
Whereat  he  gan  to  stretch:  but  he  againe 
Shooke  him  so  hard,   that  forced  him  to 

speake. 
As  one  then  in  a  dreame,  whose  dryer  braine 
Is   tost   with   troubled   sights   and   fancies 

weake,  440 

He  mumbled  soft,  but  would  not  all  his  silence 

breake. 

XLIII 

The  Sprite  then  gan  more  boldly  him  to  wake 
And  threatned  unto  him  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Hecate  :2s  whereat  he  gan  to  quake. 
And,    hfting    up    his    lompish    head,    with 

blame  445 

Halfe  angrie  asked  him,  for  what  he  came. 
"Hether,"  quoth  he,  "me  Archimago^^  sent. 
He  that  the  stubborne  sprites  can  wisely 

tame; 
He  bids  thee  to  him  send  for  his  intent 
A  fit  false  dreame,  that  can  delude  the  sleepers 

sent."  450 


And  fram'd  of  liquid  ayre  her  tender  partes, 

So  lively,  and  so  hke  in  all  mens  sight, 

That  weaker  sence  it  could  have  ravisht 

quight: 
The  maker  selfe,  for  all  his  wondrous  witt,  465 
Was  nigh  beguiled  with  so  goodly  sight. 
Her  all  in  white  he  clad,  and  over  it 
Cast  a  black  stole,  most  like  to  seeme  for  Una 
fit. 

XLVI 

Now  when  that  ydle  Dreame  was  to  him 

brought, 
Unto  that  Elfin  Knight  he  bad  him  fly,       470 
Where  he  slept  soundly,  void  of  evil  thought, 
And  with  false  shewes  abuse  his  fantasy. 
In  sort  as  he  him  schooled  privily. 
And  that  riew  creatiu-e,  borne  without  her 

dew,  27 
Full  of  the  makers  guyle,  with  usage  sly,     475 
He  taught  to  imitate  that  Lady  trew, 
WTiose  semblance  she  did  carrie  under  feigned 

hew. 

[This  phantom,  in  the  outward  semblance  of 
Una,  conducts  herself  with  such  lightness  that 
the  Knight  is  perplexed  with  doubts  of  her 
goodness  and  truthfulness.  At  last,  restless 
and  tormented  by  evil  delusions  conjured  up 
by  Archimago,  the  Knight  mounts  his  steed  and 
flies  with  the  dwarf.  Thus  parted  from  Una, 
or  Truth,  by  the  wiles  of  the  Enchanter,  the 
deluded  Knight  falls  into  peril  in  a  meeting 
with  Duessa,  or  Falsehood. 

Meanwhile  the  heavenly  Una,  his  true  bride, 
missing  her  Knight,  sets  out  in  search  of  him, 
alone  and  sorrowful.  The  poet  then  tells  how 
the  lion  comes  to  guard  her  in  her  need.J 

Canto  III 
Forsaken  Truth  long  seeks  her  love, 

and  makes  the  Lyon  mylde; 
Marres  blind  Devotions  mart,  andfals 

in  hand  of  treachour  vylde. 


The  god  obayde;  and,  calling  forth  straight 

way 
A  diverse  dreame  out  of  his  prison  darke, 
Delivered  it  to  him,  and  downe  did  lay 
His  heavie  head,  devoide  of  careful  carke; 
Whose  sences  all  were  straight  benumbd  and 

starke.  455 

He,  backe  returning  by  the  yvorie  dore. 
Remounted  up  as  light  as  chearefull  larke; 
And  on  his  litle  winges  the  dreame  he  bore 
In  hast  unto  his  lord,  where  he  him  left  afore. 

XLV 

Who  all  this  while,  with  charmes  and  hidden 
artes,  460 

Had  made  a  lady  of  that  other  spright, 

'« A  powerful  female  divinity,  supposed  to  have  been 
introduced  into  the  Greek  from  an  earlier  mythology. 
Like  Demogorgon,  she  is  associated  with  darkness  and 
the  nether  world. 

M  Personifies  Hypocrisy.  His  name  indicates  that  he 
is  the  chief  of  those  who  assume  various  bing,  or  unusual 
shapes,  in  order  to  deceive. 


Nought  is  there  under  heav'ns  wide  hollow- 

nesse. 
That  moves  more  cleare  compassion  of  mind, 
Then28  beautie  brought  t'  imworthie  wretch- 

ednesse 
Through  envies  snares,  or  fortunes  freakes 

unkind. 
I,    whether    lately    through    her    brightnes 

blynd,  5 

Or  through  alleageance  and  fast  fealty. 
Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  woman  kynd, 
Feele  my  hart  perst  with  so  great  agony, 
When  such  I  see,  that  all  for  pitty  I  could 

dy. 

II 
And  now  it  is  empassioned  so  deepe,  1 0 

For  fairest  Unaes  sake,  of  whom  I  sing, 
That  my  fraile  eyes  these  Hues  with  teares  do 

steepe, 
To  thmke  how  she  through  guileful  handeling,  \ 
^  Made  in  an  unnatural  manner.  »  Than. 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


141 


Though  true  as  touch,  2«  though  daughter  of  a 

king, 
Though  faire  as  ever  living  wight  was  fayre. 
Though  nor  in  word  nor  deede  ill  meriting,   16 
Is  from  her  Knight  devorced  in  despayre, 
And  her  dew  loves  deryv'd  to  that  vile  witches 
shayre. 

Ill 
Yet  she,  most  faithfull  ladie,  all  this  while 
Forsaken,  wofull,  solitairie  mayd,  20 

Far  from  all  peoples  preace,^°  as  in  exile. 
In  wildernesse  and  wastfuU  deserts  strayd, 
To  seeke  her  Knight;  who  subtily  betrayd 
Through    that   late   vision,    which   th'    en- 
chanter wrought,  24 
Had  her  abandoned.    She  of  naught  affrayd. 
Through  woods  and  wastness  wide  him  daily 
sought" 
Yet  wished  tydinges  none  of  him  unto  her 
brought. 

IV 

One  day,  nigh  wearie  of  the  yrksome  way. 
From  her  unhastie  beast  she  did  alight ;  29 
And  on  the  grasse  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secrete  shadow,  far  from  all  mens  sight; 
From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight; 
And  layd  her  stole  aside.  Her  angels  face. 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shyned  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place;      35 

Did  never  mortall  eye  behold  such  heavenly 
grace. 

v 
It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lyon  rushed  suddeinly. 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage  blood; 
Soone  as  the  royall  Virgin  he  did  spy,  40 

With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  attonce  devoured  her  tender  corse. 
But  to  the  pray  when  as  he  drew  more  ny, 
His  bloody  rage  aswaged  with  remorse, 

And,  with  the  sight  amazd,  forgat  his  furious 
forse.  45 

VI 

Instead  thereof  he  kist  her  wearie  feet. 

And  lickt  her  lilly  hands  with  fawning  tong; 

As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 

O  how  can  beautie  maister  the  mo^t  strong. 

And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong!  50 

Whose  yielded  pryde  and  proud  submission, 

Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked 

long, 
Her  hart  gan  melt  in  great  compassion ; 
And  drizling  teares  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 


"  The  lyon,  lord  of  everie  beast  in  field,"       55 
Quoth    she,    "his   princely   puissance   doth 

abate, 
And  mightie  proud  to  humble  weake  does 

yield, 
Forgetf  ull  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 

29  Touch  here  probably  used  for  touchstone.  The 
touchstone,  used  to  test  the  purity  of  precious  metals, 
came  to  symbolize  the  power  of  telling  the  false  from  the 
true. 

30  Press,  a  throng. 


Him  prickt,  in  pittie  of  my  sad  estate: — 
But  he,  my  lyon,  and  my  noble  lord,  60 

How  does  he  find  in  cruell  hart  to  hate 
Her  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  adord. 
As  the  God  of  my  life?  why  hath  he  me  abhord?" 

VIII 

Redounding  teares  did  choke  \h'  end  of  her 

plaint, 
Which  softly  ecchoed  from  the  neighbour 

wood;  65 

And,  sad  to  see  her  sorrowful  constraint, 
The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood; 
With  pittie  calmd,  downe  fell  his  angry  mood. 
At  last,  in  close  hart  shutting  up  her  payne, 
Arose  the  Virgin  borne  of  heavenly  brood,  70 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  agayne 
To  seeke  her  strayed  champion,  if  she  might 

attayne. 

IX 

The  lyon  would  not  leave  her  desolate. 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  gard 
Of  her  chast  person,  and  a  fay thfull  mate     75 
Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard: 
Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and 

ward; 
And,  when  she  wakt,  he  wayted  diligent,     . 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepard: 
From  her  fayre  eyes  he  took  commande- 

ment,  ^ 

And  ever  by  her  lookes  conceived  her  intent. 

[Archimago,  learning  of  the  whereabouts  of 
Una,  assumes  the  arms  and  appearance  of  the 
Red  Cross  Knight,  and, — being  too  fearful  of 
the  lion  to  join  her, — approaches  near  enough 
to  her  to  be  seen.  Una  seeing,  as  she  supposes, 
him  whom  she  has  sought  through  wide  deserts, 
and  with  great  toil  and  peril,  goes  up  to  him  in 
joy  and  humbleness,  while  Archimago,  feigning 
to  be  her  Knight,  greets  her  with  wordo  of 
welcome  and  vows  of  faithful  service.] . 


His  lovely  words  her  seemd  due  recompence 
Of  all  her  passed  paines;  one  loving  howre 
For  many  yeares  of  sorrow  can  dispence; 
A  dram  of  sweete  is  worth  a  pound  of  sowre. 
Shee  has  forgott  how  many  woful  stowre  275 
For  him  she  late  endurd;  she  speakes  no  more 
Of  past:  true  is,  that  true  love  hath  no  powTe 
To  looken  backe;  his  eies  be  fixt  before. 
Before  her  stands  her  Knight,  for  whom  she 
toy  Id  so  sore. 

XXXI 

Much  like,  as  when  the  beaten  marinere,  280 
That  long  hath  wandred  in  the  ocean  wide, 
Ofte  soust  in  swelling  Tethys  saltish  teare; 
And  long  time  having  tand  his  tawney  hide 
With  blustring  breath  of  heaven,  that  none 

can  bide. 
And  scorching  flames  of  fierce  Orions  hound; 
Soone  as  the  port  from  far  he  has  espide,     286 
His  chearfull  whistle  merily  doth  sound. 
And  Nereus  crownes  with  cups;  his  mates  him 

pledge  around. 


142    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


XXXII 

Such  icy  made  Una,  when  her  Knight  she 

found; 
And  eke  th'  Enchanter  ioyous  seemde  no 

lesse  290 

Then  the  glad  marchant,  that  does  vew  from 

ground      ' 
His  ship  far  come  from  watrie  wildernesse; 
He  hurles  out  vowes,  and  Neptune  oft  doth 


So  forth  they  past;  and  all  the  way  they 

spent  .        294 

Discoursing  of  her  dreadful  late  distresse, 

In  which  he  askt  her,  what  the  lyon  ment; 

Who  told  her  all  that  fell,  in  iourney  as  she 

went. 

XXXIII 

They  had  not  ridden  far,  when  they  might 

see 
One    pricking    towards    them   with    hastie 

heat, 
Full  strongly  armd,  and  on  a  courser  free    300 
That  through  his  fiersenesse  fomed  all  with 

sweat, 
And  the  sharpe  yron  did  for  anger  eat. 
When  his  hot  ryder  spurd  his  chauffed  side; 
His  looke  was  sterne,  and  seemed  still  to 

threat  304 

Cruell  revenge,  which  he  in  hart  did  hyde; 

And  on  his  shield  Sans  lay  in  bloody  lines  was 

dyde. 

[Archimago,  in  the  guise  of  the  Red  Cross 
Knight,  thus  journeying  with  Una  meets  a 
Paynim,  or  Saracen,  named  Sansloy.  Sansloy 
attacks  Archimago,  who  is  overthrown.  When 
he  is  unhelmed,  Una  sees  to  her  surprise  the 
face  of  Archimago  instead  of  that  of  the  Red 
Cross  Knight.  The  Paynim,  leaving  Arch- 
imago dying,  rudely  approaches  Una  and  drags 
her  from  her  palfrey.  The  poet  then  describes 
th(^  combat  of  the  Paynim  with  the  lion.] 


But  her  fiers  servant,  full  of  kingly  aw 

And  high   disdaine,   whenas  his  soveraine 

Dame  380 

So  rudely  handled  by  her  foe  he  saw, 
With  gaping  iawes  full  greedy  at  him  came, 
And,  ramping  in  his  shield,  did  weene  the 

same 
Have   reft   away   with  his   sharp   rending 

clawes:  ^  384 

But  he  was  stout,  and  lust  did  now  inflame 
His  corage  more,  that  from  Ms  griping  pawes 
He  hath  his  shield  redeemd;  and  forth  his 


sword  he  drawes. 

XLII 

O  then,  too  weake  and  feeble  was  the  forse 
Of  salvage  beast,  his  puissance  to  withstand! 
For    he   was    strong,    and    of    so    mightie 
corse,  390 

As  ever  wielded  speare  in  warlike  hand ; 
And  feates  of  armes  did  wisely  understand. 


Eftsoones  he  perced  through  his  chaufed 

chest 
With  thrilling  point  of  deadly  yron  brand, 
And  launcht  his  lordly  hart:  with  death 
opprest  395 

He  ror'd  aloud,  whiles  life  forsooke  his  stub- 
borne  brest. 

XLIII 

Who  now  is  left  to  keepe  the  forlorne  Maid 
From  raging  spoile  of  lawlesse  victors  will? 
Her  faithful  gard  remov'd;  her  hope  dis- 

maid; 
Her  selfe  a  yielded  pray  to  save  or  spill!      400 
He  now,  lord  of  the  field,  his  pride  to  fill, 
With  foule  reproches  and  disdaineful  spright 
Her  vildly  entertaines;  and,  will  or  nill 
Beares  her  away  upon  his  courser  light: 
Her  prayers  naught  prevaile;  his  rage  is  more  of 

might.  405 

XLIV 

And  all  the  way,  with  great  lamenting  paine. 
And  piteous  plaintes  she  filleth  his  dull  eares. 
That  stony  hart  could  riven  have  in  twaine; 
And  all  the  way  she  wetts  with  flowing  teares; 
But  he,  enrag'd  with  rancor,  nothing  heares. 
Her  servile  beast  yet  would  not  leave  her  so, 
But  foUowes  her  far  of,  ne  ought  he  f eares  412 
To  be  partaker  of  her  wandring  woe. 
More  mild  in  beastly  kind,  then  that  her 
beastly  foe. 

[After  many  mishaps  and  adventures  the 
Book  ends  with  the  happy  union  of  the  Red 
Cross  Knight  and  Una; — the  marriage  of 
HoUness  and  Truth.] 

BOOK  II 
Canto  VI 

THE  STORY  OF  SIR  GXTYON,   OR  THE  KNIGHT  OP 
TEMPERANCE 

Guyon  is  of  immodest  Merth 
Led  into  loose  desyre; 

Fights  with  Cymochles,  whiles  Ms  bro- 
ther burnes  in  furious  fyre. 


A  harder  lesson  to  learne  Continence 
In  ioyous  pleasure  then  in  grievous  paine; 
For  sweetnesse  doth  allure  the  weaker  sence 
So  strongly,  that  uneathes  it  can  refraine 
From  that  which  feeble  nature  covets  faine; 
But  griefe  and  wrath,  that  be  her  enemies, 
And  foes  of  life,  she  bettef  can  abstaine :         7 
Yet  Vertue  vauntes  in  both  her  victories; 
And  Guyon  in  them  aU  shewes  goodly  mysteries. 

[Cymochles  having  met  a  damsel  who  rap- 
resents  intemperate  pleasure,  is  tempted  by 
her  to  neglect  duty  in  inglorious  idleness  and 
self-indulgence.  He  falls  under  the  spell  of  her 
blandishments  and  his  coming  under  her 
allurements  to  the  Idle  Lake,  the  home  of  \ 
pleasure,  is  thus  described:] 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


143 


Whiles  thus  she  talked,  and  whiles  thus  she 

toyd,  100 

They  were  far  past  the  passage  which  he 

spake, 
And  come  unto  an  island  waste  and  voyd, 
That  floted  in  the  midst  of  that  great  lake; 
There  her  small  gondelay^^  her  port  did  make 
And  that  gay  payre,  issewing  on  the  shore,  105 
Disburdened  her.    Their  way  they  forward 

take 
Into  the  land  that  lay  them  faire  before, 
\\'hose  pleasaunce  she  him  shewde,  and  plenti- 
ful! great  store. 


It  was  a  chosen  plott  of  fertile  land, 
Emongst  wide  waves  sett,  like  a  Uttle  nest, 
As  if  it  had  by  Nature's  cunning  hand         ill 
Bene  choycely  picked  out  from  all  the  rest. 
And  laid  forth  for  ensample  of  the  best: 
No  daintie  flowre  or  herbe  that  growes  on 

grownd, 
No  arborett  with  painted  blossomes  drest 
And  smelling  sweete,  but  there  it  might  be 

fownd  116 

To  bud  out  faire,  and  throwe  her  sweete  emels 

al  around. 

XIII 

No  tree  whose  braunches  did  not  bravely 

spring; 
No  braunch,  whereon  a  fine  bird  did  not  sitt; 
No  bird,  but  did  her  shrill  notes  sweetly  sing; 
No  song  but  did  containe  a  lovely  ditt.       121 
Trees,   braunches,   birds,   and   songs,   were 

framed  fitt 
For  to  allure  fraile  mind  to  careless  ease: 
Carelesse   the   man   soone   woxe,    and   his 

weake  witt 
Was  overcome  of  thing  that  did  him  please; 
So   pleased   did   his   wrathfull  purpose  faire 

appease.  126 

XIV 

Thus  when  shee  had  his  eyes  and  sences  fed 
With  false  delights,  and  fild  with  pleasures 

vayn. 
Into  a  shady  dale  she  soft  him  led. 
And  layd  him  downe  upon  a  grassy  playn; 
And  her  sweete  selfe  without  dread  or  dis- 

dayn  131 

She  sett  beside,  laying  his  head  disarmd 
In  her  loose  lap,  it  softly  to  sustayii, 
Where  soone  he  slumbred  fearing  not  be 

harm'd, 
The  whiles  with  a  love  lay  she  thus  him  sweetly 

charmd:  135 

XV 

"Behold,3»0  man!  that  toilsome  paines  doest 

take, 
The  flowrs,  the  fields,  and  all  that  pleasaunt 

growes, 

31  Gondola. 

32  This  song  is  apparently  suggested  by  Tasso's  Jerusa- 
lem Delivered,  Bk.  XIV.  62.  Cf.  Tennyson's  Lotus  Eaters. 
stanzas  II  and  HI. 


How  they  themselves  doe  thine  ensample 

make. 
Whiles  nothing  envious  nature  them  forth 

throwes 
Out  of  her  fruitful!  lap*  how,  no  man  knowes. 
They  spring,  they  bud,  they  blossome  fresh 

and  faire,  141 

And  decke  the  world  with  their  rich  pompous 

showes; 
Yet  no  man  for  them  taketh  paines  or  care, 
Yet  no  man  to  them  can  his  careful!  paines 

compare. 

XVI 

"The  lilly,  lady  of  the  flowring  field,  145 

The  flowre-de-luce,  her  lovely  paramoure. 
Bid  thee  to  them  thy  fruitlesse  labors  yield. 
And  soone  leave  off  this  toylsome  weary 

stoure: 
Loe!  loe!  how  brave  she  decks  her  bounteous 

boure. 
With  silkin  curtens,  and  gold  coverlet ts,     150 
Therein  to  shrowd  her  sumptuous  belamoure! 
Yet  neither  spinnes  nor  cards,  ne  cares  nor 

fretts. 
But  to  her  mother  Nature  all  her  care  she  letts. 


"Why  then  doest  thou,  O  man,  that  of  them 
all 

Art  lord,  and  eke  of  nature  soveraine,         155 
WiKuUy  make  thyselfe  a  wretched  thrall. 
And  waste  thy  ioyous  howres  in  needelesse 

paine, 
-    Seeking  for  daunger  and  adventures  vaine? 
What  bootes  it  al  to  have,  and  nothing  use? 
Who  shall  him  rew  that  swimming  in  the 

maine  I60 

Will  die  for  thrist,  and  water  doth  refuse? 

Refuse    such    fruitlesse    toile,    and    present 

pleasures  chuse." 


By  this  she  had  him  lulled  fast  asleepe, 
Tbat  of  no  worldly  thing  he  care  did  take : 
Then  she  with  liquors  strong  his  eies  did 

steepe,  165 

That  nothing  should  him  hastily  awake. 
So  she  him  lef te,  and  did  herselfe  betake 
Unto  her  boat  again,  with  which  she  clefte 
The  slouthfull  wave  of  that  great  griesy  lake: 
Soone  shee  that  Island  far  behind  her  lefte. 
And  now  is  come  to  that  same  place  where  first 

she  wefte.  171 

[Sir  Guyon,  who  has  also  been  assailed  by  the 
temptations  of  Pleasure,  next  encounters 
Mammon,  or  the  temptations  of  Avarice.] 

Canto  VII 
Guyon  findes  Mamon^^  in  a  delve 

sunning  his  threasure  hore; 
Is  hy  him  tempted,  and  led  downe 

To  see  his  secret  store. 

33  Mammon  was  not  a  heathen  divinity  but,  as  in  the 
New  Testament,  a  simple  personification  of  money  or 
worldly  ambition,  from  the  Syriac  word  for  riches. 


144  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


So  Guyon,  having  lost  his  trustie  guyde,  i  o 
Late  left  beyond  that  Ydle  Lake,  proceedes 
Yet  on  his  way,  of  none  accompanyde; 
And  evermore  himselfe  with  comfort  feedes 
Of  his  own  vertues  and  praise-worthie  deedes. 
So,  long  he  yode,  yet  no  adventure  found,  1 5 
Which  Fame  of  her  shrill  trompet  worthy 

reedes: 
For  still  he  traveild  through  wide  wastfull 

ground, 
That  nought  but  desert  wildernesse  shewed  all 

around. 


At  last  he  came  unto  a  gloomy  glade, 
Cover'd    with    boughes    and    shrubs    from 

heavens  light,  20 

Whereas  he  sitting  found  in  secret  shade 
An  uncouth,   salvage,    and   uncivile  wight. 
Of  griesly  hew  and  fowle  ill-favour'd  sight; 
Plis  face  with  smoke  was  tand,  and  eies  were 

bleard. 
His  head  and  beard  with  sout  were  ill  bedight, 
His  cole-blacke  hands  did  seeme  to  have  ben 

seard  26 

In  symthes  fire-spitting  forge,  and  nayles  like 

clawes  appeard. 

IV 

His  yron  cote,   all  overgrowne  with  rust. 
Was  underneath  enveloped  with  gold; 
Whose     glistering     glosse     darkened     with 
filthy  dust,  30 

Well  yet  appeared  to  have  beene  of  old 
A  worke  of  rich  entayle  and  curious  mould. 
Woven  with  antickes  and  wyld  ymagery; 
And  in  his  lap  a  masse  of  coyne  he  told , 
And  turned  upside  downe,  to  feede  his  eye 
And  covetous  desire  with  his  huge  threasury.  36 


And  round  about  him  lay  on  every  side 
Great  heapes  of  gold  that  never  could  be 

spent; 
Of  which  some  were  rude  owre,  not  purifide 
Of  Mulcibers^^  devouring  element;  40 

Some  others  were  new  driven,  and  distent 
Into  great  Ingowes  and  to  wedges  square; 
Some  in  round  plates  withouten  moniment; 
But  most  were  stampt,  and  in  their  metal 

bare 
The  antique  shapes  of  kings  and  kesars  stroung 

and  rare.  45 

VI 

Soone  as  he  Guyon  saw,  in  great  affright 

And  haste  he  rose  for  to  remove  aside 

Those  pretious  hils  from  straungers  envious 

sight, 
And  downe  them  poured  through  an  hole  full 

wide 

3<  The  name  given  to  Vuloan  (Lat.  mulceo,  to  soften) , 
as  the  smoother  of  metals  by  fire.  Of  is  here  used  in  the 
sense  of  bjf- 


Into  the  hollow  earth,  them  there  to  hide;    50 
But  Guyon,  lightly  to  him  leaping,  stayd 
His  hand  that  trembled  as  one  terrifyde; 
And  though  himselfe  were  at  the  sight  dis- 
mayd, 
Yet  him  perforce  restraynd,  and  to  him  doubt- 
full  sayd: 

VII 

"What  art  thou,  Man  (if  man  at  aill  thou  art), 
That  here  in  desert  hast  thine  habitaunce,  56 
And  these  rich  hils  of  welth  doest  hide  apart 
From  the  worldes  eye,  and  from  her  right 

usaunce?" 
Thereat,  with  staring  eyes  fixed  askaunce, 
In  great  disdaine  he  answerd:  "Hardy  Elfe, 
That  darest  vew  my  direful  countenaunce!  61 
I  read  thee  rash  and  heedlesse  of  thy  self, 
To  trouble  my  still  seate,  and  heapes  of  pretious 

pelfe. 

VIII 

"God  of  the  world  and  worldlings  I  me  call, 
Great  Mammon,  greatest  god  below  the  skye, 
That  of  my  plenty  poure  out  unto  all,  66 

And  unto  none  my  graces  do  envye: 
Riches,  renowme,  and  principality, 
Honour,  estate,  and  all  this  worldes  good. 
For  which  men  swinck  ^5  and  sweat  inces- 
santly, _  70 
Fro  me  do  flow  into  an  ample  flood. 
And  in  the  hollow  earth  have  their  eternall 
brood. 


"Wherefore,  if  me  thou  deigne  to  serve  and 

sew, 
At  thy  commaund  lo!  all  these  mountaines 

bee; 
Or  if  to  thy  great  mind,  or  greedy  vew,       75 
All  these  may  not  suffise,  there  shall  to  thee 
Ten  times  so  much  be  nombred  francke  and 

free." 
"Mammon,"  said  he,  "thy  godheads  vaunt 

is  vaine, 
And  idle  offers  of  thy  golden  fee; 
To  them  that  covet  such  eye-glutting  gaine 
Proffer  thy  giftes,  and  fitter  servaunte  enter- 

taine.  81 


"Me  ill  besits,  that  in  derdoing  armes 

And  honours  suit  my  vowed  daies  do  spend, 

Unto  thy  bounteous  baytes,  and  pleasing 

ch  armes, 
With  which  weake  men  thou  witchest,  to 

attend;  85 

Regard  of  worldly  mucke  doth  fowly  blend, 
And  low  abase  the  high  heroicke  spright. 
That  ioyes  for  crownes  and  kingdomes  to 

contend; 
Faire  shields,  gay  steedes,  bright  arme;?,  be 

my  delight; 
Those  be  the  riches  fit  for  an  advent'rous 

knight."  90  V 

wToiL 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


145 


XI 

"Vaine  glorious  Elfe,"  saide  he,  "doest  not 

thou  weet,^* 
That  money  can  thy  wantes  at  will  supply? 
Shields,  steeds,  and  armes,  and  all  things  for 

thee  meet, 
It  can  purvay  in  twinckling  of  an  eye;         94 
And  crownes  and  kingdomes  to  thee  multiply. 
Doe  not  1  kings  create,  and  throw  the  crowne 
Sometimes  to  him  that  low  in  dust  doth  ly. 
And  him  that  raignd  into  his  rowme  thrust 

downe, 
I  id  whom  I  lust  do  heape  with  glory  and  re- 

nowne?" 

XII 

"All  otherwise,"  said  he,    ''I  riches  read,  100 
And  deeme  them  roote  of  all  disquietnesse; 
First  got  with  guile,  and  then  preserved  with 

dread. 
And  after  spent  with  pride  and  lavishnesse, 
Leaving  behind  them  grief e  and  heavinesse: 
Infinite  mischief es  of  them  doe  arize;        105 
Strife  and  debate,  bloodshed  and  bitternesse, 
Outrageous  wrong  and  hellish  covetize. 
That  noble  heart,  in  great  dishonour,  doth  des- 
pize. 

XIII 

"Ne  thine  be  Kingdomes,  ne  the  scepters 

thine ; 
But  realmes  and  rules  thou  doest  both  con- 
found, no 
And  loyall  truth  to  treason  doest  incline: 
Witnesse  the  guiltlesse  blood  pourd  oft  on 

ground ; 
The  crowned  often  slaine;  the  slayer  cround; 
The  sacred  diademe  in  peeces  rent.  114 

And  purple  robe  gored  with  many  a  wound, 
Castles  surprizd,  great  cities  sackt  and  brent: 
So  mak'st  thou  kings,  and  gaynest  wrongful 
government! 

XIV 

"Long  were  to  tell  the  troublous  stormes  that 

tosse 
The  private  state,  and  make  the  life  unsweet: 
Who  swelling  sayles  in  Caspian  sea  doth 

crosse,  120 

And  in  frayle  wood  on  Adrian  gulf  doth  fleet, 
Doth  not,  I  weene,  so  many  evils  meet." 
Then  Mammon  wexing  wroth:  "And  why 

then,"  sayd, 
"Are  mortall  men  so  fond  and  undiscreet 
So  evill  thing  to  seeke  unto  their  ayd; 
And  having  not,  complaine,  and  having  it,  up- 

brayd?"  .  .  . 

XIX 

"Me  list  not,"  said  the  Elfin  Knight,  "re- 

ceave 
Thing  offred,  till  I  know  it  well  be  gott; 
Ne  wote  I  but  thou  didst  these  goods  bereave 
From  rightfuU  owner  by  unrighteous  lott,  175 
Or  that  blood-guiltinesse  or  guile  them  blott." 


"Perdy,"  quoth  he,  "yet  never  eie  did  vew, 
Ne  tong  did  tell,  ne  hand  these  handled  not; 
But  safe  I  have  them  kept  in  secret  mew 
From  hevens  sight  and  powre  of  al  which  them 
poursew."  iso 

XX 

"What  secret  place,"  quoth  he,  "can  safely 

hold 
So  huge  a  masse,  and  hide  from  heavens  eie? 
Or  where  hast  thou  thy  wonne,  that  so  much 

gold 
Thou  canst  preserve  from  wrong  and  rob- 
bery?" "  184 
"Come  thou,"  quoth  he,  "and  see."    So  by 

and  by 
Through  that  thick  covert  he  him  led,  and 

fowned 
A  darksome  way,  which  no  man  could  descry. 
That  deep  descended  through  the  hollow 

grownd. 
And  was  with  dread  and  horror  compassed 

arownd. 


At  length  they  came  into  a  larger  space,    190 
That  strecht  itself e  into  an  ample  playne; 
Through  which  a  beaten  broad  high  way  did 

trace 
That  streight  did  lead  to  Plutoes  griesly 

rayne: 
By    that   wayes    side    there   sate    infernall 

Payne,  3^ 
And  fast  beside  him  sat  tumultuous  Strife; 
The  one  in  hand  an  yron  whip  did  strayne,  196 
The  other  brandished  a  bloody  knife; 
And  both  did  gnash  their  teeth,  and  both  did 

threten  Life. 


On  th'other  side  in  one  cons6rt  there  sate 
Cruell  Revenge,  and  rancorous  Despight,   200 
Disloyall  Treason,  and  hart-burning  Hate; 
But  gnawing  Gealosy,  out  of  their  sight 
Sitting  alone,  his  bitter  lips  did  bight; 
And  trembling  Feare  still  to  and  fro  did  fly. 
And  found  no  place  wher  safe  he  shroud  him 

might:  205 

Lamenting  Sorrow  did  in  darknes  lye; 
And  Shame  his  ugly  face  did  hide  from  living 

eye. 

XXIII 

And  over  them  sad  Horror  with  grirn  hew 
Did  alwaies  sore,  beating  his  yron  wings; 
And  after  him  owles  and  night-ravens  flew,  210 
The  hatefuU  messengers  of  heavy  things, 
Of  death  and  dolor  telling  sad  tidings; 
Whiles  sad  Celeno,^^  sitting  on  a  clifte, 
A  song  of  bale  and  bitter  sorrow  sings. 
That  hart  of  flint  a  sonder  could  have  rifte; 
Which   having   ended,    after   him   she   flyeth 
swifte.  216 

-  37  Not  pain  in  the  sense  of  suffering,  but  Poena,   the 
avenging,  punishing  deity. 

38  One  of  the  Harpies;  tilthy,  vulture-like  creatures,  with 
bead  aad  breast  of  a  woman. 


146  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


All  these  before  the  gates  of  Pluto  lay; 

By  whom  they  passing  spake  unto  them 

nought; 
But  th'  Elfin  Knight  with  wonder  all  the 

way 
Did  feed  his  eyes,  and  fild  his  inner  thought. 
At  last  him  to  a  litle  dore  he  brought,  221 

That  to  the  gate  of  hell,  which  gaped  wide, 
Was  next  adiogning,  ne  them  parted  ought: 
Betwixt  them  both  was  but  a  litle  stride, 
That  did   the  house  of  Richesse  from  hell- 
mouth  divide.  225 

XXV 

Before  the  dore  sat  selfe-consuming  Care, 
Day  and   night   keeping  wary  watch  and 

ward, 
For  feare  least  Force  or  Fraud  should  un- 
aware 
Breake  in,  and  spoile  the  treasure  there  in 

gard: 
Ne  would  he  suffer  Sleepe  once  thether-ward 
Approch,  albe  his  drowsy  den  were  next;  231 
For  next  to  Death  is  Sleepe  to  be  compard; 
Therefore  his  house  is  unto  his  annext: 
Here  Sleepe,  there  Richesse,  and  Hel-gate  them 
both  betwext. 

XXVI 

So  soone  as  Mammon  there  arrivd,  the  dore 
To  him  did  open,  and  affoorded  way :  236 

Him  followed  eke  Sir  Guyon  evermore; 
Ne  darknesse  him,  ne  daunger  might  dismay. 
Soone  as  he  entred  was,  the  dore  streight  way 
Did  shutt,  and  from  behind  it  forth  there 

lept  240 

An  ugly  feend,  more  fowle  than  dismall  day; 
The  which  with  monstrous  stalke  behind  him 

stept, 
And  ever  as  he  went  dew  watch  upon  him 

kept.  .  .  . 

XXVIII 

That  houses  forme   within  was  rude  and 

strong, 
Lyke  an  huge  cave  hewne  out  of  rocky  clifte. 
From  whose  rough  vaut  the  ragged  breaches^^ 

hong 
Embost  with  massy  gold  of  glorious  guifte. 
And  with  rich  metall  loaded  every  rifte,  266 
That  heavy  ruine  they  did  seeme  to  threatt; 
And  over  them  Arachne*"  high  did  lif  te 
Her  cunning  web,  and  spred  her  subtile  nett. 
Enwrapped  in  fowle  smoke  and  clouds  more 

black  then  iett.  270 

XXIX 

Both  roofe,  and  floore,  and  walls,  were  all  of 

gold, 
But  overgrown  with  dust  and  old  decay. 
And  hid  in  darknes,  that  none  could  behold 
The  hew  thereof :  for  vew  of  cheref ull  day 
Did  never  in  that  house  it  selfe  display,      275 

39  Stalactites. 

'o  Spider,  Arachne  was  a  skilful  needlewoman  changed 
into  a  soider  by  Minerva. 


But  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertein  light; 
Such  as  a  lamp,  whose  life  does  fade  away; 
Or  as  the  moone,  cloathed  with  clowdy  night, 
Does  shew  to  him  that  walks  in  feare,  and  sad 
affright. 

XXX 

In  all  that  rowme  was  nothing  to  be  scene 
But   huge   great   yron    chests,    and   coffers 

strong,  281 

All  bard  with  double  bends,  that  none  could 

weene 
Them  to  efforce  by  violence  or  wrong; 
On  every  side  they  placed  were  along. 
But  all  the  grownd  with  sculs  was  scattered 
And  dead  mens  bones,  which  round  about 

were  flong;  286 

Whose  lives,  it  seemed,  whilome  there  were 

shed. 
And  their  vile  carcases  now  left  unburied. 

XXXI 

They  forward  passe;  ne  Guyon  yet  spoke 

word. 
Till  that  they  came  unto  an  yron  dore,        290 
Which  to  them  opened  of  his  owne  accord, 
And  shewd  of  richesse  such  exceeding  store, 
As  eie  of  man  did  never  see  before, 
Ne  ever  could  within  one  place  be  fownd, 
Though  all  the  wealth  which  is,  or  was  of  yore 
Could  gathered  be  through  all  the  world 

arownd,  296 

And  that  above  were  added  to  that  under 

grownd. 

XXXII 

The  charge  thereof  unto  a  covetous  spright 
Commaunded  was,  who  thereby  did  attend. 
And  warily  awaited  day  and  night,  300 

From  other  covetous  feends  it  to  defend, 
Who  it  to  rob  and  ransacke  did  intend. 
Then  Mammon,  turning  to  that  warriour, 

said: 
"Loe,  here  the  worldes  blis!  loe,  here  the 

end,  304 

To  which  al  men  doe  ayme,  rich  to  be  made! 

Such  grace  now  to  be  happy  is  before  thee  laid." 


"Certes,"  said  he,  ''I  n'  ill  thine  offred  grace, 
Ne  to  be  made  so  happy  doe  intend! 
Another  blis  before  mine  eyes  I  place. 
Another  happines,  another  end.  310 

To  them  that  list,  these  base  regardes  I  lend: 
But  I  in  armes,  and  in  atchievements  brave, 
Do   rather    choose    my    flitting   houres    to 

spend. 
And  to  be  lord  of  those  that  riches  havo, 
Then  them  to  have  myself e,  and  be  theii  eerrilc 

sclave."  315 

XXXIV 

Thereat  the  Feend  his  gnashing  teeth  did 

grate. 
And  griev'd,  so  long  to  lacke  his  greedie  pray; 
For  well  he  weened  that  so  glorious  bayte  v 

Would  tempt  his  guest  to  take  thereof  assays 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


147 


Had  he  so  doen,  he  had  him  snatcht  away  320 
More  light  then  culver^^  in  the  faulcons  fist: 
Eternall  God  thee  save  from  such  decay! 
But,  whenas  Mammon  saw  his  purpose  mist, 
Him  to  entrap  unwares  another  way  he  wist. 

[The  poet  then  goes  on  to  tell  of  the  further 
temptations  to  which  Guyon  is  subjected,  and 
of  how  the  Knight  withstands  them.  At  length, 
after  three  days  have  passed,  according  to 
men's  reckoning,  Guyon  begs  to  be  taken  back 
into  the  world,  and  Mammon,  though  loth,  is 
constrained  to  comply  with  the  request.  But 
as  soon  as  Guyon  reaches  the  vital  air  he 
swoons,  and  lies  as  one  dead.  The  next  Canto 
(which  ends  with  the  Knight's  recovery  and  re- 
union with  the  Palmer,  his  appointed  guide), 
begins  with  the  following  stanzas  on  the  care  of 
God  for  man,  thus  leading  us  to  anticipate  the 
happy  ending.] 

(From  Canto  VIII) 
I 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven?    And  is  there 

love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  bace, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move? 
There  is:  else  much  more  wretched  were  the 

cace 
Of  men  then  beasts.    But  01  th'  exceeding 

grace  5 

Of  highest  God  that  loves  his  creatures  so. 

And  all  his  workes  with  mercy  doth  embrace. 

That  blessed  Angels  he  sends  to  and  fro, 

To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  his  wicked  foe. 

II 
How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave,  lo 
To  come  to  succour  us  that  succour  want! 
How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pineons  cleave 
The  flitting  skyes,  like  flying  Pursuivant, 
Against  fowle  feendes  to  ayd  us  militant! 
They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  and  dewly 

ward,  15 

And  their  bright  sqadrons  round  about  us 

plant; 
And  all  for  love,  and  nothing  for  reward. 
O !  why  should  hevenly  God  to  men  have  such 

regard? 

THE  COURTIERi 

(From  Mother  Hubberd's  Tale,  1591) 
Most  miserable  man,  whom  wicked  fate 
Hath  brought  to  court,  to  sue  for  had  ywist, 
That  few  have  found,  and  manie  one  hath  mist! 
Full  little  knowest  thou  that  hast  not  tride, 
What  hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide :  5 

"  Dove. 

1  The  poem  from  which  this  extract  is  taken  first  ap- 
peared in  a  miscellaneous  collection  entitled  Complaints 
(1591).  It  was  in  this  year  that  Spenser  returned  to 
his  home  in  Ireland,  after  a  stay  in  London  of  some  two 
years.  This  visit  to  England  had  been  made  under  the 
encouragement  of  Raleigh,  who,  Spenser  tells  us,  secured 
his  admission  to  the  queen.  The  poet  gives  us  an  ac- 
count of  this  visit  in  his  Colin  Clout's  Come  Home  Again 
(pub.  159G),  but  in  the  lines  here  given  we  have  probably 
an  insight  into  the  real  mood  in  which  he  left  the  court. 


To  loose  good  dayes,  that  might  be  better  spent; 
To  wast  long  nights  in  pensive  discontent; 
To  speed  to  day,  to  be  put  back  tomorrow; 
To  feed  on  hope,  to  pine  with  feare  and  sorrow; 
To   have   thy   Princes   grace,    yet   want   her 

Peeres;  lo 

To  have  thy  asking,  yet  waite  manie  yeeres; 
To  fret  thy  soule  with  crosses  and  with  cares; 
To  eate  thy  heart  through  comfortlesse  dis- 

paires; 
To  fawne,  to  crowche,  to  waite,  to  ride,  to 

ronne. 
To  spend,  to  give,  to  want,  to  be  undonne.       15 
Unhappie  wight,  borne  to  desastrous  end. 
That  doth  his  life  in  so  long  tendance  spend! 
Who  ever  leaves  sweete  home,  where  meane 

estate 
In  safe  assurance,  without  strife  or  hate, 
Findes    all    things   needfuU   for   contentment 

meeke,  20 

And  will  to  court  for  shadowes  vaine  to  seeke. 
Or  hope  to  gaine,  himselfe  will  one  dale  crie, 
That  curse  God  send  unto  mine  enemiel 


PROTHALAMION  i 

(1596) 

Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling 

air 
Sweet-breathing  Zephyrus  did  softly  play, 
A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 
Hot  Titans  beams,  which  then  did  glisten  fair. 
When  I  (whom  sullen  care,  5 

Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitless  stay 
In  Princes  Court,  and  expectation  vain 
Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  do  fly  away. 
Like  empty  shadows,  did  afflict  my  brain,) 
Walked  forth  to  ease  my  pain  10 

Along  the  shore  of  silver  streaming  Thames; 
Whose  rutty  ^  bank,  the  which  his  river  hems. 
Was  painted  all  with  variable  flowers. 
And  all  the  meads  adorned  with  dainty  gems 
Fit  to  deck  maidens  bowers  15 

And  crown  their  paramours 
Against  the  bridal  day,^  which  is  not  long. 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

There,  in  a  meadow  by  the  river's  side 

A  flock  of  Nymphs  I  chanced  to  spy  20 

All  lovely  daughters  of  the  flood  thereby, 

With  goodly  greenish  locks,  all  loose  untied, 

As  each  had  been  a  Bride; 

And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket. 

Made  of  fine  twigs  entrayled  curiously,  23 

In  which  they  gathered  flowers  to  fill  their 

flasket,  4 
And  with  fine  fingers  cropt  full  feateously  ^ 
The  tender  stalks  on  high. 

1  Prothalamion  (or  Prothalamium),  a  marriage  song: 
or  as  Spenser  himself  defines  it,  "A  Spousal  Verse." 
This  song,  the  last  complete  poem  of  Spenser  extant, 
was  written  in  1596,  to  celebrate  the  approaching  mar- 
riage of  "two  honourable  and  vertuous  ladies,  the  Lady 
Elizabeth  and  the  Lady  Catherine  Somerset." 

2  Rooty. 

3  In  provision  for  the  bridal-day,  which  ia  not  far  off. 
^  Little  basket.  *  Nimbly,  dextroualy. 


148  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Of  every  sort,  which  in  that  meadow  grew, 
They  gathered  some,  the  Violet  pallid  blue,   30 
The  little  Daisy  that  at  evening  closes, 
The  Virgin  Lily,  and  the  Primrose  true, 
With  store  of  vermeil^  Roses, 
To  deck  their  Bridegroomes  posies 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long.  35 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

With  that  I  saw  two  swans  of  goodly  hue 

Come  softly  swimming  down  along  the  Lee;^ 

Two  fairer  birds  I  yet  did  never  see; 

The  snow  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus  strew, 

Did  never  whiter  shew;  41 

Nor  Jove  himself,  when  he  a  Swan  would  be. 

For  Love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appear; 

Yet  Leda  was  (they  say)  as  white  as  he. 

Yet  not  so  white  as  these,  nor  nothing  near;  45 

So  purely  white  they  were, 

That  e'en  the  gentle  stream,  the  which  them 

bare, 
Seem'd  foul  to  them,  and  bade  his  billows  spare 
To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  lest  they  might 
Soil  their  fair  plumes  with  water  not  so  fair,  50 
And  mar  their  beauties  bright. 
That  shone  as  heaven's  light, 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long. 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Ef tsoons^  the  Nymphs,  which  now  had  flowers 
their  fill,  55 

Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood, 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  crystal  flood; 
Whom  when  they  saw,  they  stood  amazed  still 
Their  wondering  eyes  to  fill; 
Them  seem'd  they  never  saw  a  sight  so  fair,     60 
Of  fowls  so  lovely,  that  they  sure  did  deem 
Them  heavenly  born,  or  to  be  that  same  pair 
Which  through  the  sky  draw  Venus'   silver 

team; 
For  sure  they  did  not  seem 
To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  seed,  65 

But  rather  Angels,  or  of  Angels'  breed; 
Yet  were  they  bred  of  Somers-heat^  they  say. 
In   sweetest   season    when   each    flower    and 

weed 
The  earth  did  fresh  array; 
So  fresh  they  seem'd  as  day,  70 

E'en  as  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long. 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Then  forth  they  all  out  of  their  baskets  drew 
Great  store  of  flowers,  the  honour  of  the  field, 
That  to  the  sense  did  fragrant  odours  yield,     75 
All  which  upon  those  goodly  birds  they  threw 
And  all  the  waves  did  strew. 
That  hke  old  Peneus  waters  they  did  seem. 
When  down  along  by  pleasant  Tempes  shore. 
Scattered  with  flowers,  through  Thessaly  they 
stream,  80 

«  Vermilion-colored,  red. 

'  Apparently  the  river  Lee,  which  flows  into  the  Thames 
by  Blackwall,  opposite  Greenwich. 

*  Soon  after,  thereupon. 

•A  pun  on  Somerset,  the  name  of  the  prospective 
brides. 


That  they  appear  through  lilUes  pleanteoi; 
store, 

Like  a  bride's  chamber  floor. 

Two  of  those  Nymphs,  meanwhile,  two  gar- 
lands boimd 

Of  freshest  flowers  which  in  that  mead  they 
found. 

The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  array,  85 

Their     snowy     foreheads     therewithal     they 
crowned, 

Whil'st  one  did  sing  this  lay, 

Prepar'd  against  that  day. 

Against  their  bridal  day  which  was  not  long. 
Sweet  Thames!   run  softly,  till  I  end  my 
song.  90 

"Ye  gentle  Birds!  the  world's  fair  ornament. 
And  heaven's  glory,  whom  this  happy  hour 
Doth  lead  unto  your  lovers'  blissful  bower, 
Joy  may  you  have,  and  gentle  hearts  content 
Of  your  love's  couplement;  95 

And  let  fair  Venus,  that  is  Queen  of  Love, 
With  her  heart-quelling  son  upon  you  smile. 
Whose  smile,  they  say,  hath  virtue  to  remove 
All  love's  dislike,  and  friendship's  faulty  guile 
For  ever  to  assoil;^"  100 

Let  endless  peace  your  steadfast  hearts  accord. 
And  blessM  plenty  wait  upon  your  board; 
And  let  your  bed  with  pleasures  chaste  abound. 
That  fruitful  issue  may  to  you  afford. 
Which  may  your  foes  confound,  105 

And  make  your  joys  redound 
Upon  your  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long:" 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

So  ended  she;  and  all  the  rest  around 
To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong, "  110 

Which  said  their  bridal  day  should  not  be  long: 
And  gentle  Echo  from  the  neighbour-ground 
Their  accents  did  resound. 
So  forth  those  joyous  birds  did  pass  along, 
Adown  the  Lee,  that  to  them  murmured  low. 
As  he  would  speak,  but  that  he  lacked  a  tongue. 
Yet  did  by  signs  his  glad  affection  show,       117 
Making  his  stream  run  slow. 
And  all  the  fowl  which  in  his  flood  did  dwell 
'Gan  flock  about  these  twain,  that  did  excel  120 
The  rest,  so  far  as  Cynthia  doth  shend 
The  lesser  stars.    So  they  enranged  well, 
Did  on  those  two  attend. 
And  did  their  best  service  lend 
Against  their  wedding  day,   which  was  not 
long:  125 

Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

At  length  they  all  to  merry  London  came. 
To  merry  London,  my  most  kindly  nurse. 
That  to  me  gave  this  life's  first  native  source; 
Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name. 
An  house^2  of  ancient  fame:  131 

">  Absolve. 

11  The  refrain  of  her  song,  the  purport  of  which  is  given 
in  the  following  line. 

12  Spenser  claimed  kinship  with  the  Spencers  of  Al- 
thorpe,;"the  ancestors  of  the  Spencers  and  Churchills  of  V 
modem  days."  ^ 


p 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH 


149 


There  when  they  came,  whereas  those  bricky 

towers 
The  which  on  Thames'  broad,  aged  back  to 

ride. 
Where  now  the  studious  lawyers  have  their 

bowers, 
There  whilom  wont  the  Templar  Knights  to 

bide,  135 

Till  they  decayed  through  pride: 
'  Next  whereunto  there  stands  a  stately  place, i' 
Where  oft  I  gained  gifts  and  goodly  grace 
Of  that  great  lord,  which  therein  wont  to  dwell. 
Whose  want  too  well  now  feels  my  friendless 

case;  14 o 

But  ah!  here  fits  not  well 
Old  woes,  but  joys,  to  tell 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Yet  therein  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  peer,       145 
Great  England's  glory,  and  all  the  world's  wide 

wonder, 
Whose  dreadful  name  late  through  all  Spain 

did  thunder. 
And  Hercules'  two  pillars  standing  near 
Did  make  to  quake  and  fear: 
Fair  branch  of  honour,  flower  of  chivalry!     150 
That  fillest  England  with  thy  triumph's  fame, 
Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victory,  ^^ 
And  endless  happiness  of  thy  own  name, 
That  promise th  the  same; 
That    through    thy   prowess,    and    victorious 

arms,  155 

Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  foreign  harms; 
And  great  Eliza's  glorious  name  may  ring 
Through  all  the  world,  filled  with  thy  wide 

alarms,  ^^ 
Which  some  brave  muse  may  sing 
To  ages  following,  160 

Upon  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

From  those  high  towers  this  noble  lord  issuing, 
Like  radiant  Hesper,  when  his  golden  hair 
In  the  Ocean's  billows  he  hath  bathed  fair,    165 
Descended  to  the  river's  open  viewing. 
With  a  great  train  ensuing. 
Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  be  seen 
Two  gentle  knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature 
Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  any  queen,        170 
.     ii  gifts  of  wit,  and  ornaments  of  nature, 
Fit  for  so  goodly  stature, 

That  like'the  twins  of  Jove  they  seemed  in  sight, 
Which  deck  the  baldrick  of  the  heavens  bright; 
They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  river's  side,    175 
Received  those  two  fair  brides,  their  love's  de- 
light; 
Which,  at  the  appointed  tide. 
Each  one  did  make  his  bride 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long:  179 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

^'  A  palace  adjoining  the  Temple,  formerly  occupied 
by  Elizabeth's  favorite,  the  Earl  of  Leicester  (the  "gentle 
lord"  here  referred  to)  and  afterwards  by  the  Earl  of 
Essex,  the  "noble  peer"  alluded  to  in  the  next  stanza. 

"  The  capture  of  Cadiz,  June  1596,  by  Raleigh,  Lord 
Howard  of  Effingham,  and  Essex. 

^*  i.  e.  The  alarm  you  excite. 


SONNETS 
(From  Amoretii,  1595) 

XLl 

Mark  when  she  smiles  with  amiable  cheare, 
And  tell  me  whereto  can  ye  lyken  it; 
When  on  each  eyelid  sweetly  doe  appeare 
An  hundred  Graces  as  in  shade  to  sit. 
Lykest  it  seemeth,  in  my  simple  wit,  5 

Unto  the  fayre  sunshine  in  somers  day; 
That,  when  a  dreadfuU  storm  away  is  flit, 
Thrugh  the  broad  world  doth  spred  his  goodly 

ray: 
At  sight  whereof,  each  bird  that  sits  on  spray. 
And  every  beast  that  to  his  den  was  fled,  10 

Comes  forth  afresh  out  of  their  late  dismay. 
And  to  thy  light  lift  up  their  drouping  hed. 
So  my  storme-beaten  hart  likewise  is  cheared 
With  that  sunshine,  when  cloudy  looks  are 
cleared. 

LXXV 

One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand; 
But  came  the  waves  and  washed  it  away: 
Agayne,  I  wrote  it  with  a  second  hand; 
And  came  the  tyde,  and  made  my  paynes  his 

pray. 
"Vayne  man,"  sayd  she,  "that  doest  in  vayne 

assay  5 

A  mortal!  thing  so  to  immortalize; 
For  I  myselve  shall  lyke  to  this  decay, 
And  eek  my  name  bee  wyped  out  lykewize." 
"Not  so"  (quod  I);  "let  baser  things  devize 
To  dy  in  dust,  but  you  shall  live  by  fame :        10 
My  verse  your  vertues  rare  shall  eternize. 
And  in  the  hevens  wryte  your  glorious  name; 
Where,  when  as  death  shall  all  the  world 

subdew. 
Our  love  shall  live,  and  later  life  renew." 

&iv  falter  Maleiglft 

1552-1618 

THE   NYMPH'S   REPLY   TO   THE   PAS- 
SIONATE SHEPHERD 

(From  England's  Helicon,  1600) 

If  all  the  world  and  Love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pleasures  might  my  passion  move. 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold,     5 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb. 
The  rest  complains  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields;       10 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancies  spring  but  sorrows  fall. 

1  XL  and  LXXV.  These  are  from  a  series  of  eighty- 
eight  sonnets  entitled  Amoretti,  published  together  with 
the  splendid  Epithalamion,  or  marriage  hymn,  in  1595. 
The  sonnets  commemorate  Spenser's  courtship  of,  and 
the  Epithalamion  his  marriage  to,  a  certain  Irish  country 
girl  whose  Christian  name  was  certainly  Elizabeth,  and 
whose  last  name  (according  to  Grosart)  was  Boyle. 


150  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs. 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move. 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  could  love  still  breed. 
Had  joys  no  date,  had  age  no  need; 
Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

PILGRIM  TO  PILGRIM 

As  you  came  from  the  holy  land 

Of  Walsinghame, 
Met  you  not  with  my  true  love 

By  the  way  as  you  came? 

How  shall  I  know  your  true  love, 

That  have  met  many  one. 
As  I  went  to  the  holy  land. 

That  have  come,  that  have  gone? 

She  is  neither  white  nor  brown, 

But  as  the  heavens  fair; 
There  is  none  hath  a  form  so  divine 

In  the  earth  or  the  air. 


15 


20 


10 


Such  a  one  did  I  meet,  good  sir, 

Such  an  angel-like  face. 
Who  like  a  queen,  like  a  nymph,  did  appear,    15 

By  her  gait,  by  her  grace. 

She  hath  left  me  here  all  alone, 

All  alone,  as  unknown, 
Who  sometimes  did  me  lead  with  herself. 

And  me  loved  as  her  own.  20 

What's  the  cause  that  she  leaves  you  alone, 

And  a  new  way  doth  take, 
Who  loved  you  once  as  her  own, 

And  her  joy  did  you  make? 

I  have  loved  her  all  my  youth, 

And  now  old,  as  you  see. 
Love  Ukes  not  the  falling  fruit 

From  the  withered  tree. 

Know  that  love  is  a  careless  child. 

And  forgets  promise  past; 
He  is  blind,  he  is  deaf  when  he  list. 

And  in  faith  never  fast. 

His  desire  is  a  dureless  content. 

And  a  trustless  joy; 
He  is  won  with  a  world  of  despair 

And  is  lost  with  a  toy. 

Of  womankind  such  indeed  is  the  love. 

Or  the  word  love  abused. 
Under  which  many  childish  desires 

And  conceits  are  excused.  40 


25 


30 


35 


But  true  love  is  a  durable  fire. 
In  the  mind  ever  burning, 

Never  sick,  never  old,  never  dead. 
From  itself  never  turning. 

LINES  WRITTEN  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE 
HIS   DEATH! 
Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  on  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have. 
And  pays  us  but  with  (Earth)  and  dust; 
Who,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
(When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways),      5 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days: 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust! 

1553-1606 
APELLES'   SONG 

(From  Alexander  and  Camj>aspe,  1584;  acted 

1581) 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses, — Cupid  paid; 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow  and  arrows. 

His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows: 

Loses  them  too;  then  down  he  throws  5 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on  's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how); 

With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow. 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin: 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win.  10 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes; 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas!  become  of  me? 

1554-1586 

SONNETS 
(From  Astrophel  and  Stella,  c.  1591) 

XXXI 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the 

skies! 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face! 
What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries? 
Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eye       5 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case; 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks,  thy  languished  grace, 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then  ev'n  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me. 
Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of 

wit?  10 

Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  pos- 


Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness? 

1  Raleigh  was  executed  Oct.  29th,  1618.     These  lines 
are  said  to  have  been  found  in  Raleigh's  Bible. 


XXXIX — ON  SLEEP 


f    Come,  Sleep!  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and 

low; 
With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from  out  the 

prease  5 

Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw: 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed; 
A  chamber  deaf  of  noise,  and  blind  of  light;      10 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head : 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Liveher  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 


A  FAREWELL 

Leave  me,  O  Love!  which  reachest  but  to  dust; 
And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  things: 
Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust; 
What  ever  fades,  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 
Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  might  5 
To  that  sweet  yoke,  where  lasting  freedoms  be. 
Which  breaks  the  clouds,  and  opens  forth  the 

light. 
That  doth  both  shine,  and  give  us  sight  to  see. 

O  take  fast  hold!  let  that  light  be  thy  guide. 

In  this  small  course,  which  birth  draws  out  to 

death,  in 

And  think  how  ill  becometh  him  to  slide, 
Who  seeketh  heav'n,  and  comes  of  heav'nly 

breath. 
Then  farewell.  World,  thy  uttermost  I  see, 
Eternal  Love,  maintain  thy  life  in  Me! 

Splendidis  Longum  Valedico  Nugis^ 


1558-1625 

A  PROTESTATION 
(From  Rosalind,  1590) 

First  shall  the  heavens  want  starry  light. 
The  seas  be  robbed  of  their  waves ; 

The  day  want  sun,  and  sun  want  bright. 

The  night  want  shade,  the  dead  men  graves; 

The  April  flowers  and  leaf  and  tree,  5 

Before  I  false  my  faith  to  thee. 

First  shall  the  tops  of  highest  hills 

By  humble  plains  be  overpried;i 
And  poets  scorn  the  Muses'  quills. 

And  fish  forsake  the  water  glide :  10 

And  Iris  loose  her  colored  weed. 
Before  I  fail  thee  at  thy  need. 

1  A  long  farewell  to  shining  baubles. 
^  Overlooked. 


GEORGE  PEELE 


151 


15 


20 


First  direful  hate  shall  turn  to  peace. 
And  love  relent  in  deep  disdain; 

And  death  his  fatal  stroke  shall  cease. 
And  envy  pity  every  pain; 

And  pleasure  mourn,  and  sorrow  smile. 

Before  I  talk  of  any  guile. 

First  Time  shall  stay  his  stayless  race. 
And  winter  bless  his  brows  with  corn; 

And  snow  bemoisten  July's  face. 

And  winter  spring,  and  summer  mourn; 

Before  my  pen  by  help  of  fame. 

Cease  to  recite  thy  sacred  name. 


PHILLIS 

(From  Phillis  Honoured  with  Pastoral  Sonnets, 
1593) 

My  Phillis  hath  the  morning  sun 

At  first  to  look  upon  her. 
And  Phillis  hath  morn-waking  birds 

Her  risings  for  to  honour. 
My  Phillis  hath  prime-feathered  flowers  5 

That  smile  when  she  treads  on  them; 
And  Phillis  hath  a  gallant  flock 

That  leaps  since  she  doth  own  them. 
But  Phillis  hath  so  hard  a  heart 

(Alas  that  she  should  have  it), 
As  yields  no  mercy  to  desert 

Nor  grace  to  those  that  crave  it: 

Sweet  sun,  when  thou  lookest  on 

Pray  her  regard  my  moan. 

Sweet  birds,  when  you  sing  to  her 

To  yield  some  pity  woo  her. 

Sweet  flowers,  when  as  she  treads  on 

Tell  her  her  beauty  deads  one 
And  if  in  life  her  love  she  nill  agree  me,^ 
Pray  her  before  I  die  she  will  come  see  me. 


10 


15 


20 


George  l^ttlt 

c.  1558-c.  1598 

SONG 

(From  The  Arraignment  of  Paris,  printed,  1584) 

(Enone.  Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 
ay" 
The  fairest  shepherd  c 
A  love  for  any  lady. 


As  fair  as  any  may  be; 

'      "      '  on  our  green. 


Paris.  Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair,         5 
As  fair  as  any  may  be; 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 
And  for  no  other  lady. 

(Enone.  My  love  is  fair,  my  love  is  gay, 

As  fresh  as  bin  the  flowers  in  May, 

And  of  my  love  my  roundelay,         li 

My  merry,  merry,  merry  roundelay. 

Concludes  with  Cupid's  curse, — 

They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new. 

Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse!  15 

1  Will  not  (nill)  bring  in  agreement  with  me. 


152    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Both.  Fair  and  fair,  etc.  (repeated) 

(Enone.  My  love  can  pipe,  my  love  can  sing, 
My  love  can  many  a  pretty  thing, 
And  of  his  lovely  praises  ring 
My  merry,  merry  roundelays, 
Amen  to  Cupid's  curse,  20 

They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new, 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse! 

HIS  GOLDEN  LOCKS  TIME  HATH  TO 
SILVER  TURNED 

(From  Polyhymnia,  1590) 

His  golden  locks  Time  hath  to  silver  turned — 

0  time  too  swift,  O  swiftness  never  ceasing! 
His  youth   'gainst  time  and  age  hath   ever 

spurned. 
But  spurned  in  vain;  youth  waneth  by  in- 
creasing! 

Beauty,  strength,  youth,  are  flowers  but  fading 
seen ;  5 

Duty,  faith,  love,  are  roots,  and  ever  green. 

His  helmet  now  shall  make  a  hive  for  bees. 
And  lovers'  sonnets  turned  to  holy  psalms, 

A  man-at-arms  must  now  serve  on  his  knees. 

And  feed  on  prayers,  which  are  Old  Age  his 

alms:  lo 

But,  though  from'  court  to  cottage  he  depart. 

His  saint  is  sure  of  his  unspotted  heart. 

And  when  he  saddest  sits  in  homely  cell. 

He'll  teach  his  swains  this  carol  for  a  song: — 
"Blessed  be  the  hearts  that  wish  my  sovereign 
well,  15 

Cursed  be  souls  that  think  here  any  wrong!" 
Goddess,  allow  this  aged  man  his  right, 
To  be  your  bedesman^  now  that  was  your 
knight. 

ILLUSTRIOUS  ENGLAND,  ANCIENT 
SEAT  OF  KINGS 

(From  Edward  1st,  1593) 

Illustrious  England,  ancient  seat  of  kings. 
Whose  chivalry  hath  royalized  thy  fame. 
That  sounding  bravely  through  terrestrial  vale. 
Proclaiming  conquests,   spoils,   and  victories. 
Rings   glorious   echoes   through   the   farthest 

world;  5 

What  warlike  nation,  trained  in  feats  of  arms. 
What  barbarous  people,  stubborn,  or  untamed, 
What  climate  under  the  meridian  signs, ^ 
Or  frozen  zone  under  his  brumal  plage,  ^ 
Erst  have  not  quaked  and  trembled  at  the 

name  10 

Of  Britain  and  her  mighty  conquerors? 
Her  neighbour  realms,  as  Scotland,  Denmark, 

France, 

1  Bedesman  or  beadsman,  one  who  prays,  for  himself 
or,  more  especially,  for  another. 

1  Under  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac,  i.  e.  under  the  heaven. 

'  The  firmament  was  <iivided  into  four  quarters,  each 

f  which  was  called  a  plage,  or  region;  the  brumal  (or 

intry)  plage,  was  the  wintry  quarter  above  the  frozen 

X)ne. 


Awed  with  her  deeds  and  jealous  of  her  arms, 
Have  begged  offensive  and  defensive  leagues. 
Thus  Europe,  rich  and  mighty  in  her  kings,  15 
Hath  feared  brave  England,  dreadful  in  her 

kings. 
And  now,  t'  eternise  Albion's  champions 
Equivalent  with  Trojans'  ancient  fame, 
Comes  lovely  Edward  from  Jerusalem, 
Veering  before  the  wind,  ploughing  the  sea;     20 
His  stretched  sails  filled  with  the  breath  of  men 
That  through  the  world  admires  his  manliness. 
And,  lo,  at  last  arrived  in  Dover-road, 
Longshanks,^  your  king,  your  glory,  and  our 

son, 
With  troops  of  conquering  lords,  and  warlike 

knights,  25 

Like  bloody-crested  Mars,  o'erlooks  his  host, 
Higher  than  all  his  army  by  the  head, 
Marching  along  as  bright  as  Phoebus  eyes! 
And  we,  his  mother,  shall  behold  our  son. 
And  England's  peers  shall  see  their  sovereign.SG 


George  Cliapman 

c.  1559-1634 

HECTOR  AND  ANDROMACHE 

(From  translation  of  Homer's  Iliad,  Bk.  VI. 

1610) 

He  answer'd:  "Helen,  do  not  seek  to  make 

me  sit  with  thee; 
I  must  not  stay,   though  well  I  know  thy 

honour'd  love  of  me. 
...  I  myself  will  now  go  home,  and  see 
My  household,  my  dear  wife  and  son,  that  little 

hope  of  me; 
For,  sister,  'tis  without  my  skill,  if  I  shall  ever- 
more 5 
Return,  and  see  them,  or  to  earth,  her  right  in 

me,  restore. 
The  Gods  may  stoop  me  by  the  Greeks."    This 

said,  he  went  to  see 
The  virtuous  princess,  his  true  wife,  white- 

arm'd  Andromache. 
She,  with  her  infant  son  and  maid,  was  climb'd 

the  tow'r,  about 
The  sight  of  him  that  sought  for  her,  weeping 

and  crying  out.  lo 

Hector,  not  finding  her  at  home,  was  going 

forth;  retir'd; 
Stood   in   the   gate;   her  woman   call'd,   and 

curiously  inquir'd 
Where  she  was  gone;  bade  tell  him  true,  if  she 

were  gone  to  see 
His  sisters,  or  his  brothers'  wives;  or  whether 

she  should  be 
At  temple  with  the  other  dames,  t'  implore 

Minerva's  ruth.  is 

Her  woman  answer'd:  Since  he  ask'd,  and 
urg'd  so  much  the  truth, 
The  truth  was  she  was  neither  gone,  to  see  his. 
brothers'  wives, 

3  Longshanks:   Edward   Ist   was   given   this   surname 
on  account  of  his  unusual  height.  \ 


GEORGE  CHAPMAN 


153 


His  sisters,  nor  t'  implore  the  ruth  of  Pallas  on 

their  lives; 
But  she  (adv§rtis'd  of  the  bane  Troy  sufifer'd, 

and  how  vast 
Conquest  herself  had  made  for  Greece)  like 

one  distraught,  made  haste  20 

To  ample  Ilion  with  her  son,  and  nurse,  and  all 

the  way 
Moiirn'd,  and  dissolved  in  tears  for  him.    Then 

Hector  made  no  stay, 
But  trod  her  path,  and  through  the  streets, 

magnificently  built, 
All  the  great  city  pass'd,  and  came  where, 

seeing  how  blood  was  spilt, 
Andromache  might  see  him  come;  who  made  as 

he  would  pass  25 

The  ports  without  saluting  her,  not  knowing 

where  she  was. 
She,  with  his  sight,  made  breathless  haste,  to 

meet  him;  she,  whose  grace 
Brought  him  withal  so  great  a  dow'r;  she  that 

of  all  the  race 
Of  King  Action  only  lived:  Action,  whose  house 

stood 
Beneath  the  mountain  Placius,  environ'd  with 

the  wood  30 

Of  Theban   Hypoplace,   being   court   to   the 

Cicilian  land. 
She  ran  to  Hector,  and  with  her,  tender  of 

heart  and  hand, 
Her  son,  borne  in  his  nurse's  arms;  when,  like  a 

heav'nly  sign, 
Compact  of  many  golden  stars,  the  princely 

child  did  shine, 
Whom  Hector  call'd  Scamandrius;  but  whom 

the  town  did  name  35 

Astyanax,  because  his  sire  did  only  prop  the 

same. 
Hector,   though  grief  bereft  his  speech,   yet 

smil'd  upon  his  joy. 
Andromache  cried  out,  mix'd  hands,  and  to  the 

.  strength  of  Troy 
Thus  wept  forth  her  affection:  "0  noblest  in 

desire, 
Thy  mind,  inflam'd  with  others'  good,  will  set 

thyself  on  fire:  40 

Nor  pitiest  thou  thy  son,  nor  wife,  who  must 

thy  widow  be. 
If  now  thou  issue;  all  the  field  will  only  run  on 

thee. 
Better  my  shoulders  underwent  the  earth,  than 

thy  decease: 
For  then  would  earth  bear  joys  no  more;  then 

comes  the  black  increase 
Of  griefs  (like  Greeks  on  Ilion).    Alas!  what  one 

survives  45 

To  be  my  refuge?    One  black  day  bereft  seven 

brothers'  lives, 
By   stern   Achilles;   by  his  hand  my  father 

breathed  his  last, 
His  high-wall'd  rich  Cicilian  Thebes  sack'd  by 

him,  and  laid  waste; 
The  royal  body  yet  he  left  unspoil'd;  religion 

charm'd 
That  act  of  spoil;  and  all  in  fire  he  bum'd  him 

c6mplete  arm'd;  60 


Built  over  him  a  royal  tomb;  and  to  the  monu- 
ment 
He  left  of  him,  th'  Oreades  (that  are  the  high 

descent 
Of    iEgis-bearing    Jupiter)    another    of    their 

own 
Did  add  to  it,  and  set  it  round  with  elms;  by 

which  is  shown,  * 

In  theirs,  the  barrenness  of  death;  yet  might  it 

serve  beside  55 

To  shelter  the  sad  monument  from  all  the 

ruffinous  pride 
Of  storms  and  tempests,  us'd  to  hurt  things  of 

that  noble  kind. 
The  short  life  yet  my  mother  liv'd  he  sav'd,  and 

serv'd  his  mind 
With  all  the  riches  of  the  realm;  which  not 

enough  esteem'd. 
He  kept  her  pris'ner;  whom  small  time,  but 

much  more  wealth,  redeem'd ;  60 

And  she,  in  sylvan  Hypoplace,  Cicilia  rul'd 

again. 
But  soon  was  over-rul'd  by  death;  Diana's 

chaste  disdain 
Gave  her  a  lance,  and  took  her  life.    Yet,  all 

these  gone  from  me, 
Thou  amply  render'st  all;  thy  life  makes  still 

my  father  be. 
My  mother,  brothers;  and  besides  thou  art  my 

husband  too,  65 

Most  lov'd,  most  worthy.    Pity  then,  dear  love, 

and  do  not  go. 
For  thou  gone,  all  these  go  again;  pity  our  com- 
mon joy, 
Lest,  of  a  father's  patronage,  the  bulwark  of  all 

Troy, 
Thou  leav'st  him  a  poor  widow's  charge.    Stay, 

stay  then,  in  this  tow'r. 
And  call  up  to  the  wild  fig-tree  all  thy  retir'd 

pow'r;  70 

For  there  the  wall  is  easiest  scal'd,  and  fittest 

for  siu-prise. 
And  there,  th'  A j  aces,  Idomen,  th'  Atrides, 

Diomed,  thrice 
Have   both   survey 'd   and   made   attempt;   I 

know  not  if  induc'd 
By  some  wise  augur,  or  the  fact  was  naturally 

infus'd 
Into  their  wits,  or  courages."    To  this,  great 

Hector  said:  75 

"Be  well  assur'd,  wife,  all  these  things  in  my 

kind  cares  are  weigh'd. 
But  what  a  shame,  and  fear,  it  is  to  think  how 

Troy  would  scorn 
(Both  in  her  husbands,  and  her  wives,  whom 

long-train'd  gowns  adorn) 
That  I  should  cowardly  fly  off!    The  spirit  I 

first  did  breath 
Did  never  teach  me  that;  much  less,  since  the 

contempt  of  death  80 

Was  settled  in  me,  and  my  mind  knew  what  a 

worthy  was, 
Whose  office  is  to  lead  in  fight,  and  give  no 

danger  pass 
Without    improvement.      In    this    fire    must 

Hector's  trial  shine; 


154    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Here  must  his  country,  father,  friends,  be,  in 

him,  made  divine. 
And  such  a  stormy  day  shall  come  (in  mind  and 

soul  I  know)  85 

When  sacred  Troy  shall  shed  her  tow'rs,  for 

tears  of  overthrow^ 
When  Priam,  all  his  birth  and  pow'r,  shall  in 

those  tears  be  drown'd. 
But  neither  Troy's  posterity  so  much  my  soul 

doth  wound. 
Priam,  nor  Hecuba  herself,  nor  all  my  brothers' 

woes, 
(Who  though  so  many,  and  so  good,  must  all  be 

food  for  foes)  •  90 

As  thy  sad  state;  when  some  rude  Greek  shall 

lead  thee  weeping  hence. 
These  free  days  clouded,  and  a  night  of  captive 

violence 
Loading  thy  temples,  out  of  which  thine  eyes 

must  never  see, 
But  spin  the  Greek  wives*  webs  of  task,  and 

their  fetch-water  be 
To  Argo35  from  Messeides,  or  clear  Hyperia's 

spring:  95 

Which  howsoever  thou  abhorr'st.  Fate's  such  a 

shrewish  thing 
She  will  be  mistress;  whose  curs'd  hands,  when 

they  shall  crush  out  cries 
From  thy  oppressions  (being  beheld  by  other 

enemies) 
Thus  they  will  nourish  thy  extremes:  *This 

dame  was  Hector's  wife, 
A  man  that,  at  the  wars  of  Troy,  did  breathe 

the  worthiest  life  100 

Of  all  their  army.'     This  again  will  rub  thy 

fruitful  wounds, 
To  miss  the  man  that  to  thy  bands  could  give 

such  narrow  bounds. 
But  that  day  shall  not  wound  mine  eyes;  the 

solid  heap  of  night 
Shall  interpose,  shall  stop  mine  ears  against 

thy  plaints,  and  plight." 


This  said,  he  reach'd  to  take  his  son;  who,  of 

his  arms  afraid,     ^  _     105 

And  then  the  horse-hair  plume,  with  which  he 

was  so  overlaid, 
Nodded  so  horribly,  he  cling'd  back  to  his  nurse, 

and  cried. 
Laughter  affected  his  great  sire,  who  doff'd,  and 

laid  aside 
His  fearful  helm,  that  on  the  earth  cast  roimd 

about  it  light; 
Then   took  and  kiss'd  his  loving  son,   and 

(balancing  his  weight    ^  no 

In  dancing  him)  these  loving  vows  to  living 

Jove  he  us'd, 
And  all  the  other  bench  of  Gods:  "O  you  that 

have  infus'd 
Soul  to  this  infant,  now  set  down  this  blessing 

on  his  star: — 
Let  his  renown  be  clear  as  mine;  equal  his 

strength  in  war; 
And  make  his  reign  so  strong  in  Troy,  that 

years  to  come  may  yield  lis 


His  facts  this  fame,  when,  rich  in  spoils,  he 

leaves  the  conquer'd  field 
Sown  with  his  slaughters:  'These  high  deeds 

exceed  his  father's  worth!' 
And  let  this  echo'd  praise  supply  the  comforts 

to  come  forth 
Of  his  kind  mother  with  my  life."    This  said, 

th'  heroic  sire 
Gave  him  his  mother;  whose  fair  eyes  fresh 

streams  of  love's  salt  fire  120 

Billow'd  on  her  soft  cheeks,  to  hear  the  last  of 

Hector's  speech, 
In  which  his  vows  compris'd  the  sum  of  all  he 

did  beseech 
In  her  wish'd  comfort.    So  she  took  into  her 

od'rous  breast 
Her  husband's  gift;  who,  mov'd  to  see  her 

heart  so  much  oppress'd. 
He  dried  her  tears,  and  thus  desir'd:  "Afflict 

me  not,  dear  wife,  125 

With  these  vain  griefs.    He  doth  not  Uve,  that 

can  disjoin  my  life 
And  this  firm  bosom,  but  my  fate;  and  Fate, 

whose  wings  can  fly? 
Noble,  ignoble,  Fate  controls.    Once  born,  the 

best  must  die. 
Go  home,  and  set  thy  housewif'ry  on  these 

extremes  of  thought; 
And  drive  war  from  them  with  thy  maids;  keep 

them  from  doing  nought.  130 

These  will  be  nothing;  leave  the  cares  of  war  to 

men,  and  me 
In  whom,  of  all  the  Ilion  race,  they  take  their 

high'st  degree." 

On  went  his  helm;  his  princess  home,  half 
cold  with  kindly  fears; 
When  every  fear  turn'd  back  her  looks,  and 
every  look  shed  tears. 

ZEUS  SENDS  HERMES  TO  CALYPSO 

(Prom  translation  of  Homer's  Odyssey,  Bk.  V. 
1614) 

Thus  charged  he ;  nor  Argicides  denied, 
But  to  his  feet  his  fair  wing'd  shoes  he  tied, 
Ambrosian,  golden;  that  in  his  command 
Put  either  sea,  or  the  unmeasured  land, 
With  pace  as  speedy  as  a  puft  of  wind.  5 

Then  up  his  rod  went,  with  which  he  declined 
The  eyes  of  any  waker,  when  he  pleased, 
And  any  sleeper,  when  he  wish'd,  diseased. 

This  took;  he  stoop'd  Pieria,  and  thence 
Glid  through  the  air,  and  Neptune's  confluence, 
Kiss'd  as  he  flew,  and  check'd  the  waves  as 
light  ...  11 

As  any  sea-mew  in  her  fishing  flight 
Her  thick  wings  sousing  in  the  savoury  seas. 
Like  her,  he  pass'd  a  world  of  wilderness; 
But  when  the  far-off  isle  he  touch'd,  he  went    15 
Up  from  the  blue  sea  to  the  continent, 
And  reach'd  the  ample  cavern  of  the  Queen, 
Whom  he  within  found;  without  seldom  seen. 
A  sun-like  fire  upon  the  hearth  did  flame; 
The  matter  precious,  and  divine  the  frame;     20       ^ 


SAMUEL  DANIEL 


155 


Of  cedar  cleft  and  incense  was  the  pile, 

That  breathed  an  odour  round  about  the  isle. 

HerseK  was  seated  in  an  inner  room, 

Whom  sweetly  sing  he  heard,  and  at  her  loom. 

About  a  curious  web,  whose  yarn  she  threw     25 

In  with  a  golden  shittle.^    A  grove  grew 

In  endless  spring  about  her  cavern  round. 

With    odorous    cypress,    pines,    and    poplars, 

crown'd. 
Where    hawks,    sea-owls,    and    long-tongued 

bittours^  bred. 
And  other  birds  their  shady  pinions  spread ;     30 
All  fowls  maritimal;  none  roosted  there. 
But  those  whose  labours  in  the  waters  were. 
A  vine  did  all  the  hollow  cave  embrace, 
Still  green,  yet  still  ripe  bunches  gave  it  brace. 
Four  fountains,  one  against  another,  pour'd     35 
Their  silver  streams;  and  meadows  all  enflour'd 
With  sweet  balm-gentle,  and  blue  violets  hid. 
That  deck'd  the  soft  breasts  of  each  fragrant 

mead. 
Should  any  one,  though  he  immortal  were, 
Arrive  and  see  the  sacred  objects  there,  40 

He  would  admire  them,  and  be  over-joy'd; 
And  so  stood  Hermes'  ravish'd  powers  em- 

ploy'd. 

l^obert  (3ttmt 

1560-1592 

CONTENT 

(From  Farewell  to  Folly,  1591) 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content, 

The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown. 
Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber  spent. 
The    poor    estate    scorns    fortune's    angry 
frown: 
Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep, 
such  bliss,  5 

Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss, 

The  homely^  house  that  harbours  quiet  rest, 
The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  nor  care, 

The  mean  that  grees^  with  country  music  best. 
The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  modest  fare. 

Obscurdd  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss:  1 1 

A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is. 

Samuel  SDaniel 

1562-1619 

SONNET  LI 

(From  Delia,  Containing  certain  Sonnets,  1592) 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born: 
Relieve  my  languish  and  restore  the  light; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care,  return. 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn  5 

The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured  youth: 

i  Shuttle.  ^  Bitterns. 

1  Homelike. 

2  The  middle  state,  or  modest  circumstances.     That 
best  agrees,  etc. 


Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease  dreams,  the  images  of  day  desires. 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow;      lo 
Never  let  rising  sun  approve  you  liars. 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow. 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 


PROPHECY  OF  LITERATURE  IN 
AMERICA 

(From  Musophilus,  1599) 

Pow'r  above  powers!   O  heavenly  Eloquence! 
That   with   the   strong   rein   of   commanding 

words 
Dost  manage,  guide,  and  master  th'  eminence 
Of  men's  affections,  more  than  all  their  swords! 
Shall  we  not  offer  to  thy  excellence,  5 

The  richest  treasure  that  our  wit  affords? 

Thou  that  canst  do  much  more  with  one  poor 

pen. 
Than  all  the  pow'rs  of  princes  can  effect; 
And  draw,  divert,  dispose  and  fashion  men, 
Better  than  force  or  rigour  can  direct!  10 

Should  we  this  ornament  of  glory  then. 
As  th'  unmaterial  fruit  of  shades,  neglect? 

Or  should  we  careless  come  behind  the  rest 
In  power  of  words,  that  go  before  in  worth; 
When  as  our  accent 's  equal  to  the  best,  15 

Is  able  greater  wonders  to  bring  forth? 
When  all  that  ever  hotter  spir'ts  expressed. 
Comes  better'd  by  the  patience  of  the  north. 

And  who  (in  time)  knows  whither  we  may  vent 
The  treasure  of  our  tongue?    To  what  strange 

shores  20 

This  gain  of  our  best  glory  shall  be  sent, 
T'  enrich  unknowing  nations  with  our  stores? 
What  worlds  in  th'  unformM  Occident, 
May  come  refin'd  with  th'  accents  that  are 

ours? 

Or  who  can  tell  for  what  great  work  in  hand     25 
The  greatness  of  our  style  is  now  ordain'd? 
What  pow'rs  it  shall  bring  in,  what  spir'ts 

command? 
What  thoughts  let  out;  what  humours  keep 

restrain' d? 
What  mischief  it  may  pow'rfuUy  withstand; 
And  what  fair  ends  may  thereby  be  attain'd?  30 

TO  THE  LADY  MARGARET,  COUNTESS 
OF  CUMBERLAND 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his  mind. 
And  rear'd  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts  so 

strong. 
As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the  frame 
Of  his  resolved  powers;  nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  pierce  to  wrong  5 

His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same: 
What  a  fair  seat  hath  he,  from  whence  he  may 
The  boundless  wastes  and  wilds  of  man  survey! 


156  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


And  with  how  free  an  eye  doth  he  look  down 
Upon  these  lower  regions  of  turmoU?  10 

Where  all  the  storms  of  passions  mainly  beat 
On  flesh  and  blood:  where  honour,   power, 

renown, 
Are  only  gay  afflictions,  golden  toil; 
Where  greatness  stands  upon  as  feeble  feet 
As  frailty  doth ;  and  only  great  doth  seem         1 5 
To  little  minds,  who  do  it  so  esteem. 

He  looks  upon  the  mightiest  monarch's  wars 
But  only  as  on  stately  robberies; 
Where  evermore  the  fortune  that  prevails 
Must  be  the  right :  the  ill-succeeding  mars        20 
The  fairest  and  the  best-f ac'd  enterprise. 
Great  pirate  Pompey  lesser  pirates  quails: 
Justice,  he  sees  (as  if  seduced)  still 
Conspires  with  power,  whose  cause  must  not  be 
ill. 

He  sees  the  face  of  right  t'  appear  as  manifold  25 

As  are  the  passions  of  uncertain  man; 

Who  puts  it  in  all  colours,  all  attires, 

To  serve  his  ends,  and  make  his  courses  hold. 

He  sees,  that  let  deceit  work  what  it  can, 

Plot  and  contrive  base  ways  to  high  desires;     30 

That  the  all-guiding  Providence  doth  yet 

All  disappoint,  and  mocks  the  smoke  of  wit. 

Nor  is  he  mov'd  with  all  the  thunder-cracks 
Of  tyrant's  threats,  or  with  the  surly  brow 
Of  Pow'r,  that  proudly  sits  on  others'  crimes:  35 
Charg'd  with  more  crying  sins  than  those  he 

checks. 
The  storms  of  sad  confusion,  that  may  grow 
Up  in  the  present  for  the  coming  times, 
Appal  not  him;  that  hath  no  side  at  all. 
But  of  himself,  and  knows  the  worst  can  40 

faU.  ... 

And  whereas  none  rejoice  more  in  revenge; 
Than  women  use  to  do;  yet  you  well  know, 
That  wrong  is  better  check'd  by  being  con- 

temn'd. 
Than  being  pursu'd ;  leaving  him  t'  avenge. 
To  whom  it  appertains.    Wherein  you  show    45 
How  worthily  your  clearness  hath  condemn'd 
Base  malediction,  living  in  the  dark, 
That  at  the  rays  of  goodness  still  doth  bark. 

Knowing  the  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be 
The  centre  of  this  world,  about  the  which         50 
These  revolutions  of  disturbances 
Still  roll;  where  all  th'  aspects  of  misery 
Predominate:  whose  strong  effects  are  such, 
As  he  must  bear,  being  pow'rless  to  redress: 
And  that  unless  above  himself  he  can  55 

Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man. 

And  how  turmoil'd  they  are  that  level  lie 
With  earth,  and  cannot  lift  themselves  from 

thence; 
That  never  are  at  peace  with  their  desires. 
But  work  beyond  their  years ;  and  ev'n  deny    60 
Dotage  her  rest,  and  hardly  will  dispense 
With  death.   That  when  ability  expires, 
Desire  lives  still — So  much  delight  they  have, 
To  carry  toil  and  travel  to  the  grave. 


TO  HENRY  WRIOTHESLY,   EARL  OF 
SOUTHAMPTON 

NonfercU  uUum  ictum  illcesa  felicitas^ 

He  who  hath  never  war'd  with  misery, 
Nor  ever  tugg'd  with  fortune  and  distress, 
Hath  had  n'  occasion,  nor  no  field  to  try 
The  strength  and  forces  of  his  worthiness. 
Those  parts  of  judgment  which  felicity  5 

Keeps  as  conceal'd,  affliction  must  express; 
And  only  men  show  their  abilities. 
And  what  they  are,  in  their  extremities. 

The  world  had  never  taken  so  full  note 

Of  what  thou  art,  had'st  thou  not  been  un- 
done; 10 

And  only  thy  affliction  hath  begot 

More  fame,  than  thy  best  fortunes  could  have 
done: 

For  ever  by  adversity  are  wrought 

The  greatest  works  of  admiration; 

And  all  the  fair  examples  of  renown,  15 

Out  of  distress  and  misery  are  grown. 

Mutius  the  fire,  the  tortures  Regulus, 
Did  make  the  miracles  of  faith  and  zeal; 
Exile  renown'd  and  grac'd  Rutilius: 
Imprisonment  and  poison  did  reveal  20 

The  worth  of  Socrates.    Fabritius' 
Poverty  did  grace  that  commonweal. 
More  than  all  Sylla's  riches  got  with  strife; 
And  Cato's  death  did  vie  with  Caesar's  life. 

Not  to  b'  unhappy  is  unhappiness,  25 

And  mis'ry  not  to  have  known  misery: 
For  the  best  way  unto  discretion  is 
The  way  that  leads  us  by  adversity, 
And  men  are  better  show'd  what  is  amiss, 
By  th'  expert  finger  of  calamity,  30 

Than  they  can  be  with  all  that  fortune  brings. 
Who  never  shows  them  the  true  face  of  things. 

How  could  we  know  that  thou  couldst  have 

endur'd, 
With  a  repos'd  cheer,  wrong,  and  disgrace; 
And  with  a  heart  and  countenance  assur'd,      35 
Have  look'd  stem  Death  and  horror  in  the  face! 
How  should  we  know  thy  soul  had  been  secur'd, 
In  honest  counsels,  and  in  way  unbase; 
Had'st  thou  not  stood  to  show  us  what  thou 

wer't, 
By  thy  affliction  that  descry'd  thy  heart !         40 

It  is  not  but  the  tempest  that  doth  show 
The  seaman's  cunning;  but  the  field  that  tries 
The  captain's  courage:  and  we  come  to  know 
Best  what  men  are,  in  their  worst  jeopardies. 
For  lo !  how  many  have  we  seen  to  grow  45 

To  high  renown  from  lowest  miseries. 
Out  of  the  hands  of  Death?    And  many  a  one 
T'  have  been  imdone,  had  they  not  been  un- 
done? 

1  Unbroken  prosperity  is  unable  to  bear  any  evil  stroka 
Seneca,  De  Providentia. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 


157 


He  that  endures  for  what  his  conscience  knows 
Not  to  be  ill,  doth  from  a  patience  high  50 

Look  only  on  the  cause  whereto  he  owes 
Those  sufferings,  not  on  his  misery : 
The  more  he  'endures,  the  more  his  glory  grows, 
Which  never  grows  from  imbecility: 
Only  the  best  compos'd,  and  worthiest  hearts,  55 
God  sets  to  act  the  hard'st  and  constant'st 
Darts. 


1563-1631 

SONNET  LXI 

(From  Idea's  Mirror,  1594) 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part, 
Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea  glad  with  all  my  heart. 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free; 
Shake  hands  forever,  cancel  all  our  vows,  5 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again. 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 
Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath, 
When  his  pulse  failing.  Passion  speechless  lies,  10 
When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 
And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes: 

Now  if  thou  would'st,  when  all  have  given 
him  over. 

From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  re- 
cover. 


AND 


AGINCOURT 

TO    MY    FRIENDS    THE    CAMBER-BRITONS^ 
THEIR    HARP 

(From   Poems,   Lyrics  and  Pastorals,    1605?) 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance. 
And  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  not  tarry. 
But  put  unto  the  .main,  5 

At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  warlike  train. 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 

Furnished  in  warlike  sort,  10 

Coming  toward  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour, 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  oppose  his  way. 
Where  as  the  gen'ral  lay  15  - 

With  all  his  power: 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride. 
As  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

Unto  him  sending;  20 

iThe  Britons  of  Cambria,  or  Wales,  aa  distinguished 
from  the  Britons  of  Cornwall  and  Armorica.  The  harp 
was  intimately  associated  with  the  Welsh  poetry  as  it 
was  with  that  of  Celtic  Ireland. 


Which  he  neglects  the  while. 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile. 
Their  fall  portending; 

And,  turning  to  his  men,  26 

Quoth  famous  Henry  then, 
''Though  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed; 
Yet  have  we  well  begun,  ^ 

Battles  so  bravely  won  30 

Ever  more  to  the  sun 

By  fame  are  raised. 

"And  for  myself,"  quoth  he, 
"This  my  full  rest  shall  be, 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me,  35 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  be  slain. 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me.  40 

"Poyters  and  Cressy  tell, 
When  most  their  pride  did  swell. 
Under  our  swords  they  fell. 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great,       45 
Claiming  the  regal  seat. 
In  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopp'd  the  French  lilies." 

The  Duke  of  York^  so  dread. 

The  eager  vaward  led;  50 

With  the  main  Henry  sped, 

Amongst  his  henchmen.* 
Excester  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there, 
And  now  preparing  were  55 

For  the  false  Frenchman, 

And  ready  to  be  gone. 
Armor  on  armor  shone, 
Drum  unto  drum  did  groan. 

To  hear  was  wonder;  60 

That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake. 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became,  65 

O  noble  Erpingham," 
Thou  did'st  the  signal  frame 

Unto  the  forces; 
When  from  a  meadow  by. 
Like  a  storm  suddenly,  70 

The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses. 


The  Spanish  yew  so  strong. 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long. 
That  like  to  serpents  stong, 
Piercing  the  wether; 

2  Edward,   second  Duke  of  York,   and  grandson 
Edward  III. 

2  Followers. 

*  Sir  Thomas  Erpingham,  "who  threw  up  his  truncheon 
as  a  signal  to  the  English  forces,  who  lay  in  ambush, 
to  advance." 


75 


of 


158    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


None  from  his  death  now  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts 

Stuck  close  together.  80 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbows^  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew: 

No  man  was  tardy; 
Arms  from  the  shoulders  sent,  85 

Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went, 

These  were  men  hardy. 

When  now  that  noble  king, 

His  broad  sword  brandishing,  90 

Into  the  host  did  fling, 

As  to  overwhelm  it; 
Who  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent. 
And  many  a  cruel  dent  95 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloster,^  that  duke  so  good. 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood. 

With  his  brave  brother,  100 

Clarence,  in  steel  most  bright, 
That  yet  a  maiden  knight. 
Yet  in  this  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade,  105 

Oxford  the  foes  invade. 
And  cruel  slaughter  made. 

Still  as  they  ran  up; 
Suffolk  h*"  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumon  ■  and  Willoughby  110 

Bear  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

On  happy  Crispin  day' 

Fought  WPS  this  noble  fray, 

Which  fame  did  not  delay  115 

To  England  to  carry; 
O  when  shall  Englishmen, 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry?  120 


FROM  THE  "VIRGINIAN  VOYAGE" 

You  brave  heroic  minds, 
Worthy  your  countries  name. 
That  honour  still  pursue, 
Go,  and  subdue,  » 

Whilst  loit'  ring  hinds  5 

Lurke  here  at  home  with  shame. 

8  Swords.  From  Bilboa  in  Spain,  a  town  famous  for 
:ts  blades. 

«  Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloucester,  younger  brother  of 
the  king.  Thomas,  Duke  of  Clarence,  alluded  to  here  as 
Clarence,  was  also  the  King's  brother. 

">  The  Feast  of  Crispin,  Saint  and  martyr,  which  falls 
on  Oct.  25th. 


Britons,  you  stay  too  long, 
Quickly  aboard  bestow  you, 

And  with  a  merry  gale 

Swell  your  stretch'd  sail,  ifl 

With  vowes  as  strong 
As  the  winds  that  blow  you. 

Your  course  securely  steer. 
West  and  by  south  forth  keep, 

Rocks,  lee-shores,  nor  shoals,        15 

When  Eolus  scowls, 
You  need  not  fear. 
So  absolute  the  deep. 

And  cheerfully  at  sea, 

Success  you  still  intice,  20 

To  get  the  pearl  and  gold. 

And  ours  to  hold, 
Virginia, 
Earth's  only  paradise.  .  .  . 

When  as  the  luscious  smell 

Of  that  delicious  land. 

Above  the  seas  that  flows. 

The  clear  wind  throws,  45 

Your  hearts  to  swell 

Approaching  the  dear  strand; 

In  kenningi  of  the  shore 
(Thanks  to  God  first  given), 

O  you  the  happy  'st  men,  60 

Be  frolic  then. 
Let  cannons  roar. 
Frighting  the  wide  heaven. 

And  in  regions  far 

Such  heroes  bring  ye  forth,  65 

As  those  from  whom  we  came. 

And  plant  our  name 
Under  that  starre 
Not  known  unto  our  North. 


1564-1593 

THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO 
HIS  LOVE 

(In   The  Passionate  Pilgrim,    1599,   enlarged 
form  in  England's  Helicon,  1600) 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  valleys,  groves,^  hills  and  fields. 
Woods  or  steepy  mountains  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks,  5 

Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 


And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle; 

1  In  sight,  or  view. 

^  Groves  is  here  a  dissylable. 


10 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 


159 


A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 
Fair-Hned  slippers  for  the  cold,  15 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold; 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 

With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs: 

An  if  these  pictures  may  thee  move, 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love.  20 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning i^ 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 


PASSAGES  FROM  THE  DRAMAS 

AMBITION 

(From  Tamburlaine^  the  Great,  Ft.  II.  Pub. 
1590) 

Nature  that  framed  us  of  four  elements. 
Warring  within  our  breasts  for  regiment,^ 
Doth  teach  us  all  to  have  aspiring  minds : 
Our  souls,  whose  faculties  can  comprehend 
The  wondrous  architecture  of  the  world,  5 

And  measure  every  wandering  planet's  course, 
Still  climbing  after  knowledge  infinite, 
And  always  moving  as  the  restless  spheres, 
Will  us  to  wear  ourselves,  and  never  rest. 
Until  we  reach  the  ripest  fruit  of  all,  10 

That  perfect  bliss  and  sole  felicity, 
The  sweet  fruition  of  an  earthly  crown. 


TAMBIIRLAINE  TO  THE  SUBJECT 
KINGS  1 

(From  the  same.  Act  IV.  iii.) 

Holla,  ye  pampered  jades  of  Asia! 
What!  can  ye  draw  but  twenty  miles  a  day, 
And  have  so  proud  a  chariot  at  your  heels. 
And  such  a  coachman  as  great  Tamburlaine, 
But  from  Asphaltis,  where  I  conquered  you,    5 
To  Byron  here,  where  thus  I  honour  you? 
The  horse  that  guide  the  golden  eye  of  Heaven, 
And  blow  the  morning  from  their  nosterils. 
Making  their  fiery  gait  above  the  clouds, 
Are  not  so  honoured  in  their  governor,  10 

As  you,  ye  slaves,  in  mighty  Tamburlaine. 
The  headstrong  jades  of  Thrace  Alcides  tamed, 
That  King  Egeus  fed  with  human  flesh, 
And  made  so  wanton,  that  they  knew  their 
strengths, 

1  Tamburlaine,  or  Tamerlaine,  i.  e.  the  Tartar  con- 
queror Timur  or  Timour  (1333-1405),  who  subdued 
Persia,  central  Asia,  and  finally  a  great  part  of  India. 
The  first  part  of  Marlowe's  Tamburlaine  was  acted  in 
1587. 

2  Rule. 

1  We  must  imagine  Tamburlaine,  in  this  scene,  stand- 
ing in  his  chariot,  which  is  drawn  by  the  conquered  Kings 
of  Trebizond  and  Syria.  The  Kings  have  bits  in  their 
mouths,  and  Tamburlaine  drives  them  before  him,  lash- 
ing them  with  his  whip. 


Were  not  subdued  with  valour  more  divine     15 
Than  you  by  this  unconquered  arm  of  mine. 
To  make  you  fierce,  and  fit  my  appetite. 
You  shall  be  fed  with  flesh  as  raw  as  blood. 
And  drink  in  pails  the  strongest  muscadel; 
If  you  can  live  with  it,  then  live,  and  draw      20 
My  chariot  swifter  than  the  racking  clouds; 
If  not,  then  die  like  beasts,  and  fit  for  naught 
But  perches  for  the  black  and  fatal  ravens, 
Thus  am  I  right  the  highest  scourge  of  Jove; 
And  see  the  figure  of  my  dignity  25 

By  which  I  hold  my  name  and  majesty! 


FAUSTUS'  VISION  OF  HELEN 

(From  Doctor  Faustus,  Pub.  1604) 

Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand 
ships. 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium! 
Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss. 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul!  see  where  it  flies; 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soul  again.     5 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heaven  is  in  these  lips. 
And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 
I  will  be  Paris,  and  for  love  of  thee. 
Instead  of  Troy,  shall  Wittenberg  be  sacked; 
And  I  will  combat  with  weak  Menelaus,         10 
And  wear  thy  colours  on  my  plumed  crest: 
Yea  I  will  wound  Achilles  in  the  heel, 
And  then  return  to  Helen  for  a  kiss. 
Oh!  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars;  15 

Brighter  art  thou  than  flaming  Jupiter, 
When  he  appeared  to  hapless  Semele; 
More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  sky  , 

In  wanton  Arethusa's  azure  arms; 
And  none  but  thou  shalt  be  my  paramour!     20 


FAUSTUS  FULFILS  HIS  COMPACT 
WITH  THE  DEVIL 

(From  the  same.  Act  V.  sc.  IV.) 

Oh,  Faustus! 

Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 
And  then  thou  must  be  damned  perpetually. 
Stand  still  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven,* 
That  time  may  cease,   and  midnight  never 
come.  5 

Fair  nature's  eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 
Perpetual  day;  or  let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day. 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul. 
0  hnte^  lente  currite  noctis  equi!  10 

The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will 

The  devil'  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  be 
damned. 

Oh,  I'll  leap  up  to  heaven!— Who  pulls  me 
down? 

See  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firma- 
ment: 

1  The  transparent  spheres  which,  according  to  the 
Ptolomaic  system  of  astronomy  envelope  and  mov« 
about  the  earth.  . 

2  O  run  slowly,  slowly,  ye  coursers  of  night. 


160  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


One  drop  of  blood  will  save  me:  oh,  my  Christ! 
Rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ; 
Yet  will  I  call  on  him.    Oh,  spare  me  Lucifer! — 
Where  is  it  now? — 'tis  gone! 
And  see,  a  threatening  arm,  an  angry  brow!    19 
Mountains  and  hills,  come,  come  and  fall  on  me, 
And  hide  me  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  heaven! 
No! 

Then  will  I  headlong  run  into  the  earth: 
Gape,  earth!  — O  no,  it  will  not  harbour  me. 
You  stars  that  reigned  at  my  nativity,  25 

Whose  influence  hath  allotted  death  and  hell, 
Now  draw  up  Faustus,  like  a  foggy  mist. 
Into  the  entrails  of  yon  labouring  cloud; 
That,  when  ye  vomit  forth  into  the  air 
My  limbs  may  issue  from  your  smoky  mouths; 
But  let  my  soul  mount  and  ascend  to  heaven.  31 
(The  clock  strikes  the  half  hour.) 
Oh,  half  the  hour  is  past,  'till  all  be  past  anon. 
Oh!  if  my  soul  must  suffer  for  my  sin. 
Impose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain. 

Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years —  35 
A  hundred  thousand — and  at  last  be  saved: 
No  end  is  limited  to  damnM  souls. 
Why  wert  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul? 
Or  why  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast? 
Oh!  Pythagorus'^    Metemps;^chosis!  40 

Were  that  (but)  true;  this  soul  should  fly  from 

me. 
And  I  be  changed  into  some  brutish  beast. 
All  beasts  are  happy,  for  when  they  die 
Their  souls  are  soon  dissolved  in  elements; 
But  mine  must  live  still  to  be  plagued  in  hell.  45 
Cursed  be  the  parents  that  engendered  me! 
No,  Faustus,  curse  thyself,  curse  Lucifer, 

/That  hath  deprived  thee  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 
(The  clock  strikes  twelve.) 
It  strikes,  it  strikes!  now  body,  turn  to  air, 
Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell.  50 

(Thunder  and  rain.) 
O  soul!  be  changed  into  small  water-drops, 

^  And  fall  into  the  ocean;  ne'er  be  found. 
Enter  the  Devils 
Oh!  mercy,  heaven,  look  not  so  fierce  on  me! 
Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  awhile! — 
Ugly  hell,  gape  not! — Come  not,  Lucifer!        55 
I'll  burn  my  books! — Oh,  Mephistophilis! 


LEANDER  SEES  HERO  AT  THE  FEAST 
AT  SESTOS 

(From  Hero  and  Leander) 

The  men  of  wealthy  Sestos  every  year,  9 1 

For  his  sake  whom  their  goddess  held  so  dear, 
Rose-cheeked  Adonis,  kept  a  solemn  feast; 
Thither  resorted  many  a  wandering  guest 
To  meet  their  loves :  such  as  had  none  at  all,     95 
Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival; 
For  every  street,  like  to  a  firmament, 
Glistered  with  breathing  stars,  who,  where  they 
went, 

»  According  to  the  doctrine  of  Metempsychosis,  taught 
by  the  Greek  philosopher  Pythagoras  and  others,  souls 
passed  after  death,  either  into  the  body  of  an  animal,  or 
of  some  human  being,  in  reincarnation.  This  is  some- 
tiznes  called  "the  transmigration  of  souls." 


Frighted  the  melancholy  earth,  which  deemed 

Eternal  heaven  to  burn,  for  so  it  seemed,        100 

As  if  another  Phaeton  had  got 

The  guidance  of  the  sun's  rich  chariot. 

But,  far  above  the  loveliest,  Hero  shined. 

And  stole  away  the  enchanted  gazer's  mind; 

For  the  sea-nymph's  inveigling  harmony,       105 

So  was  her  beauty  to  the  standers  by; 

Not  that  night-wandering,  pale,  and  watery 

star 
(When  yawning  dragons  draw  her  thirling^  car 
From  Latmus'  mount  up  to  the  gloomy  sky, 
Where,  crowned  with  blazing  light  and  maj- 
esty, 110 
She  proudly  sits)  more  over-rules  the  flood 
Than  she  the  hearts  of  those  that  near  her  stood. 
Even  as  when  gaudy  nymphs  pursue  the  chase, 
Wretched  Ixion's  shaggy-footed  race. 
Incensed  with  savage  heat,  gallop  amain        115 
From   steep   pine-bearing   mountains   to   the 

plain. 
So  ran  the  people  forth  to  gaze  upon  her. 
And  all  that  viewed  her  were  enamoured  on  ker: 
And  as  in  fury  of  a  dreadful  fight. 
Their  fellows  being  slain  or  put  to  flight,         120 
Poor  soldiers  stand  with  fear  of  death  dread- 

strooken. 
So  at  her  presence  all  surprised  and  tooken,* 
Await  the  sentence  of  her  scornful  eyes; 
He  whom  she  favours  lives;  the  other  dies: 
There  might  you  see  one  sigh;  another  rage;  125 
And  some,  their  violent  passions  to  assuage, 
Compile  sharp  satires;  but,  alas,  too  late! 
For  faithful  love  will  never  turn  to  hate ; 
And  many,  seeing  great  princes  were  denied, 
Pined   as   they   went,   and   thinking  on   her 
died.  130 

On  this  feast-day — oh,  cursM  day  and  hour! — 
Went  Hero,  thorough  Sestos,  from  her  tower 
To  Venus'  temple,  where  unhappily. 
As  after  chanced,  they  did  each  other  spy. 
So  fair  a  church  as  this  had  Venus  none :         135 
The  walls  were  of  discoloured  jaspar-stone. 
Wherein  was  Proteus  carved;  and  over-head 
A  lively  vine  of  green  sea-agate  spread, 
Where  by  one  hand  light-headed  Bacchus  hung. 
And  with  the  other  wine  from  grapes  out- 
wrung.  140 
Of  crystal  shining  fair  the  pavement  was; 
The  town  of  Sestos  called  it  Venus'  glass.  .  .  . 

There  Hero  sacrificing  turtles'  blood,  158 

Veiled  to  the  ground,  veiling  her  eyelids  close; 
And  modestly  they  opened  as  she  rose :  1 60 

Thence  flew  Love's  arrow  with  the  golden  head; 
And  thus  Leander  was  enamoured. 
Stone-still  he  stood,  and  evermore  he  gazed, 
Till  with  the  fire,  that  from  his  countenance 

blazed, 
Relenting  gentle  Hero's  heart  was  strook :      165 
Such  force  and  virtue  hath  an  amorous  look. 
It  lies  not  in  our  power  to  love  or  hate, 
For  will  in  us  is  over-ruled  by  fate, 
When  two  are  stript,  long  ere  the  course  begin, 
We  wish  that  one  should  lose,  the  other  win;  170    \ 
*  Quivering.  *  Captttred,  taken  captive. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


161 


And  one  especially  do  we  affect 

Of  two  gold  ingots,  like  in  each  respect: 

The  reason  no  man  knows;  let  it  suffice, 

What  we  behold  is  censured^  by  our  eyes. 

Where  both  deliberate,  the  love  is  slight :        1 75 

Who  ever  loved,  that  loved  not  at  first  sight? 


William  ^Ijafee^peare 

1564-1616 
SONGS 


SILVIA 

(From  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 
1592-93) 


acted 


Who  is  Silvia?  what  is  she. 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she, 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

That  she  might  admu-ed  be.  5 


Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness: 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness; 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there. 


Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing. 
That  Silvia  is  excelling: 

She  excels  each  mortal  thing. 
Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling: 

To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 


10 


15 


FAIRY  SONG 
(From  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  1593-4) 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  briar, 
Over  park,  over  pale. 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere,  5 

Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen. 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green: 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be; 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see;  10 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours. 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savours: 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here. 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 


YOU  SPOTTED  SNAKES,  WITH  DOUBLE 
TONGUE 

(From  the  same) 

You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongue. 
Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen ; 

Newts,  and  blind-worms  do  no  wrong; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen : 
'  Judged,  estimated. 


Chorus 
Philomel,  with  melody  5 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby; 
LuUa,  lulla,  lullaby;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby.  10 


Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here: 

Hence,  you  long-legg'd  spinners,  hence: 

Beetles  black,  approach  not  near; 
Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

Chorus 
Philomel,  with  melody,  etc. 

FAIRIES  SONG 

(From  the  same) 

Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon; 
Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores. 

All  with  weary  task  fordone. 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  scritch-owl,  scritching  loud. 
Puts  the  wretch,  that  lies  in  woe. 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night, 

That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide. 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite. 

In  the  church-way  paths  to  glide: 
And  we  fairies,  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team. 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun. 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolic;  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallow'd  house: 
I  am  sent  with  broom  before. 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 


10 


15 


20 


Through  the  house  give  glimmering  hght, 

By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire; 
Every  elf,  and  fairy  sprite, 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  briar; 
And  this  ditty,  after  me,  25 

Sing  and  dance  it  trippingly. 
First,  rehearse  this  song  by  rote: 
To  each  word  a  warbling  note. 
Hand  in  hand,  with  fairy  grace. 
Will  we  sing,  and  bless  this  place.  30 

UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 

(From  As  You  Like  It,  acted  1599) 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me. 

And  turn  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see  6 

No  enemy 


162  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


But  winter  and  rough  weather. 
Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun,  10 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleas'd  with  what  he  gets, 
CJome  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy  16 

But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


O   MISTRESS  MINE,  WHERE  ARE 
YOU  ROAMING 

(From  Twelfth  Night,  c.  1601) 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
O,  stay  and  hear;  your  true  love's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low: 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting,  5 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?    'Tis  not  hereafter: 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty;  10 

Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 


TAKE,   OH,  TAKE  THOSE  LIPS  AWAY 

(From  Measure  for  Measure,  1603) 

Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away, 

.  That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day. 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  mom; 
But  my  kisses  bring  again,  bring  again.  6 

Seals  of  love,  but  seal'd  in  vain,  seal'd  in  vain. 


HARK,   HARK,  THE  LARK 

(From  Cymheline,  1609)    , 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise. 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chalic'd  flowers  that  lies; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  ^  begin  to  ope  their 
golden  eyes;  ^       5 

With  everything  that  pretty  is — My  lady  sweet, 
arise:  Arise,  arise. 


DIRGE 

(From  the  same) 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  of  the  sun 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done. 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages: 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 
1  Marigold. 


Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrants'  stroke; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak:  lo 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  light'ning  flash; 

Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash; 

Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan:  16 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

No  exorciser  harm  thee! 

Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee!  20 

Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee! 

Nothing  ill  come  near  thee! 

Quiet  consummation  have; 

And  renowned  be  thy  grave! 


A  SEA  DIRGE 
(From  The  Tempest,  1610) 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies; 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 

Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes: 
Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change  t 

Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 
Ding-dong. 
Hark!  now  I  hear  them — Ding-dong  bell. 


ARIEL'S  SONG 
(From  the  same) 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I: 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily.  5 

Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 


CRABBED  AGE  AND  YOUTH 

(From  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  pub.  1599) 

Crabbed  age  and  youth 

Cannot  live  together; 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance; 

Age  is  full  of  care; 
Youth  like  summer  morn,  5 

Age  like  winter  weather; 
Youth  like  summer  brave; 

Age  like  winter  bare. 
Youth  is  full  of  sport. 
Age's  breath  is  short,     ^  IC 

Youth  is  nimble;  age  is  lame. 
Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 
Age  is  weak  and  cold; 

Youth  is  wild,  and  age  is  tame. 
Age,  I  do  abhor  thee,  15 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


163 


Youth,  I  do  adore  thee, 

O,  my  love,  my  love  is  young! 

Age,  I  do  defy  thee; 

O  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee, 

For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long!    20 


SONNETS 
(From  Sonnets,  pub.  1609) 

XV 

When  I,  consider  everything  that  grows 
Holds  in  perfection  but  a  little  moment, 
That  this  huge  stage  presenteth  naught  but 

shows 
Whereon  the  stars  in  secret  influence  comment; 
When  I  perceive  that  men  as  plants  increase,    5 
Cheered  and  check'd  even  by  the  selfsame  sky, 
Vaunt  in  their  youthful  sap,  at  height  decrease, 
And  wear  their  brave  state  out  of  memory;  _^^ 
Then  the  conceit  of  this  inconstant  stay 
Sets  you  most  rich  in  youth  before  my  sight,   10 
Where  wasteful  Time  debateth  with  Dec?ay, 
To  change  your  day  of  youth  to  sullied  night;*' 
And  all  in  war  with  Time  for  love  of  you, 
As  he  takes  from  you,  I  engraft  you  new. 

XVIII 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate: 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date: 
Sometimes  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines,     5 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  un- 

trimm'd: 
But  thy, eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest,      10 
Nor  shall  death  brag  thou  wander' st  in  his 

shade. 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  grow'st; 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

V 

XXIX 

When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state. 

And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless 

cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate. 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope,  5 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  pos- 

sess'd, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet,  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising. 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state,        10 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's 

gate: 
For  thy  sweet  love  rememb'red  such  wealth 

brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with 

kings. 


When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought. 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's 

waste: 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow,  5 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless 

night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell'd  woe. 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd 

sight: 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er  10 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
x"  Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 


XXXIII 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green. 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride  5 

With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face. 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace: 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 
With  all-triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow;    10 
But,  out,  alack!  he  was  but  one  hour  mine. 
The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me 
now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's 
sun  staineth. 

LV 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rime; 
But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  con- 
tents 
Than  unswept  stone,  besmear'd  with  sluttish 

time. 
When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn,         5 
And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry, 
Nor  Mars  his  sword  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall 

burn 
The  living  record  of  your  memory. 
'Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious  enmity 
Shall  you  pace  forth;  your  praise  shall  still  find 
room  10 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity 
That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise, 
You  Uve  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lover's  eyes. 


LX 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled 

shore, 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end; 
Each   changing  place  with  that  which  goes 

before, 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 


164    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN   JONSON 


Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light,  5 

Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crown'd. 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight. 
And  Time  that  gave  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth 
And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow,        10 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow: 
And  yet  to  times  in  hope  my  verse  shall  stand, 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

LXV 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless 

sea, 
But  sad  mortality  o'ersways  their  power, 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea. 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower? 
O ,  how  shall  summer' s  honey  breath  hold  out    5 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days. 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout. 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  Time  decays? 
O  fearful  meditation!  where,  alack, 
Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest  lie 

hid?  10 

Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot 

back? 
Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid? 
O,  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine 

bright. 

LXVT 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry, 

As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 

And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollity. 

And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn. 

And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplaced,  5 

And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted,  ■ 

And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced, 

And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 

And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 

And  f9lly,  doctor-like,  controlling  skill,  10 

And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity, 

And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill: 

Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be 
gone. 

Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. 

LXXIII 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold. 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds 

sang. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day  5 

As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west; 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire. 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie,  10 

As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 
This  thou  perceivest,  which  makes  thy  love 

more  strong. 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere 

long. 


CXI 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide,  ^<:^ 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds,  ^-^ 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide  ^ 
Than    pubhc    means    which    public    manners 

breeds,-^ 
Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a 
brand,^  ,       5 

And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued  ^' 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand:  ^ 
Pity  me  then  and  wish  I  were  renew'd;  ^^ 
Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,  I  will  drinks 
Potions  of  eisel,  'gainst  my  strong  infection; 
No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think,-^ 
Nor  double  penance,  to  correct  correction. 
Pity  me  then,  dear  friend,  and  I  assui 
Even  that  your  pity  is  enough  to  cure  me. 

ex  VI 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.    Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove: 

O,  no!    It  is  an  ever-fixed  mark,  5 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark. 

Whose  worth's  unlaiown,  although  his  height 

be  taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and 

cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ;       i o 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks. 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
(Press'd  by)  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array. 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within  and  suffer  dearth. 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease,'         5 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess. 
Eat  up  thy  charge?    Is  this  thy  body's  end? 
Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store;  10 

Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more: 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on 
men. 

And  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying 
then. 


FROM   UHE   DRAMAS 
THE  SHEPHERD'S  LIFE 

HENRY  VI. '3  SOLILOQUY  AT  THE  BATTLE  OP 
TOWTON 

(From  77/  Henry  VT.,  Act  II.  v.,  1590-92) 

This  battle  fares  like  to  the  morning's  war, 
When  dying  clouds  contend  with  growing  light; 
What  time  the  shepherd,  blowing  of  his  nails. 
Can  neither  call  it  perfect  day  nor  night. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


165 


Now  sways  it  this  way,  like  a  mighty  sea,         5 
Forc'd  by  the  tide  to  combat  with  the  wind; 
Now  sways  it  that  way,  hke  the  self-same  sea 
Forc'd  to  retire  by  the  fury  of  the  wind: 
Sometime,  the  flood  prevails;  and  then,  the 

wind: 
Now,  one  the  better,  then,  another  best;         10 
Both  tugging  to  be  victors,  breast  to  breast, 
Yet  neither  conqueror,  nor  conquered: 
So  is  the  equal  poise  of  this  fell  war. 
Here  on  this  molehill  will  I  sit  me  down. 
To  whom  God  will,  there  be  the  victory!         15 
For  Margaret  my  queen,  and  Clifford  too, 
Have  chid  me  from  the  battle;  swearing  both 
They  prosper  best  of  all  when  I  am  thence. 
Would  I  were  dead!  if  God's  good  will  were  so: 
For  what  is  in  this  world  but  grief  and  woe?    20 
O  God!  methinks  it  were  a  happy  life. 
To  be  no  better  than  a  homely  swain: 
To  sit  upon  a  hill,  as  I  do  now. 
To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point, 
Thereby  to  see  the  minutes  how  they  run :       25 
How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete; 
How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day, 
How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year. 
How  many  years  a  mortal  man  may  live. 
When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  times:  30 
So  many  hours  must  I  tend  my  flock; 
So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest; 
So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate; 
So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself; 
So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young; 
So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  yean;    36 
So  many  years  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece; 
So  minutes,  hours,  days,  weeks,  months,  and 

years, 
Pass'd  over  to  the  end  they  were  created. 
Would  bring  white  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave.    40 
Ah,  what  a  life  were  this !  how  sweet !  how  lovely ! 
Gives  not  the  hawthome  bush  a  sweeter  shade 
To  shepherds,  looking  on  their  silly  sheep. 
Than  doth  a  rich  embroider'd  canopy 
To  kings,  that  fear  their  subjects'  treachery?  45 
O,  yes  it  doth;  a  thousand-fold  it  doth. 
And    to    conclude, — the    shepherd's    homely 

curds, 
His  cold  thin  drink  out  of  his  leather  bottle, 
His  wonted  sleep  under  a  fresh  tree's  shade. 
All  which  secure  and  sweetly  he  enjoys,  50 

Is  far  beyond  a  prince's  delicates. 
His  viands  sparkling  in  a  golden  cup/ 
His  body  couched  in  a  curious  bed. 
When,  care,  mistrust,  and  treason  wait  on  him. 


ENGLAND 

(From  Richard  II.,  Act  II.,  i.,  1594) 

This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle,  40 
This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 
This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise; 
This  fortress,  built  by  nature  for  herself. 
Against  infection  and  the  hand  of  war; 
This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world;      45 
This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 
Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall. 


Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house, 
Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands; 
This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  reahn, 
England. 


this 

50 


SLEEP 

(From  //  Henry  IV.,  Act  III.,  i.,  1597-98) 

How  many  thousand  of  my  poorest  subjects  4 
Are  at  this  hour  asleep!  O  sleep,  O  gentle  sleep, 
Nature's  soft  nurse,  how  have  I  frighted  the«,  6 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my  eyelids  down. 
And  steep  my  senses  in  forgetfulness? 
Why  rather,  sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs. 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee, '  lo 

And  hush'd  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy 

slumber, 
Than  in  the  perfum'd  chambers  of  the  great, 
Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state, 
And  luU'd  with  sounds  of  sweetest  melody? 
O  thou  dull  god,  why  liest  thou  with  the  vile,  15 
In   loathsome  beds;   and   leav'st   the   kingly 

couch, 
A  watch-case,  or  a  common  'larum-bell? 
Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge,  20 

And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds. 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top. 
Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging 

them 
With  deaf'ning  clamours  in  the  slippery  clouds. 
That,  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes?       25 
Canst  thou,  O  partial  sleep!  give  thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude; 
And,  in  the  calmest  and  most  stillest  night. 
With  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot. 
Deny  it  to  a  king?    Then,  happy  low,  lie  down! 
Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown.        31 


HENRY  V'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS 
SOLDIERS  BEFORE  HARFLEUR 

(From  Henry  V.,  Act  III.,  i.,  1599) 

Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends,  once 

more; 
Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead! 
In  peace,  there's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man 
As  modest  stillness  and  humility: 
But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears,     5 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger; 
Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favour'd  rage: 
Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect; 
Let  it  pry  tlirough  the  portage  of  the  head,      10 
Like  the  brass  cannon;  let  the  brow  o'er  whelm 

it, 
As  fearfully  as  does  a  galled  rock 
O'erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  base, 
Swill'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 
Now  set  the  teeth,  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide; 
Hold  hard   the  breath,   and  bend  up  every 
spirit  16 

To  his  full  height!    On,  on,  you  nobless  Eng- 
lish, 


166    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Whose  blood  is  fet  from  fathers  of  war-proof! 
Fathers  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 
Have  in  these  parts  from  mom  tiU  even  fought, 
And  sheath'd  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument. 
Dishonour  not  your  mothers;  now  attest         22 
That  those  whom  you  call'd  fathers  did  beget 

you! 
Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood, 
And  teach  them  how  to  war! — ^And  you,  good 

yeomen,  25 

Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us 

here 
The  mettle  of  your  pasture;  let  us  swear 
That  you  are  worth  your  breeding;  which  I 

doubt  not; 
For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base 
That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  your  eyes.         30 
I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips. 
Straining  upon  the  start.    The  game's  afoot; 
Follow  your  spirit;  and,  upon  this  charge. 
Cry — God   for   Harry!    England!   and   Saint 

George! 


DEATH  AND  HEREAFTER 

(From  Measure  for  Measure,  Act  III.,  i.,  1603) 

Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where; 

To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot; 

This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become  120 

A  kneaded  clod;  and  the  delighted  spirit 

To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 

In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice; 

To  be  imprison'd  in  the  viewless  winds,       124 

And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 

The  pendant  world;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 

Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain  thoughts 

Imagine  howling! — 'tis  too  horrible! 

The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life. 

That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  imprisonment    130 

Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 

To  what  we  fear  of  death. 


ISABELLA'S  PLEA  FOS.  MERCY 

(From  the  same,  Act  IL,  ii.) 

He's  sentenc'd;  'tis  too  late.^ 
Too  late?  why,  no,  I,  that  do  speak  a  word, 
May  call  it  back  again:  Well  beheve  this. 
No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs, 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword,  60 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe. 
Become  them  with  one  haK  so  good  a  grace 
As  mercy  does. 

If  he  had  been  as  you,  and  you  as  he. 
You  would  have  slipp'd  like  him;  but  he,  like 
you,  65 

Would  not  have  been  so  stem.  .  .  . 

Alas!    Alas!  72 
Why,  all  the  souls  that  were,  were  forfeit  once; 
And  He  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took 
Found  out  the  remedy;  How  would  you  be. 
If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  ahoula 


But  judge  you  as  you  are?    O,  think  on  that; 
And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips, 
Like  a  man  new  made.  79 


PROSPERO'S  SOLILOQUY 

(From  The  Tempest,  Act  IV.,  i.,  1610) 

Our  revels  now  are  ended:  these  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air;  150 

And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded,    165 
Leave  not  a  wrack  behind:  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 


c.  1567-1601 

DEATH'S  SUMMONS 

(From  Summer's  Last  Will  and  Testament,  1600) 

Adieu,  farewell,  earth's  bliss. 
This  world  uncertain  is: 
Fond  1  are  life's  lustful  joys, 
Death  proves  them  all  but  toys. 
None  from  his  darts  can  fly:  5 

I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us! 

Rich  men,  trust  not  in  wealth. 
Gold  cannot  buy  you  health; 
Physic  himself  must  fade;  10 

All  things  to  end  are  made; 
The  plague  ^  full  swift  goes  by: 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us! 

Beauty  is  but  a  flower,  15 

Which  wrinkles  will  devour: 
Brightness  falls  from  the  air: 
Queens  have  died  young  and  fair; 
Dust  hath  closed  Helen's  eye: 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die.  20 

Lord,  have  mercy  on  us! 

Strength  stoops  unto  the  grave; 
Worms  feed  on  Hector  brave; 
Swords  may  not  fight  with  fate; 
Earth  still  holds  ope  her  gate;  23 

Come,  come,  the  bells  do  cry. 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die! 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us! 

Wit  with  his  wantonness, 

Tasteth  death's  bitterness;  3C 

Hell's  executioner 

Hath  no  ears  for  to  hear 
>  Foolish.  ^  ( 

*  London  was  suffering  from  the  plague  in  1598,  wher 
the  play  from  which  this  song  is  taken  was  produced. 


JOHN  DONNE 


167 


What  vain  art  can  reply; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die: 

Lord,  have  mercy  on  us!  35 

Haste  therefore  each  degree 
To  welcome  destiny ! 
Heaven  is  our  heritage, 
Earth  but  a  player's  stage; 
Mount  we  unto  the  sky:  40 

.  I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us  I 

THE  COMING  OF  WINTER 

(From  the  same) 

Autumn  hath  all  the  summer's  fruitful  treasure; 
Gone  is  our  sport,  fled  is  our  Croydon's  pleasure! 
Short  days,  sharp  days,  long  nights  come  on 

apace: 
Ah,  who  shall  hide  us  from  the  winter's  face? 
Cold  doth  increase,  the  sickness  will  not  cease,  5 
And  here  we  lie,  God  knows,  with  little  ease. 
From  winter,  plague  and  pestilence,  good 

Lord,  deliver  us! 

London  doth  mourn,  Lambeth  is  quite  forlorn! 
Trades  cry,  woe  worth  that  ever  they  were 

born! 
The  want  of  term  is  town  and  city's  harm  ;^      10 
Close  chambers  we  do  want  to  keep  us  warm. 
Long  banished  must  we  live  from  our  friends.^ 
This  low-built  house  will  bring  us  to  our  ends. 
From  winter,  plague  and  pestilence,  good 

Lord,  deUver  us! 

c.  1570-c.  1637 

O  SWEET  CONTENT 
(From  The  Patient  Grissell,  acted  1599) 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers? 

O  sweet  content! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexM? 

O  punishment! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vex^d        5 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers? 
O  sweet  content!  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonnyl      10 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crispM  spring? 

O  sweet  content! 
Swim'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink^st  in  thine  own 
tears? 

O  punishment! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears     15 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king! 
O  sweet  content!  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny!      20 

1  In  thi3  year,  1598,  the  Michaelmas  (autumn)  Term, 
or  session  of  the  Law  Court,  was  held  in  St.  Albana  in- 
stead of  Loadon,  in  consequence  of  the  plague. 


SAINT  HUGH! 

(From  The  Shoemaker^ s  Holiday,  1594) 

Cold's  the  wind,  and  wet's  the  rain, 

Saint  Hugh  be  our  good  speed! 
Ill  is  the  weather  that  bringeth  no  gain, 

Nor  helps  good  hearts  in  need. 

Troll  the  bowl,  ^  the  j  oily  nut-brown  bowl,      6 

And  here  kind  mate  to  thee! 
Let's  sing  a  dirge  for  Saint  Hugh's  soul, 

And  down  it  merrily. 

Down-a-down,  hey,  down-a-down. 

Hey  derry  derry  down-a-down.  10 

Ho!  well  done,  to  me  let  come, 

Ring  compass,  gentle  joy!^ 
Troll  the  bowl,  the  nut-brown  bowl, 

And  here  kind  mate  to  thee! 

Cold's  the  wind,  and  wet's  the  rain,  16 

Saint  Hugh!  be  our  good  speed; 
111  is  the  weather  that  bringeth  no  gain, 

Nor  helps  good  hearts  in  need. 


3]ol)n  Wonnt 

1573-1631 

AN  ELEGY  UPON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
LADY  MARKHAM 

(First  published  1633) 

Man  is  the  world,  and  death  the  ocean 
To  which  God  gives  the  lower  parts  of  man. 
This  sea  environs  all,  and  though  as  yet 
God  hath  set  marks  and  bounds  'twixt  us  and  it, 
Yet  doth  it  roar  and  gnaw,  and  still  pretend      5 
To  break  our  bank,  whene'er  it  takes  a  friend: 
Then  our  land-waters  (tears  of  passion)  vent; 
Our  waters  then  above  our  firmament — 
Tears,  which  our  soul  doth  for  her  sin  let  fall, — • 
Take  all  a  brackish  taste,  and  funeral.  10 

And  even  those  tears,  which  should  wash  sin, 

are  sin. 
We,  after  God,  new  drown  our  world  again. 
Nothing  but  man  of  all  envenom'd  things. 
Doth  work  upon  itself  with  inborn  stings. 
Tears  are  false  spectacles ;  we  cannot  see  16 

Through  passion's  mist,  what  we  are,  or  what 

she. 
In  her  this  sea  of  death  hath  made  no  breach; 
But  as  the  tide  doth  wash  the  shining  beach. 
And  leaves  embroider'd  works  upon  the  sand. 
So  is  her  flesh  refin'd  by  Death's  cold  hand.      20 
As  men  of  China,  after  an  age's  stay, 
Do  take  up  porcelain,  where  they  buried  clay,. 
So  at  this  grave,  her  limbec  (which  refines 
The  diamonds,  rubies,  sapphires,  pearls  and 

mines, 
Of  which  this  flesh  was)  her  soul  shall  inspire  25 
Flesh  of  such  stuff,  as  God,  when  His  last  fire 

^  Pass  round  the  wine,  or  drink. 

2  Let  the  bowl,  (the  gentle  joy)  come  to  me;  let  it  circle 
or  ring  the  compass,  or  circle,  formed  by  those  about  the 
table.  To  ring  compass,  was  therefore  equivalent  to  let 
the  bowl  go  round,  or  circulate  freely. 


168  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Annuls  this  world,  to  recompense  it,  shall 
Make  and  name  them  th'  elixir  of  this  all. 
They  say  the  sea,  when  th'  earth  it  gains,  loseth 
too: 

If  carnal  I>eath,  the  younger  brother,  do        30 
Usurp  the  body;  our  soul,  which  subject  is 
To  th*  elder  Dt-ath  by  sin,  is  free  by  this; 
They  prrLsh  both,  when  they  attempt  the  just; 
For  Vraves  our  trophies  are,  and  both  Death's 

dust. 
So,  unobnoxious  now,  she  hath  buried  both;  35 
For  none  to  death  sins,  that  to  sin  is  loath. 
Nor  do  they  die,  which  are  not  loath  to  die; 
So  she  hath  this  and  that  virginity. 
Grace  was  in  her  extremely  diligent, 
That  kept  her  from  sin,  yet  made  her  repent.  40 
Of  what  small  spots  pure  white  complains! 

Alas! 
How  little  poison  cracks  a  crystal  glass! 
She  sinn'd,  but  just  enough  to  let  us  see 
That  God's  woiti  must  be  true, — all  sinners  be. 
So  much  did  seal  her  conscience  rarify,  45 

That  extreme  truth  lack'd  little  of  a  lie, 
Making  omissions  acts;  laying  the  touch 
Of  sin  on  things,  that  sometimes  may  be  such. 
As  Moses'  cherubims,  whose  natures  do 
Surpass  all  speed,  by  him  are  wingM  too,        50 
So  would  her  soul,  already  in  heaven,  seem  then 
To  climb  by  tears  the  common  stairs  of  men. 
How  fit  she  was  for  God,  I  am  content 
To  speak,   that  Death  his  vain  haste  may 

repent; 
How  fit  for  us,  how  even  and  how  sweet,       55 
How  good  in  all  her  titles,  and  how  meet 
To  have  reform 'd  this  forward  heresy. 
That  women  can  no  parts  of  friendship  be; 
How  moral,  how  divine,  shall  not  be  told. 
Lest  they,  that  hear  her  virtues,  think  her  old: 
And  lest  we  take  Death's  part,  and  make  him 

glad  61 

Of  such  a  prey,  and  to  his  triumphs  add. 

A  VALEDICTION  FORBIDDING 
MOURNING 

(Sometimes   called   "Upon  Parting  from  his 
Mistris,"  written,  1612?) 

As  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  away. 

And  whisper  to  their  souls  to  go, 
Whilst  some  of  their  sad  friends  do  say, 

•'  Now  his  breath  goes,"  and  some  say,  "  No; " 

So  let  us  melt,  and  make  no  noise,  5 

No  tear-floods,  nor  sigh-tempests  move; 

*Twere  profanation  of  our  joys, 
To  tell  the  laity  our  love. 

Moving  of  th'  earth  brings  harm  and  fears, 
Men  reckon  what  it  did.  and  meant; 

But  trepidations  of  the  spneres. 
Though  greater  far,  are  innocent. 

Dull  sublunarv  Lovers'  love, 

(Whose  soul  is  sense)  cannot  admit 

Absence;  for  that  it  doth  remove 
Those  things  which  elemented  it. 


10 


15 


But  we,  by  a  love  so  far  refin'd 
That  ourselves  know  now  what  it  is, 

Inter-assur^d  of  the  mind 
Careless  eyes,  lips,  and  hands,  to  misa.       20 

Our  two  souls  therefore,  which  are  one, 
Though  I  must  go,  endure  not  yet 

A  breach,  but  an  expansion, 
Like  gold  to  airy  thinness  beat. 

If  they  be  two,  they  are  two  so  23 

As  stiff  twin  compasses  are  two; 
Thy  soul,  the  fixt  foot^  makes  no  show, 

To  move,  but  doth  if  th'  other  do. 

And  though  it  in  the  centre  sit. 

Yet  when  the  other  far  doth  roam,  30 

It  leans  and  barkens  after  it, 

And  grows  erect,  as  that  comes  home. 

Such  wilt  thou  be  to  me,  who  must 
Like  th'  other  foot,  obliquely  run; 

Thy  firmness  makes  my  circle  just,  35 

And  makes  me  end  where  1  begun. 


SONG 

(From   Poems,   with  Elegies  on  the  Author^s 
Death,  1633) 

Sweetest  Love,  I  do  not  |o 

For  weariness  of  thee, 
Nor  in  hope  the  world  can  show 

A  fitter  Love  for  me; 

But  since  that  I  5 

Must  die  at  last,  'tis  best 
Thus  to  use  myself  in  jest. 

Thus  by  feigned  death  to  die. 

Yesternight  the  sun  went  hence, 

And  yet  is  here  to-day;  10 

He  hath  no  desire  nor  sense. 

Nor  half  so  short  a  way. 

Then  fear  not  me; 
But  believe  that  I  shall  make 
Hastier  journeys,  since  I  take  15 

More  wings  and  spurs  than  he. 

O  how  feeble  is  man's  power, 

That,  if  good  fortune  fall, 
Cannot  add  another  hour. 

Nor  a  lost  hour  recall.  20 

But  come  bad  chance, 
And  we  join  to  it  our  strength, 
And  we  teach  it  art  and  length, 

Itself  o'er  us  t'  advance. 

When  thou  sigh'st,  thou  sigh'st  no  wind,    25 

But  sigh'st  my  soul  away; 
When  thou  weep'st,  unkindly  kind, 

My  hfe's-blood  doth  decay. 


BEN  JONSON 


169 


40 


It  cannot  be 
That  thou  lov'st  me  as  thou  say'st,     30 
If  in  thine  my  Ufe  thou  waste 

That  art  the  best  of  me. 

Let  not  thy  divining  heart 

Forethink  me  any  ill; 
Destiny  may  take  thy  part 

And  may  thy  fears  fulfil; 

But  think  that  we 
Are  but  turned  aside  to  sleep: 
They,  who  one  another  keep 

Alive,  ne'er  parted  be. 

SONNET  X.— ON  DEATH 
(From  Holy  Sonnets,  written  before  1607) 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called 

thee 
Mighty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so; 
For  those  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost  over- 
throw 
Die  not,  poor  Death;  nor  yet  cans't  thou  kill 

me. 
From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  picture  be,  5 
Much  pleasure,   then  from  thee  much  more 

must  flow: 
And  soonest  our  best  men  with  thee  do  go, 
Rest  of  their  bones,  and  soul's  delivery. 
Thou  art  slave  to  Fate,  chance,  kings,  and 

desperate  men,  9 

And  dost  with  poison,  war,  and  sickness  dwell, 
And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep  as  well, 
And  better  than  thy  stroke;  why  swell'st  thou, 

then? 
One  short  sleep  pass,  we  wake  eternally. 
And  Death  shall  be  no  more;  Death,  thou 

shalt  die. 


215m  Klonsfon 

1573-1637 


A  HYMN  TO  GOD  THE  FATHER 

CFu-st  published  1631) 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun, 
"IVhich  was  my  sin,  though  it  were  done  be- 
fore? 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin,  through  whicn  I 
run 
And  do  run  still,  though  still  I  do  deplore? 
When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done; 

For  I  have  more.  6 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  have  won 
Others  to  sin,  and  made  my  sins  their  door? 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  did  shun 
A  year  or  two,  but  wallow'd  in,  a  score?      10 

When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done; 
For  I  have  more. 

I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that  when  I  have  spun 

My  last  thread,  I  shall  perish  on  the  shore; 
But  swear  by  Thyself,  that  at  my  death  Thy 
Son  15 

Shall  shine,  as  He  shines  now  and  heretofore: 
And  having  done  that.  Thou  hast  done; 
I  feaff  no  more. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED  MASTER  WIL- 
LIAM SHAKESPEARE,  AND  WHAT  HE  HATH 
LEFT   US 

35       (From  First  Folio  edition  of  Shakespeare,  1623) 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such, 
As  neither  Man  nor  Muse  can  praise  too  much. 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.     But  these 

ways  5 

Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise; 
For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light. 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right; 
Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance; 
Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise,      u 
And  think  to  ruin  where  it  seemed  to  raise.  .  .  . 
But  thou  art  proof  against  them  and,  indeed,  15 
Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 
I  therefore  will  begin:  Soul  of  the  age! 
The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage! 
My  Shakespeare,  rise!  I  will  not  lodge  thee  by^ 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie        20 
A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room : 
Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 
Thou  art  alive  still  while  thy  book  doth  live, 
And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 
That  I  not  mix  thee  so  my  brain  excuses, —    25 
I  mean  with  great  but  disproportioned  Muses; 
For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, ^ 
I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers. 
And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine, 
Or  sporting  Kyd,^  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line.  30 
And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and  less 

Greek, 
From  thence  to  honour  thee  I  would  not  seek 
For  names,  but  call  forth  thund'ring  Jjlschy- 

lus,4 
Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 
Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead,         35 
To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  ^  tread, 
And  shake  a  stage;  or  when  thy  socks  were  on. 
Leave  thee  cAone  for  a  comparison 
Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 
Sent  forth,  or  since  did  froia  their  ashes  come. 
Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show,  41 
To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 


1  Chaucer,  Spenser  and  Beaumont  are  buried  near 
each  other  in  the  Poets'  Corner  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
Proximity  to  the  tomb  of  Chaucer,  the  first  great  Eng- 
lish poet,  was  considered  as  a  great  honor.  Spenser  bad 
been  granted  this  in  1599,  and  Beaumont  in  1616. 

2  One  that  would  last,  or  go  down  to  posterity. 

8  A  satirical  play  upon  the  dramatist's  name,  since 
Thomas  Kyd  was  anything  but  "  Sporting,  being  chiefly 
known  as  the  author  of  tragedies.  017  1 

« The  three  great  poets,  Aeschylus,  bophocles,  and 
Euripides,  represent  three  stages  in  the  development 
of  the  Greek  tragic  drama;  so  Pacumus,  Acaus,  and 
"him  of  Cordova"  {Seneca)  stand  in  a  similar  manner  for 
Roman  tragedy-writing  at  successive  epochs. 

5  The  ancients  are  summoned  to  hear  Shakespeare  botn 
as  a  tragic  and  a  comic  writer;  the  buskin,  or  shoe  worn 
by  Greek  and  Roman  actors  in  tragedy,  stands  foT 
tragedy;  as  the  sock  worn  for  ccmedy,  meanj.  comedy. 


170  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


He  WM  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time! 
And  idl  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 
When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm      45 
Our  eara,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm! 
Nature  beraelf  was  proud  of  his  designs. 
And  K>yed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines. 
Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 
As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit.       50 
The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 
Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please; 
But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 
As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 
Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all;  thy  Art,        55 
My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 
For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be. 
His  art  doth  give  the  fashion;  and  that  he 
Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat 
^uch  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 
tJpcm  the  Muses'  anvil,  turn  the  same,  61 

And  himself  with  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame; 
Or  for  the  laurel  he  may  gain  a  scorn; 
For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  bom. 
And  such  wert  thou!    Look,  how  the  father's 
face  65 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 
Of  Shakespeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly 

shines 
In  his  well  turnM  and  true  filM  lines, 
In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 
As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance.  70 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon !  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear. 
And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of 

Thames, 
That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James! 
But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere  75 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there! 
Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage 
Or  influence  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage, 
Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath 

mourned  like  night. 
And  despairs  day  but  for  thy  volume's  light.  80 

SONG.— TO  CYNTHIA 

(From  Cynthia's  Revels,  1600) 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep; 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair. 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 

Hesperus  entreats  thy  light,  5 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earthy  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose; 

Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Hea^^n  to  clear,  when  day  did  close;      10 

Blew  us  then  with  wished  sight. 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 


Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 
And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver: 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 
P*%^  breathe,  how  short  soever: 
Thou  that  makest  a  day  of  night, 
GoddesB  excellently  bright. 


15 


SIMPLEX  MUNDITIISi 

(From  Epiccme;  or,  The  Silent  Woman, 
1609-10) 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest. 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed: 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found .        3 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free: 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me  10 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art; 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

SONG  TO  CELIA 
(From  The  Forest,  1616) 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes. 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise        3 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 


10 


I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe. 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me. 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  sweiir,  15 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 


(From 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  CHARIS 


A  Celebration  of  Charis"  iii  Under- 
woods,^ 1616) 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  Lady  rideth! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove. 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty  g 

Unto  her  beauty; 
And  enamoured  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
^at  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Ihrough  swords,  through  seas,   whither  she 
would  ride.  jg 

^°An"l^*^^^  °°  ^^^  ®y®s,  they  do  light 
All  that  Love's  world  compriseth! 

Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 
As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth! 

» Plain,  or  unadorned,  in  thy  neatness    the  nhrase  ia 
from  Horace's  ode  to  Pyrrha  (oL.Sb  I  Can  ^). 

consfcf  .*onlL.tP'*T  *^®  *^*^^  Underwoods,  which 
Various  «nhto?!-*r°*u^  comparatively  short  poems  on 
various  subjects:  As  the  multitude  called  Timber-trepa 
promiscuously  growing,   a  Wood,   or  Forest-    so   I  fm 


THOMAS  CAMPION 


171 


Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother  15 

Than  words  that  soothe  her; 
And  from  her  arched  brows,  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 

All  the  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  elements' 
strife.  20 

i     Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
i         Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 
'     Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o'  the  snow 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver?  25 

Or  swan's  down  ever? . 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  briar? 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee? 
O  so  white, — O  so  soft, — O  so  sweet  is  she!  30 


LIFE'S  TRUE  MEASURE 

(From  A  Pindaric  Ode  in  the  same) 

To  the  immortal  memory  of  that  noble  pair,  Sir 
Lucius  Gary  and  Sir  H.  M orison 

For  what  is  life,  if  measur'd  by  the  space, 

Not  by  the  act? 
Or  masked  man,  if  valued  by  his  face, 
Above  his  fact? 
Here's  one  outliv'd  his  peers,  5 

And  told  forth  fourscore  years: 
He  vexed  time,  and  busied  the  whole  state; 
Troubled  both  foes  and  friends; 
But  ever  to  no  ends; 
What  did  this  stirrer  but  die  late?  10 

How  well  at  twenty  had  he  fallen  or  stood! 
For  three  of  his  fourscore  he  did  no  good. 

He  enter'd  well  by  virtuous  parts. 
Got  up,  and  thrived  with  honest  arts; 
He  purchased  friends,  and  fame,  and  honours 
then,  15 

And  had  his  noble  name  advanc'd  with  men: 
But  weary  of  that  flight. 
He  stooped  in  all  men's  sight 
To  sordid  flatteries,  acts  of  strife, 
And  sunk  in  that  dead  sea  of  life,  20 

So  deep,  as  he  did  then  death's  waters  sup, 
But  that  the  cork  of  title  buoy'd  him  up. 

Alas!  But  Morison  fell  young: 

He  never  fell, — thou  falls't  my  tongue, 

He  stood  a  soldier  to  the  last  right  end,  25 

A  perfect  patriot  and  a  noble  friend; 
But  most  a  virtuous  son. 
All  offices  were  done 
By  him,  so  ample,  full,  and  round. 
In  weight,  in  measure,  number,  sound,  30 

As,  though  his  age  imperfect  might  appear, 

His  life  was  of  humanity  the  sphere. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  men  better  be. 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year,  35 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sear: 
A  lily  of  a  day. 
Is  fairer  far,  in  May, 


Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night; 

It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light.  40 

In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see; 
And  in  short  measures,  life  may  perfect  be. 

®lioma0  Campion 

c.  1575-1620? 
TO  LESBIAi 

(In  Rosseter's  Book  of  Airs,  1601) 

My  sweetest  Lesbia,  let  us  live  and  love. 
And  though  the  sager  sort  our  deeds  reprove 
Let  us  not  weigh  them.    Heaven's  great  lamps 

do  dive 
Into  their  west,  and  straight  again  revive; 
But  soon  as  once  set  is  our  little  light,  5 

Then  must  we  sleep  one  ever-during  night. 

If  all  would  lead  their  lives  in  love  like  me. 
Then  bloody  swords  and  armour  should  not  be; 
No  drum  nor  trumpet  peaceful  sleeps  should 

move. 
Unless  alarm  came  from  the  Camp  of  Love:    lo 
But  fools  do  live  and  waste  their  little  light. 
And  seek  with  pain  their  ever-during  night. 

When  timely  death  my  life  and  fortunes  ends, 
Let  not  my  hearse  be  vext  with  mourning 

friends; 
But  let  all  lovers,  rich  in  triumph,  come  15 

And  with  sweet  pastimes  grace  my  happy  tomb; 
And,  Lesbia,  close  up  thou  my  little  light 
And  crown  with  love  my  ever-during  night. 

THE  ARMOUR  OF  INNOCENCE^ 

(From  the  same) 

The  man  of  life  upright. 
Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 

From  all  dishonest  deeds, 
Or  thought  of  vanity; 

The  man  whose  silent  days  5 

In  harmless  joys  are  spent. 

Whom  hopes  cannot  delude 
Nor  sorrow  discontent: 

That  man  needs  neither  towers 

Nor  armour  for  defence,  10 

Nor  secret  vaults  to  fly 
From  thunder's  violence: 

He  only  can  behold 

With  unaffrighted  eyes 
The  horrors  of  the  deep  13 

And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus  scorning  all  the  cares 
That  fate  or  fortune  brings. 

He  makes  the  heaven  his  book; 

His  wisdom  heavenly  things;  20 

1  A  paraphrase  of  an  ode  of  Catullus,  Vivamus  mea  Lea- 
bia,  atque  amemus.    (Car.  V.). 

1  One  of  the  many  variations  of  the  noble  theme  of 
Horace's  Integer  Vitce.    (Odes,  Bk.  I,  Car.  XXII.). 


>  x.viT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Qoud  th>      '  '    '  i-  only  friends, 
Hi8%v<  U-npentagc, 

The  earth ^j- r  inn 

And  quiet  pilgrimage. 

FORTUXATI  NIMIUM» 

Jack  and  Joan,  they  think  no  ill. 

But  loving  live,  ana  merry  still; 

Do  th«r  week-da v's  work,  and  pray 

Devoutiv  on  the  nolv-day: 

Skin  and  trip  it  on  the  green,  5 

Ana  help  to  choose  the  Summer  Queen; 

Lash  out  at  a  country  (eixst 

Their  silver  penny  with  the  best. 

Well  can  they  judge  of  nappy  ale, 

And  U'll  at  large  a  winter  tale;  10 

Climb  up  to  the  apple  loft, 

And  turn  the  crabs  till  they  be  soft. 

Tib  is  all  the  father's  joy, 

And  Uttle  Tom  the  mother's  boy: — 

All  their  pleasure  is,  Content,  15 

And  care,  to  pay  their  yearly  rent. 

Joan  can  call  by  name  her  cows 

And  deck  her  windows  with  green  boughs; 

She  can  vsTt^Aths  and  tutties  make, 

And  trim  with  plums  a  bridal  cake.  20 

Jack  knows  what  brings  gain  or  loss. 

And  his  long  flail  can  stoutly  toss: 

Makes  the  hedge  which  others  break. 

And  ever  thinks  what  he  doth  speak. 

Now,  you  courtly  dames  and  knights,         25 
That  study  only  strange  delights, 
Though  you  scorn  the  homespun  gray. 
And  revel  in  your  rich  array; 
Though  your  tongues  dissemble  deep 
And  can  your  hea^  from  danger  keep;      30 
Yet,  for  all  your  pomp  and  train. 
Securer  hves  the  silly  swain! 

c.  1581-1640  (?) 

GOOD  MORROW 
(From  The  Rape  of  Lucrece,  acted  c.  1605) 

Pack,  clouds,  awav,  and  welcome  day. 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow; 
Sweet  air  blow  soft,  mount  lark  aloft, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind,     6 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow; 
Bird  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale  sing, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Notes  from  them  both  I'll  borrow.       lo 

W.nUf.  frr.TM  fliy  rest,  robin  redbreast, 

^':  1  every  furrow; 

An<i  ii  bill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  goo<l-morrow. 
^^  Happy  beyond  measure.   See  VergU,  Georgica,  Bk.  u.. 


Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush,        13 

Stare,  ^  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow, 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves 
Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow; 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow 
Sing  birds  in  every  furrow.  20 

3ol)n  iFletclier 

1579-1625 

WEEP  NO   MORE 

(From  Queen  of  Corinth) 

Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan, 

Sorrow  calls  no  time  that's  gone: 

Violets  pluck'd,  the  sweetest  rain 

Makes  not  fresh  nor  grow  again. 

Trim  thy  locks,  look  cheerfully;  5 

Fate's  hid  ends  eyes  cannot  see. 

Joys  as  winged  dreams  fly  fast. 

Why  should  sadness  longer  last? 

Grief  is  but  a  wound  to  woe; 

Gentlest  fair,  mourn,  mourn  no  moe.*     10 

THE  PRAISES  OF  PAN 

(From  The  Faithful  Shepherdess,  acted  1610) 

Sing  his  praises  that  doth  keep 
Our  flocks  from  harm, 
Pan,  the  father  of  our  sheep; 
And  arm  in  arm 
Tread  we  softly  in  a  round, ^  5 

Whilst  the  hollow  neighbouring  ground 
Fills  the  music  with  her  sound. 

Pan,  O  great  god  Pan,  to  thee 

Thus  do  we  sing! 
Thou  that  keep'st  us  chaste  and  free      10 

As  the  young  spring; 
Ever  be  thy  honour  spoke, 
From  that  place  the  Morn  is  broke 
To  that  place  Day  doth  unyoke! 

SONG  OF  THE  PRIEST  OF  PAN 

(From  the  same) 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair 

Fold  your  flocks  up,  for  the  au* 

'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 

Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 

See  the  dew-drops  how  they  kiss  5 

Every  little  flower  that  is; 

Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 

Like  a  rope  of  crystal  beads; 

See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling. 

And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling       10 

The  dead  night  from  under  ground; 

At  whose  rising  mists  unsound, 

Damps  and  vapours  fly  apace. 

Hovering  o'er  the  wanton  face 

Of  these  pastures,  where  they  come     13 

Striking  dead  both  bud  and  "bloom: 

*  Starling. 

1  Round-dance. 


JOHN  WEBSTER 


173 


Therefore  from  such  danger  lock 

Every  one  his  lovM  flock; 

And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 

Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout  20 

From  the  mountain,  and,  ere  day, 

Bear  a  lamb  or  kid  away; 

Or  the  crafty  thievish  fox 

Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 

To  secure  yourselves  from  these  25 

Be  not  too  secure  in  ease; 

Let  one  eye  his  watches  peep 

While  the  other  eye  doth  sleep; 

So  you  shall  good  shepherds  prove, 

And  for  ever  hold  the  love  30 

Of  our  great  god.    Sweetest  slumbers. 

And  soft  silence,  fall  in  numbers^ 

On  your  eyelids!    So,  farewell! 

Thus  I  end  my  evening's  knell. 


SONG  TO  PAN 
(From  the  same) 

All  ye  woods,  and  trees,  and  bowers, 
All  ye  virtues  and  ye  powers 
That  inhabit  in  the  lakes, 
In  the  pleasant  springs  or  brakes, 

Move  your  feet  5 

To  our  sound, 

Whilst  we  greet 
All  this  ground 
With  his  honour  and  his  name 
That  defends  oar  flocks  from  blame.       10 

He  is  great,  and  he  is  just. 
He  is  ever  good,  and  must 
Thus  be  honoured.    Daffodillies, 
Roses,  pinks,  and  lov^d  lilies, 

Let  us  fling  15 

Whilst  we  sing 

Ever  holy, 

Ever  holy. 
Ever  honoured,  ever  young! 
Thus  great  Pan  is  ever  sung!  20 


MELANCHOLY 

(From  "Nice  Valour") 

Hence  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly! 
There's  naught  in  this  life  sweet. 
If  man  were  wise  to  see  't,  5 

But  only  melancholy; 

O  sweetest  melancholy! 

Welcome  folded  arms,  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fastened  to  the  ground,      10 
-1  tongue  chained  up,  without  a  sound! 

1  Fall  with  a  musical  or  rhythmical  cadence. 


Fountain  heads,  and  pathless  groves. 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed,  save  bats  and  owls!    15 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan! 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon; 
Then  stretch  your  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley: 
Nothing's  so  dainty-sweet  as  lovely  melancholy. 


iFrancisf  llBeaumont 

1586  (?)-1616 

ON  THE  LIFE  OF  MAN^ 

(From  Poems,  1640) 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star. 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew. 
Or  like  the  wind  that  chafes  the  flood,      5 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood; 
Even  such  is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in  and  paid  to-night. 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies. 
The  spring  entombed  in  autumn  lies,      10 
The  dew's  dried  up,  the  star  is  shot. 
The  flight  is  past,  and  man  forgot. 


ON    THE    TOMBS    IN    WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY 

(From  Poems,  1653) 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear! 

What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here! 

Think  how  many  royal  bones 

Sleep  within  this  heap  of  stones; 

Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands,  5 

Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands; 

Where  from  their  pulpits  sealed  with  dust 

They  preach,  "In  greatness  is  no  trust." 

Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 

With  the  richest,  roj^all'st  seed  10 

That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 

Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin: 

Here  the  bones  of  birth^  have  cried, 

"Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died!'' 


Fl.  1602-1624 

A  DIRGE 

(From  The  White  Devil;  or,  Vittoria  Coromhona, 
1612) 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 
Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 
And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 

1  Sometimes  attributed  to  Henry  King  (1592-1669). 
1  The  ashes  or  remains  of  those  of  high  or  royal  lineage. 


174  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


Call  iintc  his  funeral  dole^  5 

The  ant,  the  field-mouse  and  the  mole, 
To  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm. 
And  (when  gay  tombs  are  robbed)  sustain  no 

harm; 
But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to  men. 
For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again.         lo 

DIRGE  BEFORE  DEATH 
(From  The  Duchess  ofMalfy,  1623) 
Hark,  now  everything  is  still, 
The  screech-owl,  and  the  whistler^  shrill, 
Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 
And  bid  her  quickly  don  her  shroud! 
Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent;  5 

Your  length  in  clay's  now  competent: 
A  long  war  disturbed  your  mind; 
Here  your  perfect  peace  is  signed. 
Of  what  is't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping? 
Since  their  conception,  their  birth  weeping,      10 
Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error. 
Their  death,  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 
Strew  your  hair  with  powders  sweet, 
Don  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet. 
And  (the  foul  fiend  more  to  check),  15 

A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck: 
'Tis  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day; 
End  your  groan,  and  come  away. 


SONG:  "ALL  THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE 
SPRING" 

(From  The  Devil's  Law  Case) 
All  the  flowers  of  the  spring 
Meet  to  perfiime  our  burying; 
These  have  but  their  growing  prime, 
And  man  does  flourish  but  his  time: 
Survey  our  progress  from  our  birth —       5 
We  are  set,  we  grow,  we  turn  to  earth. 
Courts  adieu,  and  all  delights. 
All  bewitching  appetites! 
Sweetest  breath  and  clearest  eye 
Like  perf limes  go  out  and  die;  10 

And  consequently  this  is  done 
As  shadows  wait  upon  the  sun. 
Vain  the  ambition  of  kings 
Who  seek  by  trophies  and  dead  things 
To  leave  a  living  name  behind,  15 

And  weave  but  nets  to  catch  the  wind. 


Lo,  by  thy  charming  rod,  all  breathing  things    5 
Lie  slumb'ring,  with  forgetfulness  possess'd, 
And  yet  o'er  me  to  spread  thy  drowsy  wings 
Thou  spar'st,  alas!  who  cannot  be  thy  guest. 
Since  I  am  thine,  O  come,  but  with  that  face 
To  inward  light,  which  thou  are  wont  to  shew,io 
With  feigned  solace  ease  a  true-felt  woe; 
Or  if,  deaf  god,  thou  do  deny  that  grace. 

Come  as  thou  wilt,  and  what  thou  wilt  be- 
queath, 

I  long  to  kiss  the  image  of  my  death. 


SONNET 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays. 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought 
In  time's  great  periods  shall  return  to  naught; 
That  fairest  states  have  fatal  nights  and  days. 
I  know  that  all  the  Muses'  heavenly  lays,  5 

With  toil  of  sprite,  which  are  so  dearly  bought. 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few,  or  none  are  sought, 
That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  vain  praise. 
I  know  frail  beauty's  like  the  purple  flow'r. 
To  which  one  morn  oft  birth  and  death  affords, 
That  love  a  jarring  is  of  mind's  accords,  i  i 

Where   sense  and   will  bring  under  reason's 
power: 
Know  what  I  list,  this  all  cannot  me  move. 
But  that,  alas,  I  both  must  write  and  love. 


SONNET 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  world  do  name. 
If  we  the  sheets  and  leaves  could  turn  with  care. 
Of  him  who  it  corrects,  and  did  it  frame. 
We  clear  might  read  the  art  and  wisdom  rare, 
Find  out  his  power  which  wildest  powers  doth 
tame,  5 

His  providence  extending  everywhere. 
His  justice,  which  proud  rebels  doth  not  spare. 
In  every  page,  no  period  of  the  same: 
But  silly  we,  like  foolish  children,  rest 
Well  pleas'd  with  colour'd  vellum,  leaves  of 
gold,  10 

Fair  dangling  ribbands,  leaving  what  is  best, 
On  the  great  writer's  sense  ne'er  taking  hold: 
Or  if  by  chance  we  stay  our  minds  on  aught. 
It  is  some  picture  on  the  margin  wrought. 


William  DmmmonD 

1585-1649 

ON  SLEEP 

(From  Poems,  Amorous,  Funeral,  etc.,  1616) 

Sleep,  Silence'  child,  sweet  father  of  soft  rest, 

Prince  whose  approach  peace  to  all  mortals 

brings, 
Indifferent  host  to  shepherds  and  to  kings, 
Sole  comforter  of  minds  which  are  oppress'd; 

1  Gifts  of  food  or  money  and  the  like,  were  sometimes 
distributed  at  funerals  for  the  benefit  of  the  soul  of  the 
deceased. 

1  Green  plover  or  lapwing. 


MADRIGAL 

This  life,  which  seems  so  fair, 

Is  like  a  bubble  blown  up  in  the  air, 

By  sporting  children's  breath. 

Who  chase  it  every  where. 

And  strive  who  can  most  motion  it  bequeath.    5 

And  though  it  sometime  seem  of  its  own  might 

Like  to  an  eye  of  gold  to  be  fix'd  there, 

And  firm  to  hover  in  that  emptj''  height, 

That  only  is  because  it  is  so  light. 

But  in  that  pomp  it  doth  not  long  appear;        10 

For  when  'tis  most  admired,  in  a  thought. 

Because  it  erst  was  nought,  it  turns  to  nought. 


I 


JOHN  STOW  175 


MADRIGAL  arms,  some  their  legs,  but  youth  desirous  of 

This  world  a  hunting  is,  g^o^y  i^  ^his  sort  exerciseth  itself  against  the 
The  prey  poor  man,  the  Nimrod  fierce  is  Death;      time  of  war.    Many  of  the  citizens  do  delight 

His  speedy  greyhounds  are  themselves  in  hawks  and  hounds;  for  they  have 

Lust,  sickness,  envy,  care,  5  liberty  of  hunting  in  Middlesex,  Hertfordshire, 

Strife  that  ne'er  falls  amiss,  ,  .,        ^      all  Chiltern,  and  in  Kent  to  the  water  of  the 

With  all  those  ills  which  haunt  us  while  we      ^ray."    Thus  far  Fitzstephen  of  sports. 

Now,  ifby  chance  we  fly  ,.  ^^f%T  *^'r  ^^  '"""''T'  ^^^l  ^"''^  r""" 

Of  these  the  eager  chase,  "  *^?"^d  }''^^  «^^  *^°^®'  ^^"^^1^'  i^  stage  plays, 

Old  age  with  stealing  pace  10  whereof  ye  may  read  m  anno  1391,  a  play  by 

Casts  up  his  nets,  and  there  we  panting  die.      10     the  parish  clerks  of  London  at  the  Skinner's 

Well  besides  Smithfield,  which  continued  three 

"^rthn    &>fflhl  ^^^^  together,  the  king,  queen,  and  nobles  of 

JlOyiX    ^COm  ^}jg  realm  being  present.     And  of  another,  in 

1525-1605  15  the  year  1419,  which  lasted  eight  days,  and 

was  of  matter  from  the  creation  of  the  world, 

SPORTS  AND  PASTIMES  OF  OLD  LON-     whereat  was  present  most  part  of  the  nobility 

^O^  and  gentry  of  England.    Of  late  time,  in  place 

(From  A  Survey  of  London,  1598)  of  those  stage  plays,  hath  been  used  comedies 

"Let  us  now,"  saith  Fitzstephen, i  "come  to  20  tragedies,  interludes,  and  histories,  both  true 
the  sports  and  pastimes,  seeing  that  it  is  fit  and  feigned;  for  the  acting  whereof  certain 
that  a  city  should  not  only  be  commodious  and  public  places,  as  the  Theatre,  the  Curtain,^  etc., 
serious,  but  also  merry  and  sportful.  .  .  .  have  been  erected.    Also  cocks  of  the  game  are 

"But  London,  for  the  shows  upon  theatres,  yet  cherished  by  divers  men  for  their  pleasures 
and  comical  pastimes,  hath  holy  plays,  repre-  25  much  money  being  laid  on  their  heads,  when 
sentations  of  miracles,  which  holy  confessors  they  fight  in  pits,  whereof  some  be  costly  made 
have  wrought,  or  representations  of  torments  for  that  purpose.  The  ball  is  used  by  noblemen 
wherein  the  constancy  of  martyrs  appeared,  and  gentlemen  in  tennis  courts,  and  by  people  of 
Every  year  also  at  Shrove  Tuesday,^  that  we  meaner  sort  in  the  open  fields  and  streets.  .  .  . 
may  begin  with  children's  sports,  seeing  we  all  30  Thus  much  for  sportful  shows  in  triumphs 
have  been  children,  the  schoolboys  do  bring  may  suffice.  Now  for  sports  and  pastimes 
cocks  of  the  game  to  their  master,  and  all  the     yearly  used. 

forenoon  they  delight  themselves  in  cock-  First,  in  the  feast  of  Christmas,  there  was  in 
fighting:  after  dinner  all  the  youths  go  into  the  the  King's  house,  wheresoever  he  was  lodged,  a 
fields  to  play  at  the  ball.  35  lord  of  misrule,  or  master  of  merry  disports,  and 

"The  scholars  of  every  school  have  their  ball,  the  Uke  had  ye  in  the  house  of  every  nobleman 
or  baton,  in  their  hands;  the  ancient  and  wealthy  of  honor  or  good  worship,  were  he  spiritual  or 
men  of  the  city  come  forth  on  horseback  to  see  temporal.  Amongst  the  which  the  mayor  of 
the  sport  of  the  young  men,  and  to  take  part  of  London,  and  either  of  the  sheriffs,  had  their 
the  pleasure  in  beholding  their  agility.  ...       40  several    lords    of    misrule,    ever    contending, 

"When  the  great  fen,  or  moor,  which  water-  without  quarrel  or  offence,  who  should  make 
eth  the  walls  of  the  city  on  the  north  side,  is  the  rarest  pastimes  to  delight  the  beholders, 
frozen,  many  young  men  play  upon  the  ice;  These  lords  beginning  their  rule  on  Alhollon 
some  striding  as  wide  as  they  may,  do  slide  eve,  *  continued  the  same  until  the  morrow  after 
swiftly;  others  make  themselves  seats  of  ice,  as  45  the  Feast  of  the  Purification,  commonly  called 
great  as  millstones;  one  sits  down,  many  hand  Candlemas  Day.^  In  all  which  space  there 
in  hand  to  draw  him,  and  one  slipping  on  a  were  fine  and  subtle  disguisings,  masks,  and 
sudden,  all  fall  together;  some  tie  bones  to  their  mummeries,  with  playing  at  cards  for  counters, 
feet  and  under  their  heels;  and  shoving  them-  nails,  and  points,  in  every  house  more  for 
selves  by  a  little  picked  staff,  do  slide  as  swiftly  50  pastime  than  for  gain. 

as  a  bird  flieth  in  the  air,  or  an  arrow  out  of  a  Against  the  feast  of  Christmas  every  man's 
cross-bow.  Sometime  two  run  together  with  house,  as  also  the  parish  churches,  were  decked 
poles,  and  hitting  one  the  other,  either  one  or      with   hohn,    ivy,   bays,    and   whatsoever   the 

both  do  fall,  not  without  hurt;  some  break  their  3  y,^^   Theatre   (1576)    and   The  Curtain,   the  earliest 

1  William  Fitzstephen  (d.  1191),  a  monk  of  Canter-  English  play-houses,  were  situated  in  the  fields,  not  far 
bury,  and  biographer  and  friend  of  Thomas  k  Becket.  beyond  the  London  walls.                                   .        ,  ^ 
The  passage  here  quoted  by  Stow,  and  given  by  him  in  *  All-hallows  Eve,  1.  e.,  the  eve  of  November  1st,  or 
translation,  is  from  Fitzstephen's  description  of  London  All-Samts  Day                                    r  r-u  •  +  •»,  ♦>,«  +orv,r^l*. 
in  his  life  of  Becket  ^  The  feast  of  the  presentation  of  Christ  in  the  temple, 

2  i  e  shriving  Tuesday.  The  Tuesday  before  Ash  February  2d.  It  takes  its  name  from  the  custom  of  carry- 
Wednesday,  the  first  day  of  Lent.  ing  lighted  candles  in  the  procession  at  the  service. 


176  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

season  of  the  year  afforded  to  be  green.  The  I  find  also,  that  in  the  month  of  May,  the 
conduits  and  standards  in  the  streets  were  citizens  of  London  of  all  estates,  lightly^  in 
likewise  garnished;  amongst  the  which  I  read,  every  parish,  or  sometimes  two  or  three 
in  the  year  1444,  that  by  tempest  of  thunder  parishes  joining  together,  had  their  several 
and  lightning,  on  the  1st  of  February,  at  night,  5  mayings,  and  did  fetch  in  maypoles,  with 
Paule's  Steeple  was  fired,  but  with  great  labor  divers  warlike  shows,  with  good  archers,  morris 
quenched;  and  towards  the  morning  of  Candle-  dancers,  and  other  devices,  for  pastime  all  the 
mas  Day,  at  the  Leadenhall  in  Cornhill,  a  day  long;  and  toward  the  evening  they  had 
standard  of  tree  being  set  up  in  midst  of  the  stage  plays,  and  bonfires  in  the  streets.  Of 
pavement,  fast  in  the  ground,  nailed  full  of  10  these  mayings  we  read,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VI. 
holm  and  ivy,  for  disport  of  Christmas  to  the  that  the  aldermen  and  sheriffs  of  London, 
people,  was  torn  up,  and  cast  down  by  the  being  on  May^day  at  the  Bishop  of  London's 
malignant  spirit  (as  was  thought),  and  the  woods,  in  the  parish  of  Stebunheath,  and  hav- 
stones  of  the  pavement  all  about  were  cast  in  ing  there  a  worshipful  dinner  for  themselves 
the  streets,  and  into  divers  houses,  so  that  the  15  and  other  commoners,  Lydgate  the  poet,  that 
people  were  sore  aghast  of  the  great  tempests,      was  a  monk  of  Bury,  sent  to  them,  by  a  pur- 

In  the  week  before  Easter,  had  ye  great  suivant,  a  joyful  commendation  of  that  season, 
shows  made  for  the  fetching  in  of  a  twisted  containing  sixteen  staves  of  meter  royal, 
tree,  or  with,^  as  they  termed  it,  out  of  the      beginning  thus: — 

woods  into  the  king's  house;  and  the  like  into20,,^        .^j,^^^^^   ^^^^^^^^^^^^j^^  _„^^^ 

every  man  s  house  of  honor  or  worship. 

In  the  month  of  May,  namely,  on  May-day  These  great  mayings,  and  May  games,  made 
in  the  morning,  every  man  except  impediment,  by  the  governors  and  masters  of  this  city,  with 
would  walk  into  the  sweet  meadows  and  green  the  triumphant  setting  up  of  the  great  shaft 
woods,  there  to  rejoice  their  spirits  with  the  25  (a  principal  maypole  in  Cornhill,  before  the 
beauty  and  savor  of  sweet  flowers,  and  with  parish  church  of  St.  Andrew  therefore  called 
the  harmony  of  birds,  praising  God  in  their  Undershaft)^  by  means  of  an  insurrection  of 
kind;  and  for  example  hereof,  Edward  Hall^  youths  against  aliens  on  May-day,  1517,  the 
hath  noted,  that  King  Henry  VIII,  as  in  the  9th  of  Henry  VIII.,  have  not  been  so  freely 
3rd  of  his  reign,  and  divers  other  years,  so  30  used  as  afore,  and  therefore  I  leave  them, 
namely  in  the  7th  of  his  reign,  on  May-day  in 

the  morning,  with  Queen  Katherine  his  wife,  .  ,      nrhf^r^t^o:    jTSrifffi 

accompanied  with  many  lords  and  ladies,  rode  ^*^    Vll/ljumas    Jl'iOtCIJ 

a-maying  from  Greenwich  to  the  high  ground  of  1535-1601 

Shooter's  HiU,  where,  as  they  passed  by  the  35  mrArrTT   ni?   n;i?QAT? 

way,  they  espied  a  company  of  tall  yeomen,  THE   DEAIH   OJ^    CiiLbAK 

clothed  all  in  green,  with  green  hoods,  and        (From  translation  of  Plutarch's  Lives,  1597) 
bows  and  arrows,  to  the  number  of  two  hun-  Now  a  day  being  appointed  for  the  meeting 

dred;  one  being  their  chief  tan,  was  called  of  the  Senate,  at  what  time  they  hoped  Ccesar 
Robin  Hood,  who  required  the  king  and  his 40  would  not  fail  to  come:  the  conspirators  deter- 
company  to  stay  and  see  his  men  shoot;  where-  mined  then  to  put  their  enterprise  in  execution, 
unto  the  king  granting,  Robin  Hood  whistled,  because  they  might  meet  safely  at  that  time 
and  all  the  two  hundred  archers  shot  off,  loosing  without  suspicion;  and  the  rather,  for  that  all 
all  at  once;  and  when  he  whistled  again  they  the  noblest  and  chief  est  men  of  the  city  would 
likewise  shot  again;  their  arrows  whistled  by  45  be  there.  Who,  when  they  should  see  such  a 
craft  of  the  head,  so  that  the  noise  was  strange  great  matter  executed,  would  every  man  then 
and  loud,  which  greatly  deHghted  the  king,  set  to  their  hands,  for  the  defence  of  their 
queen,  and  their  company.  Moreover,  this  liberty.  Furthermore,  they  thought  also,  that 
Robin  Hood  desii*ed  the  king  and  queen,  with  the  appointment  of  the  place  where  the  council 
their  retinue,  to  enter  the  greenwood,  where  in  50  should  be  kept,  was  chosen  of  purpose  by  divine 
harbors  made  of  boughs,  and  decked  with  providence,  and  made  all  for  them.  For  it 
flowers,  they  were  set  and  served  plentifully  was  one  of  the  porches  about  the  Theatre,  in 
with  venison  and  wine  by  Robin  Hood  and  his 
men,  to  their  great  contentment,  and  had  other         l  ^f^^i^y;       .  rr  ^     ^  /,  •     t    ^    i,  n    .     * 

'  ,°         .  '  J   .  9  St.   Andrews'    Under  shaft  was  in  Leadenhall  street. 

pageants  and  pastimes,  as  ye  may  read  m  my  55  The  shaft  (or  May  pole)  which  was  higher  than  the  church 
said  author  steeple,  was  set  up  before  it  for  the  last  time  in  1517, 

after  which  it  was  hung  on  iron  hooks  over  the  doors  in  a 

•Withe,  or  withy.  neighboring  alley.      In   1550,  a  young  curate   declared 

'Edward  Hall   (1499-1547),  author  of  The  Union  of       that  this  shaft  had  been  made  an  idol,  and  to  show  the 

the   Two  Noble  Families  of  Lancaster  and   Yorke,  com-       superstitious  subjection  of  the  parish  to  the  old  relic, 

monly  known  as  "Hall's  Chronicle."  spoke  of  the  church  as  St.  Andrew's  "  Under-that- shaft." 


RAPHAEL  HOLINSHED  177 

the  which  there  was  a  certain  place  full  of  seats  where  the  Senate  sat,  and  held  him  with  a  long 
for  men  to  sit  in,  where  also  was  set  up  the  talk  without.  When  Ccesar  was  come  into  the 
image  of  Pompey,  which  the  city  had  made  and  house,  all  the  Senate  rose  to  honor  him  at  his 
consecrated  in  honor  of  him:  when  he  did  coming  in.  So  when  he  was  set,  the  conspira- 
boautify  that  part  of  the  city  with  the  Theatre  5  tors  flocked  about  him,  and  amongst  them  they 
lie  built,  with  divers  porches  about  it.  In  this  presented  one  Tullius  Cimber,  who  made  hum- 
place  was  the  assembly  of  the  Senate  appointed  ble  suit  for  the  calling  home  again  of  his 
to  be;  just  on  the  fifteenth  day  of  the  month  of  brother  that  was  banished.  They  all  made  as 
March,  which  the  Romans  call,  Idus  Martias:  they  were  intercessors  for  him,  and  took  him  by 
so  that  it  seemed  some  god  of  purpose  had  10  the  hands,  and  kissed  his  head  and  breast, 
brought  CcBsar  thither  to  be  slain,  for  revenge  of  Ccesar  at  the  first  simply  refused  their  kindness 
Pompey's  death.  So  when  the  day  was  come,  and  entreaties:  but  afterwards,  perceiving  they 
Brutus  went  out  of  his  house  with  a  dagger  by  still  pressed  on  him,  he  violently  thrust  them 
his  side  under  his  long  gown,  that  nobody  saw  from  him.  Then  Cimber  with  both  his  hands 
nor  knew,  but  his  wife  only.  The  other  con-  15  plucked  Ccesar' s  gown  over  his  shoulders,  and 
spirators  were  all  assembled  at  Cassius'  house,  Casca  that  stood  behind  him,  drew  his  dagger 
to  bring  his  son  into  the  market  place,  who  on  first,  and  struck  Ccesar  upon  the  shoulder,  but 
that  day  did  put  on  the  man's  gown,  called  gave  him  no  great  wound.  Ccesar  feeling  him- 
Toga  Virilis,  and  from  thence  they  came  all  in  a  self  hurt,  took  him  straight  by  the  hand  he 
troop  together  unto  Pompey's  porch,  looking  20 held  his  dagger  in,  and  cried  out  in  Latin:  O 
that  Ccesar  would  straight  come  thither.  .  .  .  traitor  Casca,  what  doest  thou?  Casca  on  the 
When  Ccesar  came  out  of  his  litter:  Popilius  other  side  cried  in  Greek,  and  called  his  brother 
Loena,  that  had  talked  before  with  Brutus  and  to  help  him.  So  divers  running  on  a  heap 
Cassius,  and  had  prayed  the  gods  they  might  together  to  fly  upon  Ccesar,  he  looking  about 
bring  this  enterprise  to  pass:  went  unto  Ccesar  25h\m  to  have  fled,  saw  Brutus  with  a  sword 
and  kept  him  a  long  time  with  a  talk.  Ccesar  drawn  in  his  hand  ready  to  strike  at  him:  then 
gave  good  ear  unto  him.  Wherefore  the  con-  he  let  Casca' s  hand  go,  and  casting  his  gown 
spirators  (if  so  they  should  be  called)  not  hear-  over  his  face,  suffered  every  man  to  strike  at 
ing  what  he  said  to  Caesar,  but  conjecturing  by  him  that  would.  Then  the  conspirators 
that  he  had  told  them  a  little  before,  that  his  30  thronging  one  upon  another  because  every 
talk  was  none  other  but  the  very  discovery  of  man  was  desirous  to  have  a  cut  at  him,  so  many 
their  conspiracy:  they  were  afraid  every  man  of  swords  and  daggers  lighting  upon  one  body,  one 
them;  and  one  looking  in  another's  face,  it  was  of  them  hurt  another,  and  among  them  Brutus 
easy  to  see  they  all  were  of  a  mind,  that  it  was  caught  a  blow  on  his  hand,  because  he  would 
no  tarrying  for  them  till  they  were  apprehended,  35  make  one  in  murdering  of  him,  and  all  the  rest 
but  rather  that  they  should  kill  themselves  also  were  every  man  of  them  bloodied.  Ccesar 
with  their  own  hands.  And  when  Cassius  being  slain  in  this  manner,  Brutus  standing 
and  certain  other  clapped  their  hands  on  their  in  the  midst  of  the  house,  would  have  spoken, 
swords  under  their  gowns  to  draw  them :  and  stayed  the  other  Senators  that  were  not  of 
Brutus  marking  the  countenance  and  gesture  of  40  the  conspiracy,  to  have  told  them  the  reason 
Lcena,  and  considering  that  he  did  use  himself  why  they  had  done  this  fact.  But  they  as  men 
rather  like  an  humble  and  earnest  suitor  than  both  afraid  and  amazed,  fled  one  upon  another's 
like  an  accuser:  he  said  nothing  to  his  com-  neck  in  haste  to  get  out  at  the  door,  and  no  man 
panion  (because  there  were  many  amongst  them  followed  them.  For  it  was  set  down  and 
that  were  not  of  the  conspiracy),  but  with  a  45  agreed  between  them,  that  they  should  kill  no 
pleasant  countenance  encouraged  Cassius.  man  but  Ccesar  only,  and  should  entreat  all  the 
And  immediately  after,  Loena  went  from  rest  to  look  to  defend  their  liberty. 
Ccesar,   and   kissed   his  hand:   which  showed 

plainly  that  it  was  for  some  matter  concerning  l^arifirr^T    *hrtltntfln>n 

himself  that  he  had  held  him  so  long  in  talk.  50  mapijan    t^OUHS^^O 

Now  all  the  Senators  being  entered  first  into  d.  1580 

this  place  or  chapter  house  where  the  council      j^^cBETH'S      MEETING      WITH      THE 
should   be   kept,    all    the   other   conspirators  WEIRD   SISTERS 

straight  stood  about  Cwsar's  chair,  as  if  they  rr^Tj       jo.tj 

had  had  something  to  have  said  unto  him.    And  55  (From  A  Chronicle  of  England  and  Scotland, 
some  say  that  Cassius  casting  his  eyes  upon  1578) 

Pompey's  image,  made  his  prayer  unto  it,  as  if  Shortly  after  happened  a  strange  and  un- 

it had  been  alive.    Trebonius  on  the  other  side,      couth  wonder,  which  afterward  was  the  cause  of 
drew  Antonius  aside,  as  he  came  into  the  house     much  trouble  in  the  realm  of  Scotland,  as  ye 


178    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

shall  after  hear.  It  fortuned  as  Makbeth  and  Westminster, ^  that  fruitful  nursery,  it  was  my 
Banquho  journeyed  towards  Fores,  where  the  hap  to  visit  the  chamber  of  Mr,  Richard 
king  then  lay,  they  went  sporting  by  the  way  Hakluyt,  my  cousin,  a  gentleman  of  the  Middle 
together  without  other  company  save  only  Temple,^  well  known  unto  you,  at  a  time  when 
themselves,  passing  through  the  woods  and  5 1  found  lying  open  on  his  board  certain  books 
fields,  when  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  land,  of  cosmography,  with  a  universal  map.  He, 
there  met  them  three  women  in  strange  and  seeing  me  somewhat  curious  in  the  view  thereof , 
wild  apparel,  resembling  creatures  of  the  elder  began  to  instruct  my  ignorance  by  showing  me 
world,  whom  when  they  attentively  beheld,  the  division  of  the  earth  into  three  parts  after 
wondering  much  at  the  sight,  the  first  of  them  10  the  old  account,  and  then  according  to  the 
spake  and  said : —  latter,  and  better  distribution,  into  more.    He 

"All  haU  Makbeth,  thane  of  Glammis!"  pointed  with  his  wand  to  all  the  known  seas, 

gulfs,  bays,  straits,  capes,  rivers,  empires, 
(for  he  had  lately  entered  into  that  ofl&ce  by  kingdoms,  dukedoms,  and  territories  of  each 
the  death  of  his  father  SineU).  The  second  then  15  part  with  declaration  also  of  their  special  com- 
said:  modities,  and  particular  wants,  which,  by  the 

"Hail  Makbeth,  thane  of  Cawder!"  benefit  of  traffic  and  intercourse  of  merchants, 

But  the  third  said: —  are  plentifully  supplied.     From  the  map  he 

«  An  1-  -1    TVT  1  u  xu    xu  4.   t.        fi.        I,  n   u       brought  me  to  the  Bible,  and  turning  to  the 

IQ       fl^^f^'  *^*  heveaftev  shall  be  ^^  ^07^1^  p^^l^^  ^i^^^^^^  ^^'^^  ^1^^  23rd  and  24th 
ng  o      CO   an   .  verses,  where  I  read,  that  they  which  go  down 

Then  Banquho:  "What  manner  of  women  to  the  sea  in  ships  and  occupy  by  the  great 
(saith  he)  are  you  that  seem  so  little  favorable  waters,  they  see  the  works  of  the  Lord,  and  his 
unto  me,  whereas  to  my  fellow  here,  besides  wonders  in  the  deep,  etc.  Which  words  of  the 
high  offices,  ye  assign  also  the  kingdom,  ap- 25  prophet,  together  with  my  cousin's  discourse 
pointing  forth  nothing  for  me  at  all?"  "Yes,"  (things  of  high  and  rare  delight  to  my  young 
(saith  the  first  of  them),  "we  promise  greater  nature),  took  in  me  so  deep  an  impression  that 
benefits  unto  thee  than  unto  him;  for  he  shall  I  constantly  resolved,  if  ever  I  were  preferred 
reign  indeed,  but  with  an  unlucky  end;  neither  to  the  university,  where  better  time  and  more 
shall  he  leave  any  issue  behind  him  to  succeed  30  convenient  place  might  be  ministered  for  these 
in  his  place,  when  certainly  thou  indeed  shalt  studies,  I  would  by  God's  assistance  prosecute 
not  reign  at  all,  but  of  thee  those  shall  be  bom  that  knowledge  and  kind  of  literature,  the 
which  shall  govern  the  Scottish  kingdom  by  doors  whereof,  after  a  sort,  were  so  happily 
long  order  of  continual  descent."     Herewith     opened  before  me. 

the  foresaid  women  vanished  immediately  out  35  According  to  which  my  resolution,  when,  not 
of  their  sight.  This  was  reputed  at  the  first  long  after,  I  was  removed  to  Christ  Church  in 
but  some  vain  fantastical  illusion  by  Makbeth  Oxford,  my  exercises  of  duty  first  performed,  I 
and  Banquho,  insomuch  that  Banquho  would  fell  to  my  intended  course,  and  by  degrees  read 
call  Makbeth  in  jest.  King  of  Scotland;  and  over  whatsoever  printed  or  written  discoveries 
Makbeth  again  would  call  him  in  sport  likewise,  40  and  voyages  I  found  extant  either  in  the  Greek, 
father  of  many  kings.  But  afterwards  the  Latin,  Italian,  Spanish,  Portugal,  French,  or 
common  opinion  was,  that  these  women  were  English  languages,  and  in  my  public  lectures* 
either  the  weird  sisters,  that  is  (as  ye  would  was  the  first  that  produced  and  showed  both 
say)  the  goddesses  of  destiny,  or  else  some  the  old  imperfectly  composed,  and  the  new 
nymphs  or  fairies,  indued  with  knowledge  of  45  lately  reformed  maps,  globes,  spheres,  and 
prophecy  by  their  necromantical  science,  be-  other  instruments  of  this  art  for  demonstration 
cause  everything  came  to  pass  as  they  had  in  the  common  schools,  to  the  singular  pleasure 
SDoken 

*^         *  ployed    on    various    diplomatic    missions,  and  was  one 

l^icliatD  J^afelu^t  r!pp^^72?°S'^^'°°^'"^  *°  ^"^  ^^^'  *^"^^''  °^  ^''°*^' 

1  KKQ   i«i  A  ^  ^^^  °^  *^®  oldest  and  best  of  the  London  "Grammar 

lOOO-lOlO  Schools."     Founded  by  Henry  VIII.,  it  was  so  reorgan- 

ized by  Queen  Elizabeth  in  1560,  that  its  revenues  were 
DEDICATION    TO    SIR    FRANCIS    WAL-       sufficient  to  provide  for  some  40  "free,"  or  "Queen's 
QTMPTTAMi  scholars."     Besides  Hakluyt,   George  Herbert,  Dryden, 

oliN  VjllAiVl  ^jj(j  Warren  Hastings  were  among  its  free,  or  foundation, 

(From  Voyages  and  Discoveries,  1589)  55  ^'^"^^^^  ;^p,i^3  ,^^^  ^^  belonged  to  the  legal  profession. 

Right  honorable,  I  do  remember  that  being  a     ffondon'^*'^''^^  Temple  was  one  of  the  legal  societies  of 

youth,    and   one   of   her   Majesty's   scholars   at  4  Hakluyt   is   believed   to   have    lectured    at    Oxford,  V 

shortly  after  taking  his  degree  of  M.  A.  in  1577.    These    ,^ 
^Francis   Walsingham   (1536-1590),  one  of  the  most       were  probably   the   first   public   lectures  on  geography    i' 
eminent  statesmen  of  Elizabeth's  reign.     He  was  em-       ever  given  at  an  Englbh  University. 


RICHARD  HAKLUYT  179 

and  general  contentment  of  my  auditory.  In  which  our  nation  do  indeed  deserve:  it  cannot 
continuance  of  time,  and  by  reason  principally  be  denied,  but  as  in  all  former  ages  they  have 
of  my  insight  in  this  study,  I  grew  familiarly  been  men  full  of  activity,  stirrers  abroad,  and 
acquainted  with  the  chiefest  captains  at  sea,  searchers  of  the  remote  parts  of  the  world,  so 
the  greatest  merchants,  and  the  best  mariners  5  in  this  most  famous  and  peerless  government  of 
of  our  nation;  by  which  means  having  gotten  her  most  excellent  Majesty,  her  subjects, 
somewhat  more  than  common  knowledge,  I  through  the  special  assistance  and  blessing  of 
passed  at  length  the  narrow  seas  into  France  God,  in  searching  the  most  opposite  comers  and 
with  Sir  Edward  Stafford,  her  Majesty's  care-  quarters  of  the  world,  and  to  speak  plainly,  in 
ful  and  discreet  Ligier,^  where  during  my  five  lo  compassing  the  vast  globe  of  the  earth  more 
years'  abode  with  him  in  his  dangerous  and  than  once,  have  excelled  all  the  nations  and 
changeable  residence  in  her  Highness'  service,  people  of  the  earth.  For  which  of  the  kings  of 
I  both  heard  in  speech,  and  read  in  books  other  this  land  before  her  Majesty  had  their  banners 
nations  miraculously  extolled  for  their  dis-  ever  seen  in  the  Caspian  sea?  Which  of  them 
coveries  and  notable  enterprises  by  sea,  but  the  15  hath  ever  dealt  with  the  emperor  of  Persia  as 
English  of  all  others  for  their  sluggish  security,  her  Majesty  hath  done,  and  obtained  for  her 
and  continual  neglect  of  the  like  attempts,  merchants  large  and  loving  privileges?  who 
expecially  in  so  long  and  happy  a  time  of  peace,  ever  saw,  before  this  regiment,  an  English 
either  ignominiously  reported,  or  exceedingly  Ligier  in  the  stately  porch  of  the  Grand  Signor 
condemned;  which  singular  opportunity,  if  20  at  Constantinople?  who  ever  found  English 
some  other  people,  our  neighbors,  had  been  consuls  and  agents  at  Tripolis  in  Syria,  at 
blessed  with,  their  protestations  are  often  and  Aleppo,^  at  Babylon,  at  Balsara,  and  which  is 
vehement,  they  would  far  otherwise  have  more,  who  ever  heard  of  Englishmen  at  Goa^ 
used.  .  .  .  before  now?  what  English  ships  did  heretofore 

Thus  both  hearing  and  reading  the  obloquy  25  ever  anchor  in  the  mighty  river  of  Plate?  pass 
of  our  nation,  and  finding  few  or  none  of  our  and  repass  the  unpassable  (in  former  opinion) 
own  men  to  reply  herein;  and  further,  not  see-  Strait  of  Magellan,  range  along  the  coast  of 
ing  any  man  to  have  care  to  recommend  to  the  Chili,  Peru,  and  all  the  backside  of  Nova 
world  the  industrious  labors  and  painful  Hispania,'  further  than  any  Christian  ever 
travels  of  our  countrymen:  for  stopping  the  30  passed,  traverse  the  mighty  breadth  of  the 
mouths  of  the  reproachers,  myself  being  the  South  Sea,  land  upon  the  Luzones  in  despite 
last  winter  returned  from  France  with  the  of  the  enemy,  enter  into  alliance,  amity,  and 
honorable  the  Lady  Sheffield,  for  her  passing  traflSc  with  the  princes  of  the  Moluccas  and  the 
good  behavior  highly  esteemed  in  all  the  isle  of  Java,  double  the  famous  cape  of  Bona 
French  court,  determined  notwithstanding  all  35  Speranza,^"  arrive  at  the  isle  of  St.  Helena,  and 
difficulties  to  undertake  the  burden  of  that  last  of  all  return  home  most  richly  laden  with 
work  wherein  all  others  pretended  either  the  commodities  of  China,  as  the  subjects  of 
ignorance  or  lack  of  leisure,  or  want  of  sufficient  this  now  flourishing  monarchy  have  done? 
argument,  whereas  (to  speak  truly)  the  huge 
toil  and  the  small  profit  to  ensue  were  the  40 

chief  causes  of  the  refusal.    I  call  the  work  a  THE  LOSS  OF  SIR  HUMPHREY 

burden  in  consideration  that  these  voyages  lay  GILBERT^ 

so  dispersed,  scattered,  and  hidden  in  several 

hucksters'  hands,  that  I  now  wonder  at  myseK  (From  a  report  of  the  voyage  and  success 

to  see  how  I  was  able  to  endure  the  delays,  45  thereof ,  attempted  m  the  year  of  our  Lord, 
curiosity,   and  backwardness   of   many  from      1583,  by  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  knight,  with 
whom  I  was  to  receive  my  originals,  so  that  I     other  gentlemen  assisting  him  m  that  action, 
have  just  cause  to  make  that  complaint  of  the         7  in  Asiatic  Turkey, 
maliciousness   of   divers   in   our   time,    which         ^  On  the  west  coast  of  India. 

„,.  J        /?   xu  r    u-  .A*   ^^„  r«      9  The  regions  governed  by  the  Viceroys  of  New  Spain. 

Pliny    made    01    the    men    of    his    age.    At    nos  50  it  included    originally   Mexico,   the    West    Indies,    and 

elaborata     iis     abscondere     atque     supprimere      various  adjacent  Si^nish  possessions. 

cupimus  et  fraudare  vitam  etiam  aliensis  bonis,         \°^rlium^hr^  GUb^t  (1539-1583)  was  one  of  the 

etc.^  great  English  navigators  in  the  age  of  Drake,  Hawkins, 

Tn  havn  Tin  Inno-pr  nnnn   fViis  qfrinff    and  to       and  Frobisher.     He  was  half-brother  of  Sir  Walter  Ra- 

io  Harp  no  longer  upon  tnis  stnng,  ana  to      j^.^^^  ^^^  j.j^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^j.  ^^.^^^^  ^^  ^j^^  ^i^^^  j^^  ^^^ 

speak    a    word     of    that     just     commendation  55  bom  in  Devon.     He  started  from  Plymouth  on  what 

proved  to  be  his  last  voyage  of  discover^',  June  11th, 

5  (The  same  as  leiger,  and  ledger,  q.  v.)  A  resident  1583.  After  landing  in  Newfoundland,  which  he  took 
agent,  or  ambassador.  possession  of  in  the  name  of  the  Queen,  he  lost  his  largest 

6  But  we  are  anxious  to  steal  away  from  them  and  ship,  and  was  forced  to  return  home,  with  the  only  two 
suppress  the  result  of  their  labors,  and  even  to  beguile  vessels  left  him,  the  Golden  Hind  and  the  Squirrel  or- 
the  very  life  from  the  goods  of  others.  as  it  is  called  in  the  text  the  Frigate. 


180  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

intended  to  discover  and  to  plant  christian  This  Monday  the  general  came  aboard  the 
inhabitants  in  place  convenient,  upon  those  Hind  to  have  the  surgeon  of  the  Hind  to  dress 
large  and  ample  countries  extended  northward  his  foot,  which  he  hurt  by  treading  upon  a 
from  the  cape  of  Florida,  lying  under  very  nail.  At  what  time  we  comforted  each  other 
temperate  climes,  esteemed  fertile  and  rich  5  with  the  hope  of  hard  success  to  be  all  past,  and 
in  minerals,  yet  not  in  the  actual  possession  of  of  the  good  to  come.  So  agreeing  to  carry 
any  christian  prince,  written  by  Mr.  Edward  out  hghts  always  by  night,  that  we  might  keep 
Haie,  gentleman,  and  principal  actor  in  the  together,  he  departed  into  his  frigate,  being 
same  voyage,  who  alone  continued  to  the  by  no  means  to  be  entreated  to  tarry  in  the 
end,  and  by  God's  special  assistance  returned  lo  Hind,  which  had  been  more  for  his  security, 
home  with  his  retinue  safe  and  entire.)  Immediately    after    followed    a    sharp    storm 

So  upon  Saturday  in  the  afternoon,  the  31st     which  we  overpassed  for  that  time.     Praised 
of  August,  we  changed  our  course  and  returned     be  God. 

back  for  England,  at  which  very  instant,  even  The  weather  fair,  the  general  came  aboard 
in  winding  about,  there  passed  along  between  15  the  Hind  again  to  make  merry  together  with 
us  and  towards  the  land  which  we  now  for-  the  captain,  master,  and  company,  which  was 
sook,  a  very  Hon  to  our  seeming,  in  shape,  hair,  the  last  meeting,  and  continued  there  from 
and  color,  not  swimming  after  the  manner  morning  until  night.  During  which  time  there 
of  a  beast,  by  moving  of  his  feet,  but  rather  passed  sundry  discourses,  touching  affairs 
sliding  upon  the  water  with  his  whole  body  20  past  and  to  come,  lamenting  greatly  the  loss 
(excepting  the  legs)  in  sight;  neither  yet  diving  of  his  great  ship,  more  of  the  men,  but  most  of 
under,  and  again  rising  above  the  water,  as  all  his  books  and  notes,  and  what  else  I  know 
the  manner  is  of  whales,  dolphins,  tunnies,  not;  for  which  he  was  out  of  measure  grieved, 
porpoises,  and  all  other  fish,  but  confidently  the  same  doubtless  being  of  some  matter  of 
showing  himself  above  water  without  hiding,  25  more  importance  than  his  books,  which  I 
Notwithstanding,  we  presented  ourselves  in  could  not  draw  from  him,  yet  by  circumstance 
open  view  and  gesture  to  amaze  him,  as  all  I  gathered  the  same  to  be  the  ore  which  Daniel 
creatures  will  be  commonly  at  a  sudden  gaze  the  Saxon  had  brought  unto  him  in  the  New- 
and  sight  of  men.  Thus  he  passed  along  turn-  found-land.  Whatsoever  it  was,  the  remem- 
ing  his  head  to  and  fro,  yawning  and  gaping  30  brance  touched  him  so  deep  as  not  able  to 
wide,  with  ugly  demonstration  of  long  teeth  contain  himself,  he  beat  his  boy  in  great  rage, 
and  glaring  eyes,  and  to  bid  us  a  farewell  even  at  the  same  time,  so  long  after  the  mis- 
(coming  right  against  the  HindY  he  sent  forth  carrying  of  the  great  ship,  because  upon  a  fair 
a  horrible  voice,  roaring  or  bellowing  as  doth  day,  when  we  were  becalmed  upon  the  coast 
a  lion,  which  spectacle  we  all  beheld  so  far  as  35  of  the  New-found-land,  near  unto  Cape  Race, 
we  were  able  to  discern  the  same,  as  me  prone  he  sent  his  boy  aboard  the  Admiral  to  fetch 
to  wonder  at  every  strange  thing,  as  this  doubt-  certain  things,  amongst  which,  this  being 
less  was,  to  see  a  lion  in  the  ocean  sea,  or  fish  chief,  was  yet  forgotten,  and  left  behind, 
in  shape  of  a  lion.  What  opinion  others  had  After  which  time  he  could  never  conveniently 
thereof,  and  chiefly  the  general  himself,  1 40  send  again  aboard  the  great  ship;  much  less  he 
forbear  to  deliver.  But  he  took  it  for  bonum  doubted  her  ruin  so  near  at  hand. 
omen,^  rejoicing  that  he  was  to  war  against  Herein  my  opinion  was  better  confirmed 
such  an  enemy,  if  it  were  the  devil.  The  wind  diversely,  and  by  sundry  conjectures,  which 
was  large  for  England  at  our  return,  but  very  maketh  me  have  the  greater  hope  of  this  rich 
high,  and  the  sea  rough,  insomuch  as  the  frigate  45  mine.  For  whereas  the  general  had  never  be- 
wherein  the  general  went  was  almost  swallowed  fore  good  conceit  of  these  north  parts  of  the 
up.  world,  now  his  mind  was  wholly  fixed  upon  the 

Monday  in  the  afternoon  (Sept.  2),  we  passed  New-found-land.  And  as  before  he  refused 
in  the  sight  of  Cape  Race,  having  made  as  not  to  grant  assignments  liberally  to  them  that 
much  way  in  little  more  than  two  days  and  50  required  the  same  into  these  north  parts,  now 
I  nights  back  again,  as  before  we  had  done  in  he  became  contrarily  affected,  refusing  to 
eight  days  from  Cape  Race  unto  the  place  make  any  so  large  grants,  especially  of  St. 
where  our  ship  perished,  which  hindrance  John's  which  certain  English  merchants  made 
thitherward  and  speed  back  again,  is  to  be  im-  suit  for,  offering  to  employ  their  money  and 
puted  unto  the  swift  current,  as  well  as  to  the  55  travel  upon  the  same.  Yet  neither  by  their 
winds,  which  we  had  more  large  in  our  re-  own  suit,  nor  of  others  of  his  own  company, 
turn.  whom  he  seemed  willing  to  pleasure,  it  could 

2  i.  e.  the  GoZde?^  ZTind,  the  name  of  Gilbert's  vessel.  ai        ^      •'       j  i-'ji.         •      j.'        -ii. 

3  Good  omen.  Also  laying  down  his  determination  in  the 


RICHARD   HAKLUYT  181 

spring  following,  for  disposing  of  his  voyage  wanting  aboard  his  frigate.  And  so  we  corn- 
then  to  be  re-attempted,  he  assigned  the  cap-  mitted  him  to  God's  protection,  and  set  him 
tain  and  master  of  the  Golden  Hind  unto  the  aboard  his  pinnace,  we  being  more  than  300 
south  discovery,  and  reserved  unto  himself  leagues  onward  of  our  way  home, 
the  north,  affirming  that  this  voyage  had  won  5  By  that  time  we  had  brought  the  islands  of 
his  heart  from  the  south,  and  that  he  was  now  Azores  south  of  us;  yet  we  then  much  keeping 
become  a  northern  man  altogether.  to  the  north,  until  we  had  got  into  the  height 

Last,  being  demanded  what  means  he  had  and  elevation  of  England,  we  met  with  very 
at  his  arrival  in  England  to  compass  the  charges  foul  weather  and  terrible  seas,  breaking  short 
of  so  great  preparation  as  he  intended  to  make  10  and  high,  pyramid  wise.  The  reason  whereof 
the  next  spring,  having  determined  upon  seemed  to  proceed  either  of  hilly  grounds, 
two  fleets,  one  for  the  south,  another  for  the  high  and  low,  within  the  sea,  (as  we  see  hills 
north:  Leave  that  to  me  (he  repUed),  I  will  and  dales  upon  the  land),  upon  which  the  seas 
ask  a  penny  of  no  man.  I  will  bring  good  tid-  do  mount  and  fall;  or  else  the  cause  proceedeth 
ings  unto  her  Majesty,  who  will  be  so  gracious  15  of  diversity  of  winds,  shifting  often  in  sundry 
to  lend  me  10,000  pounds,  willing  as  before  points,  all  which  having  power  to  move  the 
to  be  of  good  cheer,  for  he  did  thank  God  (he  great  ocean,  which  again  is  not  presently 
said)  with  all  his  heart  for  that  he  had  seen,  settled,  so  many  seas  do  encounter  together 
the  same  being  enough  for  us  all,  and  that  we  as  there  had  been  diversity  of  winds.  How- 
needed  not  to  seek  any  further.  And  these  20  soever  it  cometh  to  pass,  men  which  all  their 
last  words  he  would  oft  repeat  with  demonstra-  lifetime  had  occupied  the  sea,  never  saw  more 
tion  of  great  fervency  of  mind,  being  himself  outrageous  seas.  We  had  also  upon  our  main- 
very  confident  and  settled  in  belief  of  inesti-  yard,  an  apparition  of  a  little  fire  by  night, 
mable  good  by  this  voyage,  which  the  greater  which  seamen  do  call  Castor  and  Pollux.  But 
number  of  his  followers  nevertheless  mistrusted  25  we  had  only  one;  which  they  take  an  evil 
altogether,  not  being  made  partakers  of  those  sign  of  more  tempest;  the  same  is  usual  in 
secrets,  which  the  general  kept  unto  himself,      storms. 

Yet  all  of  them  that  are  living  may  be  wit-  Monday   the   ninth   of   September,    in   the 

nesses  of  his  words  and  protestations,  which  afternoon,  the  frigate  was  near  cast  away, 
sparingly  I  have  delivered.  30  oppressed  by  waves;  yet  at  that  time  recov- 

Leaving  the  issue  •f  this  good  hope  unto  God,  ered;  and  giving  forth  signs  of  joy,  the  general 
who  knoweth  the  truth  only,  and  can  at  his  sitting  abaft  with  a  book  in  his  hand  cried  out 
good  pleasure  bring  the  same  to  light,  I  will  unto  us  in  the  Hind  (so  oft  as  we  did  approach 
hasten  to  the  end  of  this  tragedy,  which  must  within  hearing) :  We  are  as  near  to  heaven  by 
be  knit  up  in  the  person  of  our  general.  And  35  sea  as  by  land.  Reiterating  the  same  speech, 
as  it  was  God's  ordinance  upon  him,  even  so  well  beseeming  a  soldier,  resolute  in  Jesus 
the  vehement  persuasion  and  entreaty  of  his  Christ,  as  I  can  testify  he  was. 
friends  could  nothing  avail  to  divert  him  from  The  same  Monday  night,  about  twelve  of 

a  wilful  resolution  of  going  through  in  his  the  clock,  or  not  long  after,  the  frigate  being 
frigate;  which  was  overcharged  upon  their  40  ahead  of  us  in  the  Golden  Hind,  suddenly  her 
decks,  with  fights,  nettings,  and  small  artillery,  lights  were  out,  whereof,  as  it  were  in  a  mo- 
too  cumbersome  for  so  small  a  boat  that  was  ment,  we  lost  the  sight,  and  withal  our  watch 
to  pass  through  the  ocean  sea  at  that  season  of  cried,  the  general  was  cast  away,  which  was 
the  year,  when  by  course  we  might  expect  too  true.  For  in  that  moment,  the  frigate 
much  storm  of  foul  weather,  whereof  indeed  45  was  devoured  and  swallowed  up  of  the  sea. 
we  had  enough.  Yet  still  we  looked  out  all  that  night  and  ever 

But  when  he  was  entreated  by  the  captain,  after,  until  we  arrived  upon  the  coast  of  Eng- 
master,  and  other  his  well-willers  of  the  Hind,  land,  omitting  no  small  sail  at  sea,  unto  which 
not  to  venture  in  the  frigate,  this  was  his  we  gave  not  the  tokens  between  us  agreed 
answer:  I  will  not  forsake  my  little  company  50  upon,  to  have  perfect  knowledge  of  each  other, 
going  homeward,  with  whom  I  have  passed  so  if  we  should  at  any  time  be  separated, 
many  storms  and  perils.     And  in  very  truth.  In  great  torment  of  weather,  and  peril  of 

he  was  urged  to  be  so  over  hard,  by  hard  re-  drowning,  it  pleased  God  to  send  safe  home 
ports  given  of  him,  that  he  v/as  afraid  of  the  the  Golden  Hind,  which  arrived  in  Falmouth, 
sea,  albeit  this  was  rather  rashness  than  ad- 55  the  22nd  day  of  September,  being  Sunday, 
vised  resolution,  to  prefer  the  wind  of  a  vain  not  without  as  great  danger  escaped  in  a  flaw, 
report  to  the  weight  of  his  own  life.  coming  from  the  south-east,  with  such  thick 

Seeing  that  he  would  not  bend  to  reason,  mist  that  we  could  not  discern  land,  to  put 
he  had  provision  out  of  the  Hind,  such  as  was      in  right  with  the  haven. 


182    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

&it   Mldlttt   Haleigl^  out  offense  given:  led  thereunto  by  uncertain 

report   only;    which    His    Majesty    truly    ac- 
1552-1618  knowledgeth  for  the  author  of  all  Hes.    Blame 

no  man   (eaith  Siracides^)   before  thou  have 
RALEIGH'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS   BOOK    5  enquired  the  matter;  understand  first,  and  then 

reform  righteously.    Rumor,  res  sine  teste,  sine 

(From  the  Preface  to  The  History  of  the  World,     judice,  maligna,  fallax;  Rumor  is  without  wit- 

1614)  ness,  without  judge,  malicious,  and  deceivable. 

This  vanity  of  vulgar  opinion  it  was,  that  gave 
How  unfit,  and  how  unworthy  a  choice  I  lO  Saint  Augustine  argument  to  affirm,  that  he 
have  made  of  myself,  to  undertake  a  work  of  feared  the  praise  of  good  men,  and  detested 
this  mixture;  mine  own  reason,  though  exceed-  that  of  the  evil.  And  herein  no  man  hath  given 
mg  weak,  hath  sufficiently  resolved  me.  For  a  better  rule,  than  this  of  Seneca;  Conscientice 
had  It  been  begotten  then  with  my  first  dawn  satisfaciamus:  nihil  in  famam  laboremus,  sequa- 
of  day,  when  the  light  of  common  knowledge  15  iur  vel  mala,  dum  bene  merearis.  Let  us  satisfy 
began  to  open  itself  to  my  younger  years;  and  our  own  consciences,  and  not  trouble  ourselves 
before  any  wound  received,  either  from  For-  with  fame:  be  it  never  so  ill,  it  is  to  be  despised 
tune  or  Time:  I  might  yet  well  have  doubted      so  we  deserve  well. 

that  the  darkness  of  age  and  death  would  have  For  myself,  if  I  have  in  anything  served  my 
covered  over  both  it  and  me,  long  before  the  20  country,  and  prized  it  before  my  private:  the 
performance.  For  beginning  with  the  creation,  general  acceptation  can  yield  me  no  other 
I  have  proceeded  with  the  History  of  the  World ;  profit  at  this  time  than  doth  a  fair  sunshine  day 
and  lastly  purposed  (some  few  sallies  excepted)  to  a  seaman  after  shipwrack:  and  the  contrary, 
to  confine  my  discourse  within  this  our  re-  no  other  harm  than  an  outrageous  tempest 
nowned  Island  of  Great  Britain.  I  confess  that  25  after  the  port  attained.  .  .  . 
it  had  better  sorted  with  my  disability,  the  However,  I  know  that  it  will  be  said  by  many, 

better  part  of  whose  times  are  run  out  in  other  that  I  might  have  been  more  pleasing  to  the 
travails;  to  have  set  together  (as  I  could)  the  reader,  if  I  had  written  the  story  of  mine  own 
unjointed  and  scattered  frame  of  our  English  times,  having  been  permitted  to  draw  water  as 
affairs,  than  of  the  Universal;  in  whom,  had  30  near  the  well-head  as  another.  To  this  I 
there  been  no  other  defect  (who  am  all  defect)  answer,  that  whosoever  in  writing  a  modern 
than  the  time  of  the  day,  it  were  enough;  the  history,  shall  follow  truth  too  near  the  heels,  it 
day  of  a  tempestuous  life,  drawn  on  to  the  very  may  haply  strike  out  his  teeth.  There  is  no 
evening  ere  I  began,  i  But  those  inmost,  and  mistress  or  guide,  that  hath  led  her  followers 
soul-piercing  wounds,  which  are  ever  aching  35  and  servants  into  greater  miseries.  He  that 
while  uncured;  with  the  desire  to  satisfy  those  goes  after  her  too  far  off,  loseth  her  sight,  and 
few  fnends,  which  I  have  tried  by  the  fire  of  loseth  himself:  and  he  that  walks  after  her  at  a 
adversity,  the  former  enforcing,  the  latter  middle  distance;  I  know  not  whether  I  should 
persuading;  have  caused  me  to  make  my  call  that  kind  of  course  temper  or  baseness 
thoughts  legible,  and  myself  the  subject  of  40  It  is  true,  that  I  never  travailed  after  men's 
every  opmion  wise  or  weak  opinions,  when  I  might  have  made  the  best  use 

To  the  world  I  present  them,  to  which  I  am  of  them:  and  I  have  now  too  few  days  re- 
nothmg  indebted:  neither  have  authors  that  maining,  to  imitate  those,  that  either  out  of 
were  (Fortune  changing),  sped  much  better  in  extreme  ambition,  or  extreme  cowardice,  or 
any  age.  For,  prosperity  and  adversity  have  45  both,  do  yet  (when  death  hath  them  on  his 
evermore  tied  and  untied  vulgar  affections,  shoulders)  flatter  the  world,  between  the  bed 
And  as  we  see  it  m  experience,  that  dogs  do  and  the  grave.  It  is  enough  for  me  (being  in 
always  bark  at  those  they  know  not,  and  that  that  state  I  am)  to  write  of  the  eldest  times: 
It  is  their  nature  to  accompany  one  another  wherein  also  why  may  it  not  be  said,  that  in 
in  those  clamours:  so  it  is  with  the  inconsiderate  50  speaking  of  the  past,  I  point  at  the  present,  and 
multitude;  who,  wanting  that  virtue  which  we  tax  the  vices  of  those  that  are  yet  living  in 
call  honesty  m  all  men  and  that  especial  gift  their  persons  that  are  long  since  dead;  and  have 
ot  C^od  which  we  call  charity  in  Christian  men;  it  laid  to  my  charge?  But  this  I  cannot  help, 
condemn  without  hearing;  and  wound,  with-     though  innocent.     And  certainly  if  there  be 

1  n^uicfh  «,-a  „«„j        J  *   J    .,.  r                .  ^^  ^°y'  *^^*  finding  themselves  spotted  like  the 

iKaleigh  was  condemned  to  death  for  treason  in  1603,  f.rrf^ra  nf  r^lrl  +,-t«o    cV^oll  fi«^  f     u      -^i,           r 

but  the  sentence  was  commuted  by  James  I  to  imprison-  ^^S^^S  Ot  Old  time,  shall  find  fault  With  me  for 

™®i^^-  ^u '"jF®'     '^^^  History  of  the  World  (which  he  left 

Tower    so  that  iT"mS  t^lS^'^  imprisonment  in  the  ^i.  e.  The  son  of  Sirach,  the  author  of  the  apocryphal 

oveT  fiftj  yews  old                      ^^"^  ^^"^  ^^^"^  ^^  "^^  ^^^'^  Ecclesiasticus      Raleigh's  quotation  is.  apparStly 

*  years  oia.  ^  paraphrase  of  Ecclesiasticus.  si.  7. 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH  183 

painting  them  over  anew,  they  shall  therein  had;  the  storms  of  ambition  shall  beat  her 
accuse  themselves  justly,  and  me  falsely.  great  boughs  and  branches  one  against  another; 

And  if  we  could  afford  ourselves  but  so  her  leaves  shall  fall  off,  her  limbs  wither,  and 
much  leisure  as  to  consider,  that  he  which  a  rabble  of  barbarous  nations  enter  the  field, 
hath  most  in  the  world  hath,  in  respect  of  the  5  and  cut  her  down. 

world,  nothing:  and  that  he  which  hath  the  Now  these  great  Kings,  and  conquering  na- 
longest  time  lent  him  to  live  in  it,  hath  yet  no  tions,  have  been  the  subject  of  those  ancient 
proportion  at  all  therein,  setting  it  either  by  histories,  which  have  been  perused,  and  yet 
that  which  is  past,  when  we  were  not,  or  by  remain  among  us;  and  withal  of  so  many  trag- 
that  time  which  is  to  come,  in  which  we  shall  10  ical  poets,  as  in  the  persons  of  powerful  princes, 
abide  forever:  I  say,  if  both,  to  wit,  our  propor-  and  other  mighty  men  have  complained  against 
tion  in  the  world,  and  our  time  in  the  world,  infidelity,  time,  destiny,  and  most  of  all  against 
differ  not  much  from  that  which  is  nothing;  it  is  the  variable  success  of  worldly  things,  and 
not  out  of  any  excellency  of  understanding,  instability  of  fortune.  To  these  undertakings, 
that  we  so  much  prize  the  one,  which  hath  15  these  great  lords  of  the  world  have  been  stirred 
(in  effect)  no  being:  and  so  much  neglect  the  up,  rather  by  the  desire  of  fame,  which. ploweth 
other,  which  hath  no  ending:  coveting  those  up  the  air,  and  soweth  in  the*^nd;  than  by 
mortal  things  of  the  world,  as  if  our  souls  were  the  affection  of  bearing  rule,  which  drawethN 
therein  immortal,  and  neglecting  those  things  after  it  so  much  vexation  and  so  many  cares, 
which  are  immortal,  as  if  ourselves  after  the  20  And  that  this  is  true,  the  good  advice  of  Cineas 
world  were  but  mortal.  to  Pyrrus^  proves.     And  certainly,   as  fame 

But  let  every  man  value  his  own  wisdom  as  hath  often  been  dangerous  to  the  living,  so  is 
he  pleaseth.  Let  the  rich  man  think  all  fools,  it  to  the  dead  of  no  use  at  all,  because  separate 
that  cannot  equal  his  abundance;  the  revenger  from  knowledge.  Which  were  it  otherwise, 
esteem  all  negligent,  that  have  not  trod  down  25  and  the  extreme  ill  bargain  of  buying  this 
their  opposites;  the  poUtician,  all  gross,  that  lasting  discourse,  understood  by  them  which 
cannot  merchandise  their  faith:  yet  when  we  are  dissolved;  they  themselves  would  then 
come  in  sight  of  the  port  of  death,  to  which  all  rather  have  wished,  to  have  stolen  out  of  the 
winds  drive  us;  and  when  by  letting  fall  that  world  without  noise;  than  to  be  put  in  mind, 
fatal  anchor,  which  can  never  be  weighed  again,  30  that  they  have  purchased  the  report  of  their 
the  navigation  of  this  hfe  takes  end :  then  it  is,  actions  in  the  world,  by  rapine,  oppression,  and 
I  say,  that  our  own  cogitations  (those  sad  and  cruelty;  by  giving  in  spoil  the  innocent  and 
severe  cogitations,  formerly  beaten  from  us  by  labouring  soul  to  the  idle  and  insolent,  and  by 
our  health  and  feHcity)  return  again,  and  pay  having  emptied  the  cities  of  the  world  of  their 
us  to  the  uttermost  for  all  the  pleasing  passages  35  ancient  inhabitants,  and  filled  them  again 
of  our  lives  past.  It  is  then  that  we  cry  out  to  with  so  many  and  so  variable  sorts  of  sor- 
God  for  mercy;  then,  when  ourselves  can  no      rows.  .  .  . 

longer  exercise  cruelty  to  others;  and  it  is  For  the  rest,  if  we  seek  a  reason  of  the  sue- 
only  then,  that  we  are  strucken  through  the  cession  and  continuance  of  this  boundless  am- 
soul  with  this  terrible  sentence,  that  God  will  i^Qhition  in  mortal  man,  we  may  add  to  that 
not  he  mocked.*  which  hath  been  already  said;  that  the  kings 

and  princes  of  the  world  have  always  laid 

before  them,  the  actions,  but  not  the  ends  of 

FAME  AND  DEATH  those  great  ones  which  preceded  them.     They 

rra^       m     rrw         r  *i.    nr    jj    i«i/i\        45  are  always  transported  with  the  glory  of  the 
(From  The  History  of  the  World,  1614)  ^^^^  ^^^^^^  J^^^  ^.^^  ^^^  ^^^^^  ^^  ^^^ 

By  this  which  we  have  already  set  down,  is  other,  till  they  find  the  experience  in  them- 
seen  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  first  three  selves.  They  neglect  the  advice  of  God,  while 
Monarchies  of  the  world;i  whereof  the  founders  they  enjoy  life,  or  hope  it;  but  they  follow  the 
and  erectors  thought,  that  they  could  never  50  counsel  of  death,  upon  his  first  approach.  It 
have  ended.  That  of  Rome  which  made  the  is  he  that  puts  into  man  all  the  wisdom  of  the 
fourth,  was  also  at  this  time  almost  at  the  world  without  speaking  a  word;  which  God 
highest.  We  have  left  it  flourishing  in  the  with  all  the  words  of  His  law,  promises,  or 
middle  of  the  field;  having  rooted  up,  or  cut  threats,  doth  infuse.  Death,  which  hateth  and 
down,  all  that  kept  it  from  the  eyes  and  ad- 55  destroyeth  man,  is  believed;  God,  which  hath 
miration  of  the  world.  But  after  some  .con-  made  him,  is  always  deferred.  /  have  con- 
tinuance,  it  shall  begin  to  lose  the  beauty  it         ^Pyrrhus  (c.  318-272  B.  C.)  was  King  rf  Epirus  and 

'  °.  an  antagonist  of  Rome.    He  had  dreams  of  world  empire, 

*  V.  Gal.  vi.  7.  but  Cineas  (his  Chief  Minister)  advised  him  to  be  con- 

1  Assyria,  Persia,  Greece.  tent  with  what  he  already  possessed. 


184    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

sidered  (saith  Solomon)  all  the  works  that  are  That  ye  have  been  earnest  in  speaking  or 
under  the  sun  and  behold,  all  is  vanity,  and  vexa-  writing  again  and  again  the  contrary  way 
lion  of  spirit;  but  who  beheves  it,  till  death  should  be  no  blemish  or  discredit  at  all  unto 
tells  it  us?  It  was  death,  which  opening  the  you.  Amongst  so  many  so  huge  volumes  as 
conscience  of  Charles  the  fifth,  made  him  5  the  infinite  pains  of  St.  Augustine  have  brought 
enjoin  his  son  Philip  to  restore  Navarre;  and  forth,  what  one  hath  gotten  him  greater  love, 
king  Francis  the  first  of  France,  to  command  commendation  and  honour  than  the  book 
that  justice  should  be  done  upon  the  murderers  wherein  he  carefully  coUecteth  his  own  over- 
of  the  Protestants  in  Merindol  and  Cahrieres,  sights  and  sincerely  condemneth  them?  Many 
which  till  then  he  neglected.  It  is  therefore  10  speeches  there  are  of  Job,  whereby  his  wisdom 
death  alone  that  can  suddenly  make  man  to  and  other  virtues  may  appear,  but  the  glory 
know  himself.  He  tells  the  proud  and  insolent,  of  an  ingenuous  mind  he  hath  purchased  by 
that  they  are  but  abjects,  and  humbles  them  these  words  only,  ''Behold  I  will  lay  mine 
at  the  instant;  makes  them  cry,  complain,  hand  on  my  mouth;  I  have  spoken  once,  yet 
and  repent,  yea,  even  to  hate  their  forepast  15  will  I  not  therefore  maintain  argument;  yea, 
happiness.  He  takes  the  account  of  the  rich,  twice,  howbeit  for  that  cause  further  I  will 
and  proves  him  a  beggar;  a  naked  beggar,  not  proceed. "^  Far  more  comfort  it  were  for 
which  hath  interest  in  nothing,  but  in  the  us,  so  small  is  the  joy  we  take  in  these  strifes, 
gravel  that  fills  his  mouth.  He  holds  a  glass  to  labour  under  the  same  yoke,  as  men  that 
before  the  eyes  of  the  most  beautiful,  and  20  look  for  the  same  eternal  reward  of  their  la- 
makes  them  see  therein,  their  deformity  and  hours,  to  be  enjoyed  with  you  in  bands  of 
rottenness;  and  they  acknowledge  it.  indissoluble  love  and  amity,  to  live  as  if  our 

O  eloquent,  just,  and  mighty  Death!  whom  persons  being  many  our  souls  were  but  one, 
none  could  advise,  thou  hast  persuaded;  what  rather  in  such  dismembered  sort  to  spend  our 
none  hath  dared,  thou  hast  done;  and  whom  25  few  and  wretched  days  in  a  tedious  prosecuting 
all  the  world  hath  flattered,  thou  only  hath  of  wearisome  contentions,  the  end  whereof,  if 
cast  out  of  the  world  and  despised;  thou  hast  they  have  not  some  speedy  end,  will  be  heavy 
drawn  together  all  the  star-stretched  greatness,  even  on  both  sides.  Brought  already  we  are 
all  the  pride,  cruelty,  and  ambition  of  man  even  to  that  estate  which  Gregory  Nazianzen 
and  covered  it  all  over  with  these  two  narrow  30  mournfully  describeth,  saying: 
words,  Hie jacet.  "My  mind  leadeth  me   (since  there  is  no 

other  remedy)   to  fly  and  to  convey  myself 

into  some  corner  out  of  sight,  where  I  may 

MitilStD    £)00k£t  escape  from  this  cloudy  tempest  of  malicious- 

•^  ^  35ness,   whereby   all   parts   are   entered   into   a 

1553-1600  deadly  war  amongst  themselves,  and  that  little 

remnant  of  love  which  was  is  now  consumed  to 

A   PLEA   FOR   CHARITY   IN    CONTRO-      nothing.    The  only  godliness  we  glory  in  is  to 

VERSIES,   AND   FOR  SINCERITY  find  out  somewhat  whereby   we   may   judge 

40  others  to  be  ungodly.    Each  other's  faults  we 
(From  the  Preface  to  Ecclesiastical  Polity,  1594)      observe  as  matter  of  exprobation^  and  not  of 

grief.     By  these  means  we  are  grown  hateful 

The  best  and  safest  way  for  you,  therefore,      in  the  eyes  of  the  heathens  themselves,  and 

my  dear  brethren,  is  to  do  all  your  deeds  past      (which  woundeth  thus  the  more  deeply)  able 

to  a  new  reckoning,  to  re-examine  the  cause  45  we  are  not  to  deny  but  that  we  have  deserved 

ye  have  taken  in  hand,  and  to  try  it  even      their  hatred.    With  the  better  sort  of  our  own 

point  by  point,  argument  by  argument,  with      our  fame  and  credit  is  clean  lost.    The  less  we 

all  the  legal  exactness  ye  can,  to  lay  aside  the      are  to  marvel  if  they  judge  vilely  of  us,  who  al- 

gall  of  that  bitterness  wherein  your  minds  have      though  we  did  well  would  hardly  allow  thereof. 

hitherto   over-abounded,   and   with   meekness  50  On  our  backs  they  also  build  that  are  lewd,^ 

to  search  the  truth.    Think,  ye  are  men,  deem      and  what  we  object  one  against  another  the 

it  not  impossible  for  you  to  err;  sift  impartially      same  they  use  to  the  utter  scorn  and  disgrace 

your  own  hearts  whether  it  be  force  of  reason      of  us  all.     This  we  have  gained  by  our  mutual 

or  vehemence  of  affection  which  hath  bred,      home  dissentions.     This  we  are  worthily  re- 

and  still  doth  feed  these  opinions  in  you.     If  55  warded  with,  which  are  more  forward  to  strive 

truth  do  anywhere  manifest  itself  seek  not  to      than  Lecometh  men  of  virtuous  and  mild  dis- 

smother  it  with  glossing  delusion,  acknowledge      position."     But  our  trust  in  the  Almighty  is, 

the  greatness  thereof,  and  think  it  your  best         ,  r  r    i  ^  ,  t^  i. 

.   ,  ,        .,  T   J 1  •!  *  "Job,  xl.  5.  2  Reproach,  accusation. 

Victory  when  the  same  doth  prevail  over  you.  » Ignorant,  uneducated. 


JOHN  LYLY  185 

that  with  us  contentions  are  now  at  their  children  at  the  withered  breasts  of  their  mother, 
highest  float,  and  that  the  day  will  come  (for  no  longer  able  to  yield  them  relief — what 
what  cause  of  despair  is  there)  when  the  pas-  would  become  of  man  himself  whom  these 
sions  of  former  enmity  being  allayed,  we  shall  things  now  do  all  serve?  See  we  not  plainly 
with  ten  times  redoubled  tokens  of  our  un-  5  that  obedience  of  creatures  unto  the  law  of 
feignedly  reconciled  love,  show  ourselves  each  nature  is  the  stay  of  the  whole  world?  .  .  . 
toward  the  other  the  same,  which  Joseph  and  Thus  far,  therefore,  we  have  endeavoured  in 
the  brethren  of  Joseph  were  at  the  time  of  their  part  to  open  of  what  nature  and  force  laws 
interview  in  Egypt.  Our  comfortable  expec-  are,  according  unto  their  several  kinds:  the 
tation  and  most  thirsty  desire,  whereof  what  10  law  which  God  with  Himself  hath  eternally 
man  soever  amongst  you  shall  anyway  help  set  down  to  follow  in  His  own  works;  the  law 
to  satisfy  (as  we  truly  hope  there  is  no  one  which  He  hath  made  for  His  creatures  to  keep, 
amongst  you  but  some  way  or  other  will)  the  the  law  of  natural  and  necessary  agents;  the 
blessings  of  the  God  of  peace,  both  in  this  world  law  which  angels  in  heaven  obey;  the  law 
and  in  the  world  to  come,  be  upon  him  more  15  whereunto,  by  the  light  of  reason,  men  find 
than  the  stars  of  the  firmament  in  number.  themselves  bound  in  that  they  are  men;  the 

law   which   they   make,   by   composition,   for 

multitudes  and  politic  societies  of  men  to  be 

guided  by;  the  law  which  belongeth  unto  each 

THE   DIVINE  SOURCE   OF  LAW         20  nation,  the  law  that  concerneth  the  fellowship 

(From  the  same)  ?^  f'  ^^^  lastly  the  law  which  God  Himself 

hath  supernaturally  revealed.  .  .  . 
This  world's  first  creation,  and  the  preserva-  Wherefore  that  here  we  may  briefly  end,  of 

tion  since  of  things  created,  whc,t  is  it  but  only  law  there  can  be  no  less  acknowledged,  than 
so  far  forth  a  manifestation  by  execution  what  25  that  her  seat  is  in  the  bosom  of  God,  her  voice 
the  eternal  law  of  God  is  concerning  things  the  harmony  of  the  world,  all  things  in  heaven 
natural?  And  as  it  cometh  to  pass  in  a  king-  and  earth  do  her  homage,  the  very  least  as 
dom  rightly  ordered,  that  after  a  law  is  once  feeling  her  care,  and  the  greatest  as  not  ex- 
published  it  presently  takes  effect  far  and  empted  from  her  power,  both  angels  and  men 
wide,  all  states  framing  themselves  thereunto,  30  and  creatures  of  what  condition  soever  though 
even  so  let  us  think  it  fareth  in  the  natural  each  in  a  different  sort  and  manner,  yet  all 
course  of  the  world.  Since  the  time  that  God  with  uniform  consent,  admirmg  her  as  the 
did  first  proclaim  the  edicts  of  His  law  upon  mother  of  their  peace  and  joy. 
it,  heaven  and  earth  have  barkened  unto  His 
voice,  and  their  labour  hath  been  to  do  His  35 

will.     He  made  a  law  for  the  rain.  He  gave  '^lOfaU    iLplV 

His  decree  unto  the  sea  that  the  waters  should 

not  pass  his  commandment.     Now  if  nature  1553-1606 

should  intermit   her  course,   and   leave   alto- 
gether,  though  it   were  but  for  awhile,    the  40  A   GOOD   SCHOOLMASTER 
observation  of  her  own  laws;  if  those  principal 

and  mother  elements  of  the  world  whereof  all  (From  Euphues,  1579) 

things  in  this  lower  world  are  made  should 

lose  the  qualities  which  now  they  have;  if  the  A  good  and  discreet  schoohnaster  should 
frame  of  that  heavenly  arch  erected  over  our  45  be  such  an  one  as  Phcenix  was  the  instructor  of 
heads  should  loosen  and  dissolve  itself;  if  Achilles,  whom  Pelleus  (as  Homer  reporteth) 
celestial  spheres  should  forget  their  wonted  appointed  to  that  end  that  he  should  be  unto 
motions  and  by  irregular  volubiHty  turn  them-  Achilles  not  only  a  teacher  of  learning,^  but  an 
selvesany  way  as  it  might  happen;  if  the  prince  ensample  of  good  living.  But  that  is  most 
of  the  lights  of  heaven,  which  now  as  a  giant  50  principally  to  be  looked  for,  and  most  dili- 
doth  run  his  unwearied  course,  should,  as  it  gently  to  be  forseen,  that  such  tutors  be  sought 
were,  through  a  languishing  faintness,  begin  out  for  the  education  of  a  young  child,  whose 
to  stand  and  to  rest  himself;  if  the  moon  should  life  hath  never  been  stained  with  dishonesty, 
wander  from  her  beaten  way,  the  times  and  whose  good  name  hath  never  been  called  into 
seasons  of  the  year  blend  themselves  by  dis-  55  question,  whose  manners  hath  been  irrepre- 
ordered  and  confused  mixture,  the  winds  hensible  before  the  world.  As  husbandmen 
breathe  out  their  last  gasp,  the  clouds  yield  no  hedge  in  their  trees,  so  should  good  school- 
rain,  the  earth  be  defeated  of  heavenly  in-  masters  with  good  manners  hedge  in  the  wit 
fiuence,  the  fruits  of  the  earth  pine  away  as      and  disposition  of  the  scholar,  whereby  the 


186    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH   OF  BEN  JONSON 

blossoms  of  learning  may  the  sooner  increase         It  is  good  nurture  that  leadeth  to  virtue, 
to  a  bud.  and    discreet    demeanour    that    plaineth    the 

Many  parents  are  m  this  to  be  misUked,  path  to  fehcity.  If  one  have  either  the  gifts 
which  having  neither  trial  of  his  honesty,  nor  of  Fortune,  as  great  riches,  or  of  Nature,  as 
experience  of  his  learmng  to  whom  they  com-  5  seemly  personage,  he  is  to  be  despised  in  re- 
mit the  child  to  be  taught,  without  any  deep  spect  of  learning.  To  be  a  noble  man  it  is 
or  due  consideration,  put  them  to  one  either  most  excellent,  but  that  is  our  ancestors,  as 
ignorant  01  obstinate,  the  which  if  they  them-  Uhjsses  said  to  Ajax,  as  for  our  nobility,  our 
selves  shall  do  of  ignorance  the  foUy  cannot  be  stock,  our  kmdred,  and  whatsoever  we  our- 
excused,  if  of  obstinacy  their  lewdness^  is  to  10  selves  have  not  done,  I  scarcely  account  ours, 
be  abhoired.  Riches  are  precious,  but  Fortune  ruleth  the 

borne  fathers  are  overcome  with  the  flattery  roost,  which  oftentimes  taketh  away  all  from 
of  those  fools  who  profess  outwardly  great  them  that  have  much,  and  giveth  them  more 
knowledge,  and  show  a  certain  kind  of  dis-  that  had  nothing,  glory  is  a  thing  worthy  to 
sembhng  sincerity  in  their  Hfe,  others  at  the  15  be  foUowed,  but  as  it  is  gotten  with  great  tra- 
entreatmg  of  their  f amiUar  friends  are  content  vaile,  so  is  it  lost  m  a  small  time, 
to  commit  their  sons  to  one,  without  either  Beauty  is  such  a  thing  as  we  commonly  pre- 
substance  of  honesty  or  shadow  of  learning,  fer  before  all  things,  yet  it  fadeth  before  we 
By  which  their  undiscreet  deaUng,  they  are  perceive  it  to  flourish:  health  is  that  which  all 
hke  those  sick  men  which  reject  the  expert  20  men  desire,  yet  ever  subject  to  any  disease; 
and  cunning  physician,  and  at  the  request  of  strength  is  to  be  wished  for,  yet  is  it  either 
their  friends  admit  the  heedless  practiser,  abated  with  an  ague,  or  taken  away  with  age- 
which  dangereth  the  patient,  and  bringeth  the  whosoever  therefore  boasteth  of  force,  is  too 
body  to  his  bane:2  or  not  unUke  unto  those,  beastly,  seemg  he  is  in  that  quality  not  to  be 
which  at  the  instant  and  importunate  suit  of  25  compared  with  beasts,  as  the  Uon,  the  bull 
their  acquaintance  refuse  a  cunning  pilot,  and      the  elephant.  ' 

choose  an  unskilful  mariner,  which  hazard-  It  is  vutue,  yea  virtue,  Gentlemen,  that 
eth  the  ship  and  themselves  in  the  calmest  maketh  gentlemen;  that  maketh  the  poor  rich, 
^^^      ,  ^    ,  ,        ,  the  base  bom  noble,  the  subject  a  sovereign, 

C^ood  God,  can  there  be  any  that  hath  the  30  the  deformed  beautiful,  the  sick  whole,  the 
name  of  a  father  that  will  esteem  more  the  weak  strong,  the  most  miserable,  the  most 
fancy  of  his  friend  than  the  nurture  of  his  son?  happy.  There  are  two  principal  and  peculiar 
It  was  not  in  vain  that  Crates  would  often  say,  gifts  in  the  nature  of  man,  knowledge  and 
that  if  It  were  lawful  even  in  the  market  place  reason:  the  one  commandeth,  the  other  obey- 
he  would  cry  out:  Whether  run  you  fathers,  35  eth;  these  things  neither  the  whirling  wheel  of 
which  have  aU  your  cark  and  care  to  multiply  fortune  can  change,  neither  the  deceitful  call- 
your  wealth,  nothing  regarding  your  children  ing  of  worldlings  separate,  neither  sickness 
unto  whom  you  must  leave  all.  .In  this  they  abate,  neither  age  abolish, 
resemble  hun  which  is  verj-  curious  about  the  It  is  only  knowledge,  which  worn  with  years 

shoe  and  hath  no  care  for  the  foot.  Besides  40  waxeth  young,  and  when  all  things  are  cut 
this  there  be  many  fathers  so  inflamed  with  away  with  the  sickle  of  Time,  knowledge 
the  love  of  wealth,  that  they  be  as  it  were  in-  flourisheth  so  high  that  Time  cannot  reach  it 
censed  with  hate  against  theh-  children;  which  War  taketh  all  thmgs  with  it  even  as  the  whirl- 
Ansippm  seemg  in  an  old  miser  did  partly  pool,  yet  must  it  leave  learning  behind  it, 
note  It,  this  old  miser  asking  of  Arisippus  45  wherefore  it  was  wisely  answered  in  my  opin- 
what  he  would  take  to  teach  and  bring  up  his  ion,  of  Stilpo  the  Philosopher,  for  when  Deme- 
son,  he  answered  a  thousand  groats:  a  thousand  irius  won  the  City,  and  made  it  even  to  the 
groats,  God  shield,  answered  this  old  huddle,  ground  leaving  nothing  standing,  he  demanded 
I  can  have  two  servants  at  that  price.  Unto  of  Stilpo  whether  he  had  lost  anything  of  his 
whom  he  made  answer,  thou  shalt  have  two  50  m  this  great  spoil;  unto  whom  he  answered 
servants  and  one  son,  and  whether  wilt  thou  no  verily,  for  war  getteth  no  spoil  of  vk- 
sell?     Is  it  not  absurd  to  have  so  great  a     tue. 

care  of  the  right  hand  of  the  child  to  cut  his  Unto  the  hke  sense  may  the  answer  of  Soc- 
mea^,  that  if  he  handle  his  knife  in  the  left  rates  be  applied,  when  Gorgias  asked  him 
hand  we  rebuke  him  severely,  and  to  be  55  whether  he  thought  the  Persian  king  happy  or 
sure  of  his  nurture  m  disciphne  and  learn-  not;  I  know  not,  said  he,  how  much  virtue  or 
^^^^  •  •  •  disciphne  he  hath,  for  happiness  doth  not  con- 

sist in  the  gifts  of  fortune,  but  m  the  grace  of 
» Ignorance.  « Destruction.  virtue. 


JOHN   LYLY  187 

EUPHUES   GLASS  FOR  EUROPE  study  and  enquiry,  not  meaning  to  write  a 

„     ,  7  rr-     r.     7     J    ^  ro.^^  chromclc,  but.  to  sct  down  in  a  word  what  I 

(From  Euphues  and  His  England,   1580)  heard  by  conference. 

TO  THE  LADIES  AND  GENTLEWOMEN  OF  ITALY:       ^T^^l^  .^}^  ^^  ^^.^^  wholesomc  and  pleasant, 
EUPHUES  wiSHETH  HEALTH  AND  HONOUR       ^^'^^^^  civility  not  mferior  to  those  that  deserve 

best,  their  wits  very  sharp  and  quick,  although 
If  I  had  brought  (ladies)  little  dogs  from  I  have  heard  that  the  Italian  and  French- 
Malta,  or  strange  stones  from  India,  or  fine  men  have  accounted  them  but  gross  and  dull 
carpets  from  Turkey,  I  am  sure  that  you  would  pated,  which  I  think  came  not  to  pass  by  the 
have  either  wooed  me  to  have  them,  or  wished  lo  proof  they  made  of  their  wits,  but  by  the  Eng- 
to  see  them.  lishman's  report. 

But  I  am  come  out  of  England  with  a  glass,  But  this  is  strange  (and  yet  how  true  it  is, 

wherein  you  shall  behold  the  things  which  there  is  none  that  ever  travelled  thither  but 
you  never  saw,  and  marvel  at  the  sights  when  can  report)  that  it  is  always  incident  to  an 
you  have  seen.  Not  a  glass  to  make  you  beau-  15  Englishman,  to  think  worst  of  his  own  nation, 
tiful,  but  to  make  you  blush,  yet  not  at  your  either  in  learning,  experience,  common  reason, 
vices,  but  at  others'  virtues,  not  a  glass  to  dress  or  wit,  preferring  always  a  stranger  rather 
your  hairs  but  to  redress  your  harms,  by  the  for  the  name,  than  for  the  wisdom.  I  for  mine 
which  if  you  every  morning  correct  your  man-  own  part  think,  that  in  all  Europe  there  are 
ners,  being  as  careful  to  amend  faults  in  your  20  not  lawyers  more  learned,  divines  more  pro- 
hearts,  as  you  are  curious  to  find  faults  in  found,  physicians  more  expert,  than  are  in 
your  heads,  you  shall  in  short  time  be  as  much      England. 

commended  for  virtue  of  the  wise,  as  for  beauty  But  that  which  most  allureth  a  stranger  is 
of  the  wanton.  their  courtesy,  their  civiUty  and  good  enter- 

Thus,  fair  ladies,  hoping  you  will  be  as  willing  25  tainment.  I  speak  this  by  experience,  that  I 
to  pry  in  this  glass  for  amendment  of  manners,  found  more  courtesy  in  England  among  those 
as  you  are  to  prank  yourselves  in  a  looking-  I  never  knew,  in  one  year,  than  I  have  done  in 
glass,  for  commendation  of  men,  I  wish  you  as  Athens  or  Italy  among  those  I  ever  loved, 
much  beauty  as  you  would  have,  so  as  you      in  twenty. 

would  endeavour  to  have  as  much  virtue  as  30  But  having  entreated  of  the  country  and 
you  should  have.    And  so  farewell.  their  conditions,  let  me  come  to  the  glass  I 

EuPHUES.  promised,  being  the  court.  ^  .  .  . 

Is  not  this  a  glass,  fair  ladies,  for  all  other 
There  is  an  isle  lying  in  the  ocean  sea,  directly  countries  to  behold,  where  there  is  not  only 
against  that  part  of  France,  which  containeth  35  an  agreement  in  faith,  rehgion,  and  counsel, 
Picardy  and  Normandy,  called  now  England,  but  in  friendship,  brotherhood,  and  hving? 
heretofore  named  Britain,  it  hath  Ireland  upon  By  whose  good  endeavours  vice  is  punished, 
the  west  side,  on  the  north  the  main  sea,  on  the  virtue  rewarded,  peace  established,  foreign 
east  side  the  German  Ocean.  This  Island  broils  repressed,  domestical  cares  appeased? 
is  in  circuit  1720  miles,  in  form  like  unto  a  40  what  nation  can  of  counsellors  desire  more? 
triangle,  being  broadest  in  the  south  part,  and  what  dominion,  yet  excepted  hath  so  much? 
gathering  narrower  and  narrower  till  it  come  when  neither  courage  can  prevail  against  their 
to  the  farthest  point  of  Caithness,  northward  counsel,  nor  both  joined  in  one  be  of  force  to 
where  it  is  narrowest,  and  there  endeth  in  undermine  their  country,  when  you  have  daz- 
manner  of  a  promontory.  To  repeat  the  an-45zled  your  eyes  with  this  glass,  behold  here  is 
cient  manner  of  this  island  or  what  sundry  another.  It  was  my  fortune  to  be  acquainted 
nations  have  inhabited  there,  to  set  down  the  with  certain  English  gentlemen,  which  brought 
giants,  which  in  bigness  of  bone  have  passed  the  me  to  the  court,  where  when  I  came,  I  was 
ordinary  size,  and  almost  common  credit,  to  driven  into  a  maze  to  behold  the  lusty  and 
rehearse  what  diversity  of  languages  have  50  brave  gallants,  the  beautiful  and  chaste  ladies, 
been  used,  into  how  many  kingdoms  it  hath  the  rare  and  godly  orders,  so  as  I  could  not 
been  divided,  what  religions  have  been  fol-  tell  whether  I  should  most  commend  virtue 
lowed  before  the  coming  of  Christ,  although  it  or  bravery.  At  the  last  coming  oftener  thither, 
would  breed  great  delight  to  your  ears,  yet  than  it  beseemed  one  of  my  degree,  yet  not 
might  it  happily  seem  tedious:  for  that  honey  55  so  often  as  they  desired  my  company,  I  began 
taken  excessively  cloyeth  the  stomach  though  to  pry  after  their  manners,  natures,  and  lives, 
it  be  honey.  and  that  which  followeth  I  saw,  whereof  whoso 

But  my  mind  is  briefly  to  touch  such  things      doubteth,  I  will  swear, 
as  at  my  being  there  I  gathered  by  mine  own  1 1.  e.  the  glass  in  which  he  will  picture  the  court. 


188    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

The  ladies  spend  the  morning  in  devout  the  street,  which  although  they  are  nothing  so 
prayer,  not  resembling  the  gentlewomen  in  noble,  yet  are  they  much  more  necessary.  Let 
Greece  and  Italy,  who  begin  their  morning  at  not  your  robes  hinder  your  devotion,  learn  of 
mid-noon,  and  make  their  evening  at  midnight,  the  English  ladies,  that  God  is  worthy  to  be 
sing  sonnets  for  psalms,  and  pastimes  for  5  worshipped  with  the  most  price,  to  whom  you 
prayers,  reading  the  Epistle  of  a  Lover,  when  ought  to  give  all  praise,  then  shall  ye  be  like 
they  should  peruse  the  Gospel  of  our  Lord,  stars  to  the  wise,  who  now  are  but  staring  stocks 
drawing  wanton  lines  when  death  is  before  to  the  foolish,  then  shall  you  be  praised  of 
their  face,  as  Archimedes  did  triangles  and  cir-  most,  who  are  now  pointed  at  of  all,  then  shall 
cles  when  the  enemy  was  at  his  back.^  Be- 10  God  bear  with  your  folly,  who  now  abhorreth 
hold,  ladies,  in  this  glass,  that  the  service  of  your  pride. 
God  is  to  be  preferred  before  all  things,  imitate 
the  English  damoseUes  who  have  their  books 

tied  to  their  girdles,  not  feathers;  who  are  as  fe.£„   i»j»£l£j)    fe\«t|n^v 

cunning  in  the  scriptures,  as  you  are  in  Ariosto  15  ^*'*'    Tr  V**'**'    ^a'j^uui^i^ 

or  Petrarch  or  any  book  that  liketh  you  best,  1554-1586 

and  becometh  you  most. 

For  bravery  I  cannot  say  that  you  exceed  THE  PREEMINENCE  OF  POETRY 

them,   for  certainly  it  is  the  most  gorgeous 

court  that  ever  I  have  seen,  read,  or  heard  of,  20  (From  The  Defense  of  Poesy,  c.  1581) 

but  yet  do  they  not  use  their  apparel  so  nicely 

as  you  in  Italy,  who  think  scorn  to  kneel  at  Now  therein  of  all  sciences — I  speak  still  of 

service,  for  fear  of  wrinkles  in  your  silks,  who  human,  and  according  to  the  human  conceit — 
dare  not  lift  up  your  head  to  heaven,  for  fear  is  our  poet  the  monarch.  For  he  doth  not  only 
of  rumpling  the  ruff  in  your  neck,  yet  your  25  show  the  way,  but  giveth  so  sweet  a  prospect 
hands  I  confess  are  holden  up,  rather  I  think,  into  the  way  as  will  entice  any  man  to  enter 
to  show  your  rings,  than  to  manifest  your  into  it.  Nay,  he  doth,  as  if  your  journey  should 
righteousness.  The  bravery  they  use  is  for  lie  through  a  fair  vineyard,  at  the  very  first 
the  honour  of  their  Prince,  the  attire  you  wear  give  you  a  cluster  of  grapes,  that  full  of  that 
for  the  alluring  of  your  prey,  the  rich  apparel  30  taste  you  may  long  to  pass  further.  He  be- 
maketh  their  beauty  more  seen,  your  disguis-  ginneth  not  with  obscure  definitions,  which 
ing  causeth  your  faces  to  be  more  suspected,  must  blur  the  margent^  with  interpretations, 
they  resemble  in  their  raiment  the  Ostrich  and  load  the  memory  with  doubtfulness.  But 
who  being  gazed  on,  closeth  her  wings  and  he  cometh  to  you  with  words  set  in  dehghtful 
hideth  her  feathers,  you  in  your  robes  are  not  35  proportion,  either  accompanied  with,  or  pre- 
unlike  the  peacock,  who  being  praised  spread-  pared  for,  the  well-enchanting  skill  of  music; 
eth  her  tail,  and  betrayeth  her  pride.  Velvets  and  with  a  tale,  forsooth,  he  cometh  unto  you, 
and  silks  in  them  are  like  gold  about  a  pure  with  a  tale  which  holdeth  children  from  play, 
diamond,  in  you  like  a  green  hedge,  about  a  and  old  men  from  the  chimney  corner,  and, 
filthy  dunghill.  Think  not,  ladies,  that  be- 40  pretending  no  more,  doth  intend  the  winning 
cause  you  are  decked  with  gold,  you  are  endued  of  the  mind  from  wickedness  to  virtue;  even 
with  grace,  imagine  not  that  shining  like  the  as  the  child  is  often  brought  to  take  most 
sun  in  earth,  ye  shall  climb  the  sun  in  heaven,  wholesome  things,  by  hiding  them  in  such  other 
look  diligently  into  this  Enghsh  glass,  and  then  as  have  a  pleasant  taste, — which,  if  one  should 
shall  you  see  that  the,  more  costly  your  ap- 45  begin  to  tell  them  the  nature  of  the  aloes  or 
parel  is,  the  greater  your  courtesy  should  be,  rhubarb  they  should  receive,  would  sooner 
that  you  ought  to  be  as  far  from  pride,  as  you  take  their  physic  at  their  ears  than  at  their 
are  from  poverty,  and  as  near  to  princes  in  mouth-  So  it  is  in  men,  most  of  which  are 
beauty,  as  you  are  in  brightness.  Because  you  childish  in  the  best  things,  till  they  be  cradled 
are  brave,  disdain  not  those  that  are  base,  50  in  their  graves, — glad  they  will  be  to  hear  the 
think  with  yourselves  that  russet  coats  have  tales  of  Hercules,  Cyrus,  ^neas;  and,  hearing 
their  Christendom,  that  the  sun  when  he  is  at  them,  must  needs  hear  the  right  description  of 
his  height  shineth  as  well  upon  coarse  kersey,  wisdom,  valor,  and  justice;  which,  if  they  had 
as  cloth  of  tissue,  though  you  have  pearls  in  been  barely,  that  is  to  say  philosophically, 
your  ears,  jewels  in  your  breasts,  precious  stones  55  set  out,  they  would  swear  they  be  brought  to 
on  your  fingers,  yet  disdain  not  the  stones  in      school  again. 

s  When  the  Romans  surprised  and  captured  Syracuse,  That  imitation  whereof  poetry  is,  hath  the 

the  nat've  city  of  Archimedes,  the  great  mathematician       jj^Qg^^  COnveniency  to  nature  of  all  Other;  inso 
IS  said  to  nave  been  found  m  the  pubhc  square,  ponng       "^^^^  wuvcuxcxiv^j    uv/  x  a,i>ui<^  vji  «.ix  ^J^Jl±^x,  x^x^ 

over  geometrical  figures  which  he  had  drawn  in  the  sand.  *  Margin.  \ 


SIR  PHILIP  SYDNEY  189 

much  that,  as  Aristotle  saith,  those  things  in  such  sort  think,  I  say,  that  our  poor  eyes 
which  in  themselves  are  horrible,  as  cruel  bat-  were  so  enriched  as  to  behold;  and  our  low 
ties,  unnatural  monsters,  are  made  in  poetical  hearts  so  exalted  as  to  love,  a  maid,  who  is 
imitation  delightful.  Truly,  I  have  known  such,  that  as  the  greatest  thing  the  world 
men,  that  even  with  reading  Amadis  de  Gaule,^  5  can  show,  is  her  beauty,  so  the  least  thing 
which,  God  knoweth,  wanteth  much  of  a  per-  that  may  be  praised  in  her,  is  her  beauty.  Cer- 
fect  poesy,  have  found  their  hearts  moved  to  tainly  as  her  eyelids  are  more  pleasant  to  be- 
the  exercise  of  courtesy,  liberality,  and  es-  hold,  than  two  white  kids  climbing  up  a  fair 
pecially  courage.  Who  readeth  ^neas  carrying  tree,  and  browsing  on  his  tenderest  branches, 
old  Anchises  on  his  back,  that  wisheth  not  it  lo  and  yet  are  nothing  compared  to  the  day- 
were  his  fortune  to  perform  so  excellent  an  shining  stars  contained  in  them;  and  as  her 
act?  Whom  do  not  those  words  of  Tumus  breath  is  more  sweet  than  a  gentle  South-west 
move,  the  tale  of  Tumus  having  planted  his  wind,  which  comes  creeping  over  flowery  fields 
image  in  his  imagination?  and  shadowed  waters  in  the  extreme  heat  of 

15  the  summer,  and  yet  is  nothing,  compared  to 
Fugientem  haec  terra  videbit?  the   honey-flowing   speech   that   breath   doth 

Usque  adeone  mori  miserum  est?'  carry:  no  more  all  that  our  eyes  can  see  of  her 

(though  when  they  have  seen  her,  what  else 
Where*  the  philosophers,  as  they  scorn  to  de-  they  shall  ever  see  is  but  dry  stubble  after 
light,  so  must  they  be  content  little  to  move —  20  clover's  grass)  is  to  be  matched  with  the  flock 
saving  wrangling  whether  virtue  be  the  chief  of  unspeakable  virtues  laid  up  dehghtfully  in 
or  the  only  good,  whether  the  contemplative  that  best  builded  fold.  But  indeed  as  we  can 
or  the  active  life  do  excel — which  Plato  and  best  consider  the  sun's  beauty,  by  marking  how 
Boethius  well  knew,  and  therefore  made  Mis-  he  gilds  these  waters  and  mountains,  than  by 
tress  Philosophy  very  often  borrow  the  mask-  25  looking  upon  his  own  face,  too  glorious  for  our 
ing  raiment  of  Poesy.  For  even  those  hard  weak  eyes:  so  it  may  be  our  conceits  (not  able 
hearted  evil  men  who  think  virtue  a  school-  to  bear  her  sun  staining  excellency)  will  better 
name,  and  know  no  other  good  but  indulgere  weigh  it  by  her  works  upon  some  meaner  sub- 
genio,^  and  therefore  despise  the  austere  admo-  ject  employed.  And  alas,  who  can  better 
nitions  of  the  philosopher,  and  feel  not  the  30  witness  that  than  we,  whose  experience  is 
inward  reason  they  stand  upon,  yet  will  be  con-  grounded  upon  feeling?  Hath  not  the  only 
tent  to  be  delighted,  which  is  all  the  good-  love  of  her  made  us  (being  silly  ignorant  shep- 
fellow  poet  seemeth  to  promise;  and  so  steal  herds)  raise  up  our  thoughts  above  the  ordinary 
to  see  the  form  of  goodness — which,  seen,  level  of  the  world,  so  as  great  clerks  do  not  dis- 
they  cannot  but  love — ere  themselves  bessdain  our  conference?  Hath  not  the  desire  to 
aware,  as  if  they  took  a  medicine  of  cherries.  seem  worthy  in  her  eyes,  made  us,  when  others 

were  sleeping,   to  sit  viewing  the  course  of 

the  heavens?     When  others  were  running  at 

nr  ATTTQ   ■rk-i?ar«-DTr>T?a  ttdatmta  Base,i  to  run  over  learned  writings?     When 

CLAlUb   Di.be.KlBii.fe    UKAJNIA  40  others  mark  their  sheep,  we  to  mark  ourselves? 

(From  The  Arcadia,  1590)  Hath  not  she  thrown  reason  upon  our  desires, 

and,  as  it  were,  given  eyes  unto  Cupid?    Hath 
Who  can  choose  that  saw  her  but  think  where      in  any,  but  in  her,  love-fellowship  maintained 
she  stayed,  where  she  walked,  where  she  turned,      friendship  between  rivals,  and  beauty  taught 
where  she  spoke?    But  what  is  all  this?    Truly  45  the  beholders  chastity? 
no  more,  but  as  this  place  served  us  to  think 

of  those  things,  so  those  things  serve  as  places  ^^^^^^^rr^^^^r   ^-r^    *t^^*tata 

to  call  to  memory  more  exceUent  matters.    No,  A  DESCRIPTION  OF  ARCADIA 

no,  let  us  think  with  consideration,  and  con-  (From  the  same) 

sider  with   acknowledging,   and   acknowledge  50 

with  admiration,  and  admire  with  love,  and  There  were  hills  which  garnished  their  proud 
love  with  joy  in  the  midst  of  all  woes;  let  us      heights   with   stately   trees:   humble   valleys, 

2  Amadis  of  Gaul,  like  Arthur  and  Charlemagne,  was       whose  base  estate  seemed  comforted  with  the 

a  famous  hero  of  medieval  romance.    ^  French  version      refreshing  of  silver  rivers:  meadows,  enamelled 

of  the  story  (which  had  been  previously  told  m  bpamsh)       ■^^^*'^^'"'=""^& '-'*        "  .  j.i  •  i     x 

appeared  in  1540  and  became  widely  popular.  55  with  all  SOrts  of  eye-pleasmg  tlowers;  thlCketS, 

3  "Shall  this  land  see  [Turnus]  flying?  j^-  j^  j^  •       jj  gd  with  most  pleasant  shade 

Is  it  always  so  bitter  a  thing  to  die?  '  (^neid,  All.        *»"^v-"    _         &  ,       ,       ^,         l        r   i    j- 

245-46.  were  witnessed  so  to,  by  the  cheerful  disposi- 

6  "Indulge   your   natural   inclinationa   [let   us   grasp  i  An  exercise  much  used  by  the  country  people  called 

pleasuresj."    Peraius,  8at.  5, 151.  Pnson-base. 


190    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

tion  of  many  well  tuned  birds:  each  pasture  the  tenor  of  thy  father's  testament,  and  thy 
stored  with  sheep,  feeding  with  sober  security,  heart  fired  with  the  hope  of  present  prefer- 
while  the  pretty  lambs  with  bleating  oratory  ment?  By  the  one  thou  art  counseled  to  con- 
c*«craved  the  dams'  comfort,  here  a  shepherd's  tent  thee  with  thy  fortunes,  by  the  other, 
boy  piping,  as  though  he  should  never  be  old:  5 persuaded  to  aspire  to  higher  wealth.  Riches, 
there  a  young  shepherdess  knitting,  and  withal  Saladin,  is  a  great  royalty,  and  there  is  no 
singing,  and  it  seemed  that  her  voice  comforted  sweeter  physic  than  store.  Avicen^  like  a  fool 
her  hands  to  work,  and  her  hands  kept  time  forgot  in  his  aphorisms  to  say  that  gold  was 
to  her  voice-music.  As  for  the  houses  of  the  the  most  precious  restorative,  and  that  treasure 
country  (for  many  houses  came  under  my  eye)  10  was  the  most  excellent  medicine  of  the  mind, 
they  were  all  scattered,  no  two  being  one  by  Oh  Saladin!  what,  were  thy  father's  precepts 
the  other,  and  yet  not  so  far  off  as  that  it  breathed  into  the  wind?  hast  thou  so  soon  for- 
barred  mutual  succour:  a  show,  as  it  were  of  gotten  his  principles?  did  he  not  warn  thee  from 
an  accompanable  solitariness,  and  of  a  civil  coveting  without  honor,  and  climbing  without 
wildness.  I  pray  you  (said  Musidorus,  then  15  virtue?  did  he  not  forbid  thee  to  aim  at  any 
first  unsealing  his  long  silent  Hps)  what  coun-  action  that  should  not  be  honorable?  and  what 
tries  be  these  we  pass  through,  which  are  so  will  be  more  prejudicial  to  thy  credit,  than 
divers  in  show,  the  one  wanting  no  store,  the  the  careless  ruin  of  thy  brothers'  prosperity? 
other  having  no  store  but  of  want?  and  wilt  thou  become  the  subversion  of  their 

The  country  (answered  Claius)  where  you  20  fortunes?  Is  there  any  sweeter  thing  than 
were  cast  ashore,  and  now  are  passed  through,  concord,  or  a  more  precious  jewel  than  amity? 
is  Laconia,  not  so  poor  by  the  barrenness  of  are  you  not  sons  of  one  father,  scions  of  one 
the  soil  (though  in  itself  not  passing  fertile)  tree,  birds  of  one  nest?  and  wilt  thou  become 
as  by  a  civil  war,  which  being  these  two  years  so  unnatural  as  to  rob  them  w^hom  thou 
within  the  bowels  of  that  estate,  between  the  23  shouldst  relieve?  No,  Saladin,  entreat  them 
gentlemen  and  the  peasants  (by  them  named  with  favors,  and  entertain  them  with  love. 
Helots)  hath  in  this  sort  as  it  were  disfigured  the  so  shalt  thou  have  thy  conscience  clear  and 
face  of  nature,  and  made  it  so  unhospitable  thy  renown  excellent.  Tush,  what  words  are 
as  now  you  have  found  it:  the  towns  neither  these,  base  fool,  far  unfit  (if  thou  be  wise)  for 
of  the  one  side,  nor  the  other,  wiUingly  opening  30  thy  honor.  What  though  thy  father  at  his 
their  gates  to  strangers,  nor  strangers  willingly  death  talked  of  many  frivolous  matters,  as 
entering  for  fear  of  being  mistaken.  one  that  doated  for  age  and  raved  in  his  sick- 

But  this  country  (where  now  you  set  your  ness,  shall  his  words  be  axioms,  and  his  talk 
foot)  is  Arcadia:  and  even  hard  by  is  the  house  be  so  authentical,  that  thou  wilt  (to  observe 
of  Kalander,  whither  we  lead  you.  This  coim-  35  them)  prejudice  thyself?  No,  no,  Saladin, 
try  being  thus  decked  with  peace,  and  (the  sick  men's  wills  that  are  parole,  and  have 
child  of  peace)  good  husbandry,  these  houses  neither  hand  nor  seal,  are  like  the  laws  of  a 
you  see  so  scattered,  are  of  men,  as  we  two  are,  city  written  in  dust,  which  are  broken  with 
that  live  upon  the  commodity  of  their  sheep:  the  blast  of  every  wind.  What,  man!  thy 
and  therefore  in  the  division  of  the  Arcadian  40  father  is  dead,  and  he  can  neither  help  thy 
estate  are  termed  shepherds;  a  happy  people,  fortunes  nor  measure  thy  actions;  therefore 
wanting  little,  because  they  desire  not  much.  bury  his  words  with  his  carcase,  and  be  wise 

for  thyself.    What,  'tis  not  so  old  as  true: 

m^xms  JLoDge  45        "  N°"  ^'^P''- 1"' ""''  ""^  ^P''-'" 

Thy  brother  is  young,   keep  him  now  in 
c.  1558-1625  g^^g^  jjj^jj-g  j^jjj^  j^Q|.  checkmate  with  thyself:  for 

SALADIN  AND  ROSADER*  "Nimia  familiaritas  contemptum  parit/''» 

(From  Rosalind  1590)  ^     -^^  ^"^  know  little,  so  shall  he  not  be  able 

to  execute  much;  suppress  his  wits  with  a  base 

Saladin,   how  art   thou   disquieted   in   thy      estate,  and  though  he  be  a  gentleman  by  na- 

thoughts,  and  perplexed  with  a  world  of  rest-      ture  yet  form  him  anew,   and  make  him  a 

less  passions,  having  thy  mind  troubled  with      peasant  by  nurture;  so  shalt  thou  keep  him 

1  Sir  John  of  Bordeaux  divided  his  estate  among  his  55  as  a  slave,  and  reign  thyself  Sole  lord  OVer  all 

hl"?aEJ  atsa^XtaT'dS^nSSStbei^:     thy  father's  possessions.     As  for  Fernandine, 

although  he  was  the  eldest,  he  considered  that  he  had  ^Avicenna    (980-1037)    a    celebrated    Arabian  physi- 

inherited  less  than  either  of  his  brothers.    At  the  begin-  cian  and  philosopher. 

ning  of  the  selection,  we  find  Saladin  brooding  over  his  ^  He  knows  nothing,  who  is  not  wise  for  himself, 

supposed  wrongs.  *  Too  much  familiarity  breeds  contempt. 


THOMAS  LODGE  191 

thy  middle  brother,  he  is  a  scholar,  and  hath  for  such  office;  I  am  thine  equal  by  nature, 
no  mind  but  on  Aristotle;  let  him  read  on  though  not  by  birth,  and  though  thou  hast 
Galen^  while  thou  riflest  with  gold,  and  pore  more  cards  in  the  bunch,  have  as  many 
on  his  book  till  thou  dost  purchase  lands:  wit  trumps  in  my  hand  as  thyseK.  Let  me 
is  great  wealth;  if  he  have  learning  it  is  enough,  5  question  with  thee,  why  thou  hast  felled  my 
and  so  let  all  rest.  woods,  spoiled  my  manor  houses,  and  made 

In  this  humor  was  Saladin,  making  his  havoc  with  such  utensils  as  my  father  be- 
brother  Rosader  his  foot-boy  for  the  space  of  queathed  unto  me?  I  tell  thee,  Saladin,  either 
two  or  three  years,  keeping  him  in  such  servile  answer  me  as  a  brother,  or  I  will  trouble  thee 
subjection,  as  if  he  had  been  the  son  of  any  10  as  an  enemy." 

country  vassal.  The  young  gentleman  bore  At  this  reply  of  Rosader's,  Saladin  smiled  as 
all  with  patience,  till  on  a  day  wallcing  in  the  laughing  at  his  presumption,  and  frowned  as 
garden  by  himself,  he  began  to  consider  how  checking  his  folly:  he  therefore  took  him  up 
he  was  the  son  of  John  of  Bordeaux,  a  knight  thus  shortly:  "What,  sir!  well  I  see  early  pricks 
renowned  for  many  victories,  and  a  gentleman  15  the  tree  that  will  prove  a  thorn:  hath  my 
famous  for  his  virtues;  how,  contrary  to  the  familiar  conversing  wi^h  you  made  you  coy,' 
testament  of  his  father,  he  was  not  only  kept  or  my  good  looks  drawn  you  to  be  thus  con- 
from  his  land,  and  entreated  as  a  servant,  but  temptuous?  I  can  quickly  remedy  such  a 
smothered  in  such  secret  slavery,  as  he  might  fault,  and  I  will  bend  the  tree  while  it  is  a 
not  attain  to  any  honorable  actions.  Alas,  20  wand.  In  faith,  sir  boy,  I  have  a  snaffle  for 
quoth  he  to  himself  (nature  working  these  such  a  headstrong  colt.  You,  sirs,  lay  hold 
effectual  passions),  why  should  I,  that  am  a  on  him  and  bind  him,  and  then  I  will  give  him 
gentleman  bom,  pass  my  time  in  such  un-  a  cooling  card  for  his  choler."  This  made 
natural  drudgery?^  were  it  not  better  either  in  Rosader  half  mad,  that  stepping  to  a  great 
Paris  to  become  a  scholar,  or  in  the  court  a  25  rake  that  stood  in  the  garden,  he  laid  such 
courtier,  or  in  the  field  a  soldier,  than  to  live  load  upon  his  brother's  men  that  he  hurt  some 
a^oot-boy  to  my  own  brother?  Nature  hath  of  them,  and  made  the  rest  of  them  run  away, 
lent  me  wit  to  conceive,  but  my  brother  denied  Saladin  seeing  Rosader  so  resolute,  and  with 
me  art  to  contemplate:  I  have  strength  to  his  resolution  so  valiant,  thought  his  heels 
perform  any  honorable  exploit,  but  no  liberty  30  his  best  safety,  and  took  him  to  a  loft  adjoining 
to  accomplish  my  virtuous  endeavors:  those  the  garden,  whither  Rosader  pursued  him 
good  parts  that  God  hath  bestowed  upon  me,  hotly.  Saladin,  afraid  of  his  brother's  fury, 
the  envy  of  my  brother  doth  smother  in  ob-  cried  out  to  him  thus,  '*  Rosader,  be  not  so 
scurity;  the  harder  is  my  fortune,  and  the  more  rash,  I  am  thy  brother,  and  thy  elder,  and 
his  frowardness.  With  that  casting  up  his  35  if  I  have  done  thee  wrong,  I'll  make  thee 
hand  he  felt  hair  on  his  face,  and  perceiving  amends:  revenge  not  anger  in  blood,  for  so 
his  beard  to  bud,  for  choler  he  began  to  blush,  shalt  thou  stain  the  virtue  of  old  Sir  John  of 
and  swore  to  himself  he  would  be  no  more  Bordeaux:  say  wherein  thou  art  discontent 
subject  to  such  slavery.  As  thus  he  was  rumi-  and  thou  shalt  be  satisfied.  Brothers'  frowns 
nating  of  his  melancholy  passions,  in  came  40  ought  not  to  be  periods  of  wrath:  what,  man, 
Saladin  with  his  men,  and  seeing  his  brother  look  not  so  sourly;  I  know  we  shall  be  friends, 
in  a  brown  study,  and  to  forget  his  wonted  and  better  friends  than  we  have  been;  for, 
reverence,  thought  to  shake  him  out  of  his  Amantium  ira  amoris  redintegratio  est."^ 
dumps  thus:  ''Sir,"  quoth  he,  ''what,  is  your  These  words  appeased  the  choler  of  Rosader, 
heart  on  your  halfpenny,  or  are  you  saying  a  45  for  he  was  of  a  mild  and  courteous  nature,  so 
dirge  for  your  father's  soul?  what,  is  my  dinner  that  he  laid  down  his  weapons,  and  upon  the 
ready?"  At  this  question — Rosader  turning  faith  of  a  gentleman  assured  his  brother  he 
his  head  askance,  and  bending  his  brows  as  would  offer  him  no  prejudice:  whereupon  Sala- 
if  ahger  there  had  ploughed  the  furrows  of  din  came  down,  and  after  a  little  parley,  they 
her  wrath,  with  his  eyes  full  of  fire — he  made  50  embraced  each  other  and  became  friends,  and 
this  reply,  "Dost  thou  ask  me,  Saladin, -for  Saladin  promising  Rosader  the  restitution  of 
thy  cates?  ask  some  of  thy  churls  who  are  fit     all  his  lands,  and  what  favor  else,  quoth  he, 

anyways  my  ability  or  the  nature  of  a  brother 

5  A  Greek  physician  and  philosopher  of  the  second       may  perform. 
century;  author  of  numerous  works  on  medicine,  logic,  "^  ^ 

etc. 

6  Rosader's  soliloquy,  and  the  interview  with  his  ^  Disdainful,  contemptuous.  The  word  is  used  in  this 
brother   which   follows,    should   be   compared   with   the       sense  by  Shakespeare.    (Tarn.  Shr.  II,  245.) 

opening  scene  of  As  You  Like  It.    That  comedy  appeared  »  The  anger  of  lovers  is  the  restoration  of  love.     This 

some  eight  or  nine  years  after  the  publication  of  Lodge's  saying  is  the  theme  of  a  well-known  poem,  the  Amaiitium 

romance,   and  Shakespeare's  indebtedness  to  Lodge  is  irae  of  Richard  Edwards,  which  appeared  in  1576.     Id 

self-evident.  this  poem  the  proverb  recurs  as  a  kind  of  refrain. 


192    WYATl^  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

Uofarrt    Arttne  ill  as  Julian:*  and  wilt  thou,  my  friend,  be  his 

*^  Disciple?     Look  unto  me,  by  him  persuaded 

1560-1592  to  that  liberty,  and  thou  shalt  find  it  an  in- 

fernal bondage.     I  know  the  least  of  my  de- 
GREENE'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  5  merits  merit  this  miserable  death,  but  wilful 

FKLLOW-PLAYWRIGUTS  striving  against  known  truth,   exceedeth  all 

(From  A  Oroar,  worth  of  Wit,  bought  wUh  a     the  terrors  of  my  soul     Defernot  (with  me) 
^  fnaiion  of  RepJtance,  1592)  till  this  last  pomt  of  extremity;  for  httle  know- 

est  thou  how  m  the  end  thou  shalt  be  visited. 
To  Hum  Gentlemen  his  quofulatn  acquaintances,  j^     ^j^j^  ^y^^^  j  j^j^  young  Juvenal,'  that  biting 
that  tpend  their  wits  in  making  Plays  R.  G.     gatyrist,  that  lastly  with  me  together  writ  a 
wiaheth  a  better  exercise,  and  wisdom  to  prevent     ^.omedy.    Sweet  boy,  might  I  advise  thee,  be 
his  extremities.  advised,  and  get  not  many  enemies  by  bitter 

If  woeful  experience  may  move  you  (Gentle-  words:  inveigh  against  vain  men,  for  thou 
roon)  to  beware,  or  unheard  of  wretchedness  15  canst  do  it,  no  man  better,  no  man  so  well: 
entreat  >'ou  to  take  heed:  I  doubt  not  but  you  thou  hast  a  liberty  to  reprove  all  and  none 
will  look  back  with  sorrow  on  your  time  past,  more;  for  one  being  spoken  to,  all  are  offended, 
and  endeavor  with  repentance  to  spend  that  none  being  blamed  no  man  is  injured.  Stop 
which  w  to  come.  Wonder  not,  (for  with  thee  shallow  water  still  running,  it  will  rage,  tread 
will  i  6r8t  be^in,  thou  famous  gracer  of  trage-20on  a  worm  and  it  will  turn:  then  blame  not 
riians.'  that  Greene,  who  hath  said  with  thee  scholars  vexed  with  sharp  lines,  if  they  reprove 
like  the  fool  in  his  heart  "there  is  no  God,"  thy  too  much  liberty  of  reproof . 
nhouUl  now  give  glory  unto  his  gre-atness:  for  And  thou  no  less  deserving  than  the  other 
penetrating  is  his  power,  his  hand  lies  heavy  two,^  in  some  things  rarer,  in  nothing  inferior; 
upon  me,  he  hath  spoken  unto  me  with  a  voice  25  driven  (as  myself)  to  extreme  shifts,  a  little 
of  thunder,  and  I  have  felt  he  is  a  God  that  can  have  I  to  say  to  thee;  and  were  it  not  an  idola- 
punish  enemies.  Why  should  thy  excellent  trous  oath,  I  would  swear  by  sweet  St.  George, 
\v\t,  his  gift,  be  so  blinded,  that  thou  shouldst  thou  art  unworthy  better  hap,  sith  thou  de- 
give  no  glory  to  the  giver?  Is  it  pestilent  pended  on  so  mean  a  stay.  Base  minded  men 
Machiavellian  poUcy*  that  thou  hast  studied?  30  all  three  of  you,  if  by  my  misery  ye  be  not 
O  punish  folly!  What  are  his  rules  but  mere  warned:  for  unto  none  of  you  (like  me)  sought 
confused  mockeries,  able  to  extirpate  in  some  those  burrs  to  cleave,  those  Puppets  (I  mean) 
«mall  time  the  generation  of  mankind.  For  that  speech  from  our  mouths,  those  anticks' 
if  Sic  volo,  sicjubeo,^  hold  in  those  that  are  able  garnished  in  our  colors.  Is  it  not  strange  that 
to  command:  and  if  it  be  lawful  Fas  el  ncfas^35l,  to  whom  they  all  have  been  beholding :^°  is 
to  do  anything  that  is  beneficial,  only  Tyrants  it  not  like  that  you,  to  whom  they  all  have 
8hould  possess  the  earth,  and  they  striving  to  been  beholding,  shall  (were  ye  in  that  case  that 
exceed  in  tyranny,  should  each  to  other  be  a  I  am  now)  be  both  at  once  of  them  forsaken? 
slaughter  man;  till  the  mightiest  outliving  all.  Yes,  trust  them  not:  for  there  is  an  upstart 
one  stroke  were  left  for  Death,  that  in  one  age  40  Crow, ^^  beautiful  with  our  feathers  that  with 
man's  life  should  end.  The  brother  of  this  his  Tigers  heart  wrapt  in  a  Players  hide,  sup- 
Diabolical  atheism  is  dead,  and  in  his  life  poses  he  is  as  well  able  to  bumbast  out  a  blank 
had  never  the  felicity  he  aimed  at;  but  as  he  verse  as  the  best  of  you!  and  being  an  absolute 
began  in  craft,  Uved  in  fear,  and  ended  in  Johannes  fac  totem,^"^  is  in  his  own  conceit  the 
despair.  Quam  inscrutahilia  sunt  Dei  judicial^  ^5  only  Shake-scene  in  a  county.  O  that  I  might 
This  murderer  of  many  brethren,  had  his  entreat  your  rare  wit  to  be  employed  in  more 
conscience  seared  like  Cain:  this  betrayer  of  profitable  courses;  and  let  those  Apes  imitate 
him  that  gave  his  life  for  him,  inherited  the  your  past  excellence,  and  never  more  acquaint 
portion  of  Judas:  thi:*  Aposluta  perished  as     them  with  your  admired  inventions.     I  know 

•  C»»f«toph«r    Marlowe.      CharRPs    against    Marlowe  ^°  ^^^  ^^^^  husband^^  of  you  all  will  never  prOVe 

r?  iIT'''''"'^'"'"  ■""•  'worn'Tpf  Ood'8  word  had  been     an  Usurer,  and  the  kindest  of  them  all  will 

laid   bcfor.  -   council,   hut   further  procedure  ^--^^^   "ix    yy^x 

by  nol.acAl  oxpwliency.    He  was  opposed  by  the  Chun-h        Satirist         '^^'^"'^^  *»  ^^  ^  follower  of  the  great  Latin 

: JE£r£i- '  ~™-^°^-  ''Pe.Tci?-;;f-Kade:.^^^°'^^-  '' «^^^-p-- 

•How  u-cruuSfc  ar,  the  iudgment.  of  God.  hr^ir^  itVe'molt'carlly^*^^'  ^"^^  "'  ^^  °""'  ^^^^ 


FRANCIS  BACON  193 

never  prove  a  kind  nurse:  Yet  whilst  you  may,  wages  of  sin,  and  passage  to  another  world,  is 
seek  you  better  masters;  for  it  is  a  pity  men  holy  and  religious;  but  the  fear  of  it,  as  a 
of  such  rare  wits  should  be  subject  to  the  tribute  due  unto  nature,  is  weak.  Yet  in  reli- 
pleasures  of  such  rude  grooms.  gious  meditations  there  is  sometimes  mixture 

In  this  I  might  insert  two  more,  that  both  5  of  vanity  and  of  superstition.  You  shall  read 
have  writ  against  these  buckram  Gentlemen:  in  some  of  the  friars'  books  of  mortification, 
but  let  their  own  works  serve  to  witness  against  that  a  man  should  think  with  himself  what  the 
their  own  wickedness,  if  they  persevere  to  pain  is,  if  he  have  but  his  finger's  end  pressed, 
maintain  any  such  peasants.  For  other  new  or  tortured,  and  thereby  imagine  what  the 
comers,  I  leave  them  to  the  mercy  of  these  10  pains  of  death  are  when  the  whole  body  is 
painted  monsters,  who  (I  doubt  not)  will  drive  corrupted  and  dissolved;  when  many  times 
the  best  minded  to  despise  them,  for  the  rest,  death  passeth  with  less  pain  than  the  torture 
it  skills  not  though  they  make  a  jest  at  them.  of  a  limb — for  the  most  vital  parts  are  not  the 

But  now  return  I  again  to  you  three,  know-  quickest  of  sense:  and  by  him  that  spake  only 
ing  ray  misery  is  to  you  no  news;  and  let  me  15  as  a  philosopher  and  natural  man,  it  was  well 
heartily  entreat  you  to  be  warned  by  my  said,  "Pompa  mortis  magis  terret  quam  mors 
harms.  Delight  not  (as  I  have  done)  in  irre-  ipsa."^  Groans,  and  convulsions,  and  a  discol- 
ligious  oaths;  for  from  the  blasphemers  house,  oured  face,  and  friends  weeping,  and  blacks, ^ 
a  curse  shall  not  depart.  Despise  drunkenness,  and  obsequies,  and  the  like,  show  death  ter- 
which  wasteth  the  wit,  and  maketh  men  all20rible.  It  is  worthy  the  observing,  that  there 
equal  unto  beasts.  Fly  lust,  as  the  deaths-  is  no  passion  in  the  mind  of  man  so  weak,  but 
man  of  the  soul,  and  defile  not  the  Temple  of  it  mates  and  masters  the  fear  of  death;  and 
the  Holy  Ghost.  Abhor  thou  Epicurus,  whose  therefore  death  is  no  such  terrible  enemy  when 
loose  life  hath  made  religion  loathsome  to  your  a  man  hath  so  many  attendants  about  him, 
ears;  and  when  they  soothe  you  with  terms  25  that  can  win  the  combat  of  him.  Revenge 
of  mastership,  remember  Robert  Greene,  whom  triumphs  over  death;  love  slights  it;  honour 
they  have  so  often  flattered,  perishes  now  for  aspireth  to  it,  grief  flieth  to  it;  fear  pre-occu- 
want  of  comfort.  Remember,  Gentlemen,  your  pateth  it;  nay,  we  read,  after  Otho*  the  em- 
lives  are  like  so  many  lighted  Tapers,  that  are  peror  had  slain  himself,  pity  (which  is  the 
with  care  delivered  to  all  of  you  to  maintain;  30  tenderest  of  affections)  provoked  many  to  die 
these  with  wind-puffed  wrath  may  be  extin-  out  of  mere  compassion  to  their  sovereign,  and 
guished,  which  drunkenness  put  out,  which  as  the  truest  sort  of  followers.  Nay,  Seneca 
negligence  let  fall:  for  man's  time  of  itself  is  adds,  niceness  and  satiety:  "Cogita  quamdiu 
not  so  short,  but  it  is  more  shortened  by  sin.  eadem  feceris;  mori  velle,  non  tantum  fortis, 
The  fire  of  my  life  is  now  at  its  last  snuff,  and  35aut  miser,  sed  etiam  fastidiosus  potest."  "A 
the  want  of  wherewith  to  sustain  it,  there  man  would  die,  though  he  were  neither  vahant 
is  no  substance  left  for  life  to  feed  on.  Trust  nor  miserable,  only  upon  a  weariness  to  do  the 
not  then  (I  beseech  ye)  to  such  weak  stays;  for  same  thing  so  oft  over  and  over."  It  is  no  less 
they  are  as  changeable  in  mind,  as  in  many  worthy  to  observe,  how  little  alteration  in  good 
attires.  Well,  my  hand  is  tired,  and  I  am  forced  40  spirits  the  approaches  of  death  make;  for  they 
to  leave  when  I  would  fain  begin ;  for  a  whole  appear  to  be  the  same  men  till  the  last  instant, 
book  cannot  contain  these  wrongs,  which  I  Augustus  Caesar  died  in  a  compliment :"  Livia, 
am  forced  to  knit  up  in  some  few  lines  of  words,  conjugii  nostri  memor  vive,  et  vale."*  Tiberius 
Desirous  that  you  should  live,  though  in  dissimulation,  as  Tacitus  saith  of  him,  "Jam 

himself  be  dying,  45  Tiberium   vires  et   corpus,   non  dissimulatio, 

Robert  Greene.  deserebant:"^  .  .  .  Galba  with  a  sentemce, 
"  Feri,  si  ex  re  sit  populi  Romani,"^  holding  forth 
his  neck :  Septimus  Severus  in  despatch,  * 'Adeste 
iFtattCi^    115aC0tt  ®^  ^^^^  ^^^^  restat  agendum,"'  and  the  like. 

Certainly  the  Stoics  bestowed  too  much  cost 
1561-1626 

iThe  trappings  of  death  terrify  more  than  death  it- 

Uh     DiiiAlH  2  Hired    mourners,    or   mutes,  who   were   dressed   in 

(Essays,  1597,  1612,  1625)  3  Marcus  Salvius  Otho.  Emperor  of  Rome,  who  com- 

mitted suicide  A.  D.  69,  after  his  overthrow  by  Vitelhus, 

Men  fear  death  as  children  fear  to  go  into     ^^.\l!;S.'min1l?urof  our  wedlock,  live,  and  farewell. 

the  dark ;  and  as  that  natural  fear  in  children  5  Already  the  mental  powers  and  bodily  strength  were 

is  increased  with  tales,  so  is  the  other.     Cer-      »-.-^?gk^;^f 7rbeYor  ?he  K^^^^ 

tainly,    the    contemplation    of    death,    as    the  7  Dispatch,  if  there  is  anything  left  for  me  to  do. 


194  WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 


death,  and  by  their  great  preparations  benediction,  and  the  clearer  revelation  of  God's 
it  appear  more  fearful.  Better,  saith  favour.  Yet  even  in  the  Old  Testament,  if 
he,  "qui  fincm  vit»  extremum  inter  munora  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you  shall  hear  as 
pooat  natUTB."*  It  is  as  natural  to  die  as  to  many  hearse-like  airs  as  carols;  and  the  pencil 
be  bom;  and  to  a  little  infant,  perhaps,  the  5  of  the  Holy  Ghost  hath  laboured  more  in  de- 
one  ie  ts  painful  as  the  other.  He  that  dies  scribing  the  afflictions  of  Job  than  the  felicities 
m  an  earnest  pursuit  is  like  one  that  is  wounded  of  Solomon.  Prosperity  is  not  without  many 
in  hot  blood;  who,  for  the  time,  scarce  feels  fears  and  distastes;  and  adversity  is  not  with- 
the  hurt;  and  therefore  a  mind  fixed  and  bent  out  comforts  and  hopes.  We  see  in  needle- 
upon  somewhat  that  is  good,  doth  avert  the  lo  works  and  embroideries,  it  is  more  pleasing  to 
ddoun  of  death:  but,  above  all,  believe  it,  the  have  a  Uvely  work  upon  a  sad^  and  solemn 
sweetest  canticle  is,  Nunc  dimUtis*  when  a  ground,  than  to  have  a  dark  and  melancholy 
man  hath  obtained  worthy  ends  and  expect  a-  work  upon  a  lightsome  ground:  judge,  there- 
tkms.  Death  hath  this  also,  that  it  opencth  fore,  of  the  pleasure  of  the  heart  by  the  pleasure 
the  gate  to  good  fame,  and  extinguisheth  15  of  the  eye.  Certainly  virtue  is  like  precious 
eoty:  "Extinctus  amabitur  idem."'"  odours,  most  fragrant  where  they  are  incensed, 

or  crushed;  for  prosperity  doth  best  discover 
OF  ADVERSITY  ^^^^'  ^^^  adversity  doth  best  discover  virtue. 

(From  the  same)  OF  WISDOM  FOR  A  MAN'S  SELF 

It  was  a  high  speech  of  Seneca  (after  the  /r^        xi.  % 

manner  of  the  Stoics),  that  the  "good  things  ^^'^'"'^  ^^^  ^^"^^^ 


which  belong  to  prosperity  are  to  be  wished,  An  ant  is  a  wise  creature  for  itself,  but  it  is 
but  the  good  t^ngs  that  belong  to  adversity  25  a  shrewd^  thing  in  an  orchard  or  garden;  and 
are  to  be  admired  —  Bona  rerum  secundarum  certainly  men  that  are  great  lovers  of  them- 
optabiha,  adversarum  mirabilia."  Certainly,  selves  waste  the  public.  Divide  with  reason 
If  miracles  be  the  command  over  nature,  they  between  self-love  and  society;  and  be  so  true 
appear  most  in  adversity.    It  is  yet  a  higher     to  thyself  as  thou  be  not  false  to  others,  es- 


fAr  •  K~.»K««>  "T*  ;=  ♦-  «  *  I  r  "•»" ''^  P^^i^^A^  ^^  i^ny  Kmg  aiiu  country,  it  is  a  poor 
nrl  thfri^?      f  ^^^^^u""  ^"^  ^^"^^  ^"     ^^°t^^  «f  a  "^a^'s  a<^tions,  himself.    It  is  right 

a  ^"  ^Lrr^J^T'  Ti  ^^^^T;'^  "^  '^''^'^  ^^'  '^^'  «^ly  «t-^ds  fast^  upon  his  own 
t,S^"se^at3C"  ThU  ^'^^^T"^  ^^-t-r;  wherea.  all  things  that  have  affinity 
dTeTt^^v  whPrP  f^'  /  ^^"^x  ^'^^  '^"  ^^^^^^«  ^^^^  ^P«^  ^he  center  of  an- 
a^mo^ Xwed^^d  tt  Ltl  ^.7^"^'  ''  °'^"''  ^^^^^  '^'^  ^^^^^^^  ^he  referring  of  aU 
bL  biL  \StTit^^^^  *^  ^  "^^^'^  «^^^  ^«  ^«^^  t^l^rable  in  a  sovereign 

wttd,  ^6^17  W  H^naf  ^^^^^^     '  l^'?^     P"^'"'  ^^^^^^^  themselves  are  not  only  them- 

iS^t^p^ttr^mTnft  foTjth fu?  :f  re  oubVf  ^^^^Vf.^.^^^  ^.  ''  ^^^  ""^^ 
OMUsty'  nay  and  to  havp  snmo  „n^j!.  r.       ■    ™®  P"*"''"  f^tuie:  but  it  is  a  desperate  evil 

he  irant  to  unbind   Prometheus   (by  whom  P""'"! '"^  ^'^^tf<'«f'-,f''i^«  Pass  such  a  man's 

hunimiUitureiB  represented),  saUcd  the  llnS  wtf^'  ''%'"-°°k<=th  them  to  his  own  ends, 

ortl«.giwtoceantoaneartL3orDitcher  j*  ff-'  """^^  ^^  °"™  eccentric,  to  the 
IMy   describing   Christian    ^utionth.;..'"^'        ^  '"^•*'  ^  ^''''<=-   therefore,   let 

-neth  in  the  fraU  bark  of  the  fl^  thmugh  *e  LT??  "  ®',f'^  chuse  such  servants  as  have 

W.W.  of  the  worid.    But  to  speak  in  a  mean  >  T  tl  '°"'^'  l'""'P.'  ''""^  '"""'^  ^^"''^  ^^"'"^ 

the  virtue  of  prosperity  is  tempemn  "  Z  *°"'i''«™'«l«  b"' the  accessary.    That  which 

jrtae  o*  «lveraty  is  fortitude,  whEn  mo4ls  n  "'^  *'  f  ?'  ,'"°^"  P«™<''°"^  ^'  that  all 
b«h.inoi«heroical  virtue.    ProspXfaThe  50  FoThl  ™  "^ '''f  "   ^t  were  disproportion  enough 

btaAig  of  the  Old  Testament,  adversity  U  the  !h          f™u'  «'""'  *°  ''^  pvetened  before 

Wa-ingof  the  New,  which  ca^rieth  the^ater  S?  ^rf  f'  '"''/^'  '^  ^  "^  S'-'^^ter  extreme, 

.^    ,                                                   ^"■*'''  !rh<="  ^  httle  good  of  the  servant  shall  carr^ 

J^  l>h«i  th.  Snml  «Ki  ot  Uf.  among  the  gift,  „,  things  against  a  great  good  of  the  master's- 

V^^^^..^.^^.,,..,..",         '^-  ^"««.  ambassadors,  generals,  and  other  false 


.1   .     -.   '"»*"'""  b« 'ovod  when  dead.  4  no.u  u 


ui^L^nsr.--- ' « •"  -'"•  -  --.  .w  «.  -te^^a^'s-.^^-- ,-u^reXi^^^^  ^, 


FRANCIS  BACON  195 

and  corrupt  servants,  which  set  a  bias'  upon  But  then,  you  will  say,  they  may  be  of  use  to 
their  bowl,  of  their  own  petty  ends  and  envies,  buy  men  out  of  dangers  or  troubles;  as  Solomon 
to  the  overthrow  of  their  master's  great  and  saith,  "Riches  are  as  a  stronghold  in  the  im- 
important  affairs.  And  for  the  most  part,  the  agination  of  the  rich  man;"^  but  this  is  excel- 
good  such  servants  receive  is  after  the  model  of  5  lently  expressed,  that  it  is  in  imagination,  and 
their  own  fortune,  but  the  hurt  they  sell  for  not  always  in  fact;  for,  certainly  great  riches 
that  good  is  after  the  model  of  their  master's  have  sold  more  men  than  they  have  bought 
fortune.  And  certainly  it  is  the  nature  of  out.  Seek  not  proud  riches,  but  such  as  thou 
extreme  self -lovers,  as  they  will  set  a  house  on  mayest  get  justly,  use  soberly,  distribute 
fire  and  it  were  but  to  roast  their  eggs;  and  10  cheerfully,  and  leave  contentedly:  yet  have  no 
yet  these  men  many  times  hold  credit  with  abstract  or  friarly  contempt  of  them,  but  dis- 
their  masters,  because  their  study  is  but  to  tinguish,  as  Cicero  saith  well  of  Rabirius  Post- 
please  them,  and  profit  themselves;  and  for  humus,  "In  studio  rei  ampUficandse,  appare- 
either  respect  they  will  abandon  the  good  of  bat,  non  avaritiae  prsedam,  sed  instrumentum 
their  affairs.  15  bonitati  quseri."'    Hearken  also  to  Solomon, 

Wisdom  for  a  man's  self  is,  in  many  branches  and  beware  of  hasty  gathering  of  riches: 
thereof,  a  depraved  thing:  it  is  the  wisdom  of  "Qui  festinat  ad  divitias,  non  erit  insons."^ 
rats,  that  will  be  sure  to  leave  a  house  some  The  poets  feign  that  when  Plutus  (which  is 
time  before  its  fall:  it  is  the  wisdom  of  the  fox,  riches)  is  sent  from  Jupiter,  he  limps,  and  goes 
that  thrusts  out  the  badger,  who  digged  and  20  slowly,  but  when  he  is  sent  from  Pluto,  he 
made  room  for  him:  it  is  the  wisdom  of  croco-  runs,  and  is  swift  of  foot;  meaning,  that  riches 
diles,  that  shed  tears  when  they  would  devour,  gotten  by  good  means  and  just  labour  pace 
But  that  which  is  specially  to  be  noted  is,  that  slowly,  but  when  they  come  by  the  death  of 
those  which  (as  Cicero  says  of  Pompey)  are  others  (as  by  the  course  of  inheritance,  testa- 
"sui  amantes  sine  rivaU"*  are  many  times  un-2oments,  and  the  hke)  they  come  tumbhng  upon 
fortunate:  and  whereas  they  have  all  their  a  man:  but  it  might  be  applied  likewise  to 
time  sacrificed  to  themselves,  they  become  in  Pluto  taking  him  for  the  devil:  for  when  riches 
the  end  themselves  sacrifices  to  the  incon-  come  from  the  Devil  (as  by  fraud,  and  oppres- 
stancy  of  fortune,  whose  wings  they  thought  sion,  and  unjust  means)  they  come  upon  speed, 
by  their  self-wisdom  to  have  pinioned.  30  The  ways  to  enrich  are  many,  and  most  of 

them  foul:  parsimony  is  one  of  the  best,  and 
OF  RICHES  yet  it  is  not  innocent,  for  it  withholdeth  men 

/•c         ,  t  s  from  works  of  liberahty  and  charity.    The  im- 

(From  the  same)  4-r+u  a  ■    ^.u  ^-      4.      ^ 

^  '  provement  of  the  ground  is  the  most  natural 

I  cannot  call  riches  better  than  the  baggage  35  obtaining  of  riches,  for  it  is  our  great  mother's 
of  virtue:  the  Roman  word  is  better — im-pedi-  blessing,  the  earth;  but  it  is  slow:  and  yet, 
menta;  for  as  the  baggage  is  to  an  army,  so  is  where  men  of  great  wealth  do  stoop  to  hus- 
riches  to  virtue — it  cannot  be  spared  nor  left  bandry,  it  multiplieth  riches  exceedingly.  I 
behind,  but  it  hindereth  the  march;  yea,  and  knew  a  nobleman  of  England  that  had  the 
the  care  of  it  sometimes  loseth  or  disturbeth  the  40  greatest  audits^  of  any  man  in  my  time, — a 
victory.  Of  great  riches  there  is  no  real  use,  great  grazier,  a  great  sheep  master,  a  great 
except  it  be  in  the  distribution;  the  rest  is  but  timber  man,  a  great  coUier,  a  great  corn  mas- 
conceit;  so  saith  Solomon,  "Where  much  is,  ter,  a  great  lead  man,  and  so  of  iron,  and  a 
there  are  many  to  consume  it;  and  what  hath  number  of  the  hke  points  of  husbandry;  so 
the  owner  but  the  sight  of  it  with  his  eyes?  "M5  as  the  earth  seemed  a  sea  to  him  in  respect 
The  personal  fruition  in  any  man  cannot  reach  of  the  perpetual  importation.  It  was  truly  ob- 
to  feel  great  riches:  there  is  a  custody  of  them,  served  by  one,  "that  himself  came  very  hardly 
or  a  power  of  dole,  and  a  donative  of  them,  to  little  riches,  and  very  easily  to  great  riches:" 
or  a  fame  of  them,  but  no  soUd  use  to  the  owner,  for  when  a  man's  stock  is  come  to  that,  that 
Do  you  not  see  what  feigned  prices  are  set  upon  50  he  can  expect  the  prime  of  markets,*  and  over- 
little  stones  or  rarities — and  what  works  of 
ostentation    are    undertaken,    because    there         I  f^9^:  ^•'  \^:   .  .  •  r  ^        -x  -j    x  *u  * 

,    ,                    ^       ,                            '     ,             .      •  1       o  '  In  his  zeal  to  increase  his  fortune,  it  was  evident  that 

might   seem    to   be   some   use   of   great   riches.''  not  the  gain  of  avarice  was  sought,  but  the  means  of 

bcnGficGricG 

3  In  the  game  of  bowls,  the  bowl  (or  ball)  was  not  per-  4  "He  thkt  maketh  haste  to  be  rich,  shall  not  be  in- 

fectly  round,  but  disproportionately  swelled  out  on  one  nocent  "    Prov  xxviii    20 

side  to  prevent  it  from  running  in  a  straight  course;  this  5  i.  e*.,  xMoney  receipts  as  shown  by  his  accounts, 

irregularity  in  shape  was  called  the  bias.     Sometimes  « i.  e.,  afford  to  wait  until  the  market-price  has  risen 

the  same  end  was  gained  by  weighting  one  side  of  the  ^o  its  highest  point  before  he  sells.     By  this  means  he 

t'              r    l          1             xi.      i    •      I  can,  through  hia  wealth,  capture   (overcome)   those  bar- 

*  Lovers  of  themselves  without  rivals.  g^^^^    ^j^j^h  few  men  can  afford  to  take  advantage  of 

1  Eccles.  v.,  11.  and  thus  share  in  the  industries  of  younger  men. 


196    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

come  those  bargains,  which  for  their  great-  Believe  not  much  them  that  seem  to  despise 
nesa  are  few  men's  money,  and  the  partner  in  riches,  for  they  despise  them  that  despair  of 
the  industries  of  younger  men,  he  cannot  but  them;  and  none  worse  when  they  come  to  them. 
increase  mainly.'  The  gains  of  ordinary  trades  Be  not  penny-wise;  riches  have  wings,  and 
and  vocations  are  honest,  and  furthered  by  5  sometimes  they  fly  away  of  themselves,  some- 
two  things,  chiefly,  by  diligence,  and  by  a  good  times  they  must  be  set  flying  to  bring  in  more. 
name  for  good  and  fair  dealing;  but  the  gains  Men  leave  their  riches  either  to  their  kindred, 
of  bargains  are  of  a  more  doubtful  nature,  or  to  the  Public;  and  moderate  portions  prosper 
when  men  shall  wait  upon  others'  necessity;'  best  in  both.  A  great  estate  left  to  an  heir, 
broke  by  servants,"  and  instruments  to  draw  10  is  as  a  lure  to  all  the  birds  of  prey  round  about 
them  on;  put  off  others  cunningly  that  would  to  seize  on  him,  if  he  be  not  the  better  estab- 
be  better  chapmen,^"  and  the  like  practices,  lished  in  years  and  judgment:  likewise,  glorious 
which  are  crafty  and  naughty.  As  for  the  gifts  and  foundations  are  like  sacrifices  with- 
chopping  of  bargains,"  when  a  man  buys  not  out  salt;^^  and  but  the  painted  sepulchres  of 
to  hold,  but  to  sell  over  again,  that  commonly  15  alms,  which  soon  will  putrify  and  corrupt  in- 
grindeth  double,  both  upon  the  seller  and  wardly.  Therefore  measure  not  thine  ad- 
upon  the  buyer.  Sharings  do  greatly  enrich,  vancements^^  by  quantity,  but  frame  them  by 
if  the  hands  be  well  chosen  that  are  trusted,  measure:  and  defer  not  charities  till  death: 
Usury^2  ig  f}^Q  certainest  means  of  gain,  though  for,  certainly,  if  a  man  weigh  it  rightly,  he 
one  of  the  worst,  as  that  whereby  a  man  doth  20  that  doth  so  is  rather  Uberal  of  another  man's 
eat  his  bread,  "in  sudore  vultus  aUeni,"i'  and  than  his  own. 
besides,  doth  plough  upon  Sundays;  but  yet 
certain  though  it  be,  it  hath  flaws;  for  that 
the  scriveners  and  brokers  do  value  imsound  ^^  STUDIES 

men  to  serve  their  own  turn.    The  fortune  in  25  /T?r.r.^  +i,«  o„ ^^ 

1    .,,£..  .  .         ,.  .  .  .  (i^rom  the  same) 

bemg  the  first  in  an  invention,  or  m  a  pnvi- 

lege,  doth  cause  sometimes  a  wonderful  over-  Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and 
growth  in  riches;  as  it  was  with  the  first  sugar  for  abiUty.  Theu-  chief  use  for  delight  is  in 
man  in  the  Canaries:  therefore,  if  a  man  can  privateness,  and  retiring;  for  ornament,  is  in 
play  the  true  logician,  to  have  as  well  judgment  30  discourse;  and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment 
as  invention,  he  may  do  great  matters,  espe-  and  disposition  of  business;  for  expert  men  can 
cially  if  the  tunes  be  fit.  He  that  resteth  upon  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of  particulars,  one 
gams  certain,  shall  hardly  grow  to  great  riches;  by  one;  but  the  general  counsel,  and  the 
and  he  that  puts  aU  upon  adventures,  doth  plots  and  marshalhng  of  affairs,  come  best 
oftentimes  break  and  come  to  poverty:  it  is  35  from  those  that  are  learned.  To  spend  too 
good,  therefore,  to  guard  adventures  with  cer-  much  time  in  studies,  is  sloth;  to  use  them  too 
tamties  that  may  uphold  losses.  MonopoHes,  much  for  ornament,  is  affectation;  to  make 
and  coemption  of  wares  for  re-sale,  where  they  judgment  wholly  by  theu-  rules,  is  the  humour 
are  not  restrained,  are  great  means  to  enrich;  of  a  scholar;^  they  perfect  nature,  and  are  per- 
especially  if  the  party  have  mtelligence  what40fected  by  experience-for  natural  abilities  are 
things  are  hke  to  come  mto  request,  and  so  like  natural  plants,  that  need  pruning  by  study; 
store  himself  beforehand.  Riches  gotten  by  and  studies  themselves  do  give  forth  directions 
service,  though  It  be  of  the  b^t,nse;  yet  when  too  much  at  large,  except  they  be  bounded 
they  are  gotten  by  flattery  feedmg  humours,  in  by  experience.  Crafty  men  contemn  studies, 
and  other  servile  conditions,  hey  may  be  placed  45  simple  men  admire  them,  and  wise  men  use 
among  the  worst.  As  for  "fishing  for  testa-  them,  for  they  teach  not  their  own  use;  but 
?rif«^?T''r'''!^'^';  (as  Tacitus  saith  of  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them,  and  above 
d^^W  P«nT"^uT  f  orbos  tanquam  in-  them,  won  by  observation.  Read  not  to  con- 
me?  submit  KhLlZ'^  T""'  ^^  ^""^  "'^'^  ''^^'''  ^^^  ^«^^t^'  ^^'  *«  believe  and  take 
Sa^i^^^ce  °''^''''   persons  50  for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse, 

but  to  weigh  and  consider.     Some  books  are 

!  S'^**.^;      ^  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some 

vanSgl^'f  [rby'dVv!SThVib°ir^^^^^^^^  "  ''  ^^'^  ^^-      [^^*°  ^e  chewed  and  digested:  that  is,  some 

•  "When  men  shall"  transact  business  (broke)  through      books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts;  others  to  be 

apents,  who  are  used  as  tools  to  draw  on  the  buyer  to  ^         i-         > 

*"lo  mSo^?*^^:i     .  /'Among  the  Greeks,  Romans,  and  other  ancient  p'eo\ 

u  ^^^^",^'^^8.  dealers.  pies,  salt  was  an  mdispensable  element  in  the  sacrificial, 

no«^l      ^"»"8'n8  of  investments,  or  business  ventures:  offering,  at  least  when  it  was  partly  or  wholly  cereal. 

n  TnfJ^-f"''  ^  ^''^[''1"  ^u®  expression.  '«  Here,  probably,  =  ff,:/-/s.  whether  by  will  or  otherwise. 

"Wirand  childless  paren^sTal^^^^^^  JI^«  ^^^-^   P--'-'"   *«   '^^   -^^o'-tic  tempera- 


■  rftft 


BEN  JONSON  197 


read,  but  not  curiously ;2  and  some  few  to  be  honour  to  Shakespeare,  that  in  his  writing, 
read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention.  whatsoever  he  penned,  he  never  blotted  out  a 
Some  books  also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  line.  My  answer  hath  been,  "Would  he  had 
extracts  made  of  them  by  others;  but  that  blotted  a  thousand,"  which  they  thought  a 
would  be  only  in  the  less  important  arguments,  5  malevolent  speech.  I  had  not  told  posterity 
and  the  meaner  sort  of  books;  else  distilled  this  but  for  their  ignorance,  who  chose  that 
books  are,  like  common  distilled  waters,  flashy  circumstance  to  commend  their  friend  by 
things.  Reading  maketh  a  full  man,  confer-  wherein  he  most  faulted;  and  to  justify  mine 
ence  a  ready  man,  and  writing  an  exact  man;  own  candour,  for  I  loved  the  man,  and  do 
and,  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he  had  10  honour  his  memory  on  this  side  idolatry  as 
need  have  a  great  memory;  if  he  confer  httle,  much  as  any.  He  was,  indeed,  honest,  and  of 
he  had  need  have  a  present  wit;  and  if  he  read  an  open  and  free  nature;  had  an  excellent 
little,  he  had  need  have  much  cunning,  to  seem  fancy,  brave  notions,  and  gentle  expressions, 
to  know  that  he  doth  not.  Histories  make  wherein  he  flowed  with  that  facility  that  some- 
men  wise;  poets  witty;  the  mathematics  subtle;  15  time  it  was  necessary  he  should  be  stopped, 
natural  philosophy  deep;  moral,  grave;  logic  " Sujfflaminadics  erat,''^  as  Augustus  said  of 
and  rhetoric,  able  to  contend:  "Abeunt  studia  Haterius.  His  wit  was  in  his  own  power; 
in  mores  "3 — nay,  there  is  no  stond  norimpedi-  would  the  rule  of  it  had  been  so  too.  Many 
ment  in  the  wit,  but  may  be  wrought  out  by  times  he  fell  into  those  things,  could  not  escape 
fit  studies,  Uke  as  diseases  of  the  body  may  20  laughter,  as  when  he  said  in  the  person  of 
have  appropriate  exercises — bowling  is  good  Caesar,  one  speaking  to  him:  "Ca;sar,  thou 
for  the  stone  and  reins,  shooting  for  the  lungs  dost  me  wrong."  He  rephed:  "Ciesar  did 
and  breast,  gentle  walking  for  the  stomach,  never  wrong  but  with  just  cause;  "^  and  such 
riding  for  the  head,  and  the  Uke;  so,  if  a  man's  like,  which  were  ridiculous.  But  he  redeemed 
wits  be  wandering,  let  him  study  the  mathe-  25  his  vices  with  his  virtues.  There  was  ever 
matics,  for  in  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  more  in  him  to  be  praised  than  to  be  pardoned, 
called   away  never  so  Uttle,   he  must  begin  De  piis  et  proUs.^ — Good  men  are  the  stars, 

again;  if  his  wit  be  not  apt  to  distinguish  or  the  planets  of  the  ages  wherein  they  Uve  and 
find  differences,  let  him  study  the  schoolmen,  illustrate*  the  times.  God  never  let  them  be 
for  they  are  "cymini  sectores;"*  if  he  be  not  30  wanting  to  the  world:  as  Abel,  for  an  example 
apt  to  beat  over  matters,  and  to  call  upon  of  innocency,  Enoch  of  purity,  Noah  of  trust 
one  thing  to  prove  and  illustrate  another,  let  in  God's  mercies,  Abraham  of  faith,  and  so 
him  study  the  lawyers'  cases — so  every  defect  of  the  rest.  These,  sensual  men  thought  mad 
of  the  mind  may  have  a  special  receipt.  because  they  would  not  be  partakers  or  prac- 

35  tisers  of  their  madness.    But  they,  placed  high 
315nt   ^OltfiiOU  ^^  ^^®  ^^P  ^^  ^^  virtue,  looked  down  on  the 

stage  of  the  world  and  contemned  the  play  of 
1573-1637  fortune.     For  though   the  most  be  players, 

FROM   TIMBER,   OR  DISCOVERIESi         some  must  be  spectators. 

(P  h   lfi4.n  ^°     Amor    nummi? — Money    never    made    any 

\   '^  •    ^     )  man  rich,  but  his  mind.     He  that  can  order 

De    Shakespeare    nostrat    [i].^— I    remember      himself  to  the  law  of  Nature  is  not  only  with- 
the  players  have  often  mentioned  it  as  an      out  the  sense  but  the  fear  of  poverty.    O,  but 

2  Not  with  minute  care.  ^o  strike  blind  the  people  with  our  wealth  and 

3  Studies  pass  into  character.  45  pomp  is  the  thing!     What  a  wretchedness  is 

^jSp]iUers  of  cuminin  seed,  in  our  phrase,  "hair  spUt-       ^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^.^j^^^  OUtward,  and  be 

iThe  character  and  scope  of  this  work  of  Jonson,  is      beggars .  within ;  to  Contemplate  nothing  but 

indicated  in  its  title:  Timber,  or  Discoveries  made  upon  the  Uttle,  vile,  and  sordid  things  of  the  WOrld; 
Men  or  Matter,  as  they  nave  flowed  out  of  nts  daily  reading;  .       ,^  .  i  i  j  •         i       ttt- 

or  had  their  reflux  to  his  peculiar  noUons  of  the  time.    The       not     the     great,     noble,     and     preClOUS!        We 

book,inotherwords,  is  a  reflection  upon  men  and  things,  50  serve  our  avarice,  and,  not  Content  with  the 

suggested  by  Jonson  s      daily  reading.        It  is  similar  i      /•  ,i  ii     ,i     ,    •       «•        i  r 

to  Bacon's  Essays,  but  Jonson's  thoughts  are  jotted  good  of  the  earth  that  IS  otiered  US,  we  search, 
down  as  they  occur  to  him,  with  little  regard  to  logical      ^nd  dig  for  the  evil  that  is  hidden.    God  offered 

order    or    grouping.       1  he    unsystematic,    miscellaneous  ,1.1.                   11         i^i              ,   1        j           i 
character  of  the  book  is  indicated  by  its  main  title,—  US  those  thmgS,  and  placed  them  at  hand,  and 
Timber     Jonson  uses  Timber  (ie  a  iovest)  as  the  English  near  US,  that  He  knew  WCre  profitable  for  US, 
equivalent  of  the  Latin  word  Suva  (a  wood,  a  crowded  ' 
mass),  which  as  Jonson  explains,  was  applied  by  the  an- 
cients "to  those  of  their  books  in  which  were  collected  ^He  ought  to  have  been  clogged.    Haterius  was  sena= 
random  articles  upon  diverse  and  various  topics."     Tim-  tor  under  the  Emperors  Augustus  and  Tiberius. 
ber,  the  crude  wood  of  the  forest  is  thus  "the  raw  ma-  ^Julius  Caesar,  III.  i.  47. 
terial    of    facts    and    thoughts:"      the    "promiscuous"  » Of  devout  and  honorable  men. 
growth,  undeveloped  by  art.  «  Illuminate,  make  glorious. 
2  Of  Shakespeare,  our  fellow-coxmtiyman.  ^  The  love  of  money. 


198    WYATT  AND  SURREY  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  BEN  JONSON 

but  the  hurtful  He  laid  deep  and  hid.     Yet  all  away  in  a  day?    And  shall  that  which  could 

do  we  seek  only  the  things  whereby  we  may  not  fill  the  expectation  of  few  hours,  entertai) 

perish,  and  bring  them  forth,  when  God  and  and  take  up  our  whole  lives,  when  even  it  ai> 

Nature  hath  buried  them.     We  covet  super-  peared  as  superfluous  to  the  possessors  as  U 

fluous  things,  when  it  were  more  honour  for  5  me  that  was  a  spectator?     The  bravery  was 

us  if  we  could  contemn  necessary.    What  need  shown,  it  was  not  possessed;  while  it  boasted 

hath  Nature  of  silver  dishes,   multitudes  of  itself  it  perished.    It  is  vile,  and  a  poor  thing 

waiters,    delicate    pages,    perfumed    napkins?  to  place  our  happiness  on  these  desires.     Say 

She  requires  meat  only,   and  hunger  is  not  we  wanted  them  all,  famine  ends  famine, 
ambitious.     Can  we  think  no  wealth  enough  10     De  stuUitia.^'^ — What  petty  things  they  are 

but  such  a  state  for  which  a  man  may  be  we  wonder  at,  hke  children  that  esteem  every 

brought  into  a  prcemunire,^  begged,^  proscribed,  trifle,  and  prefer  a  fairing^^  before  their  fathers! 

or  poisoned?    O!  if  a  man  could  restrain  the  What  difference  is  between  us  £^d  them  but 

fury  of  his  gullet  and  groin,  and  think  how  that  we  are  dearer  fools,  coxcombs  at  a  higher 
many  fires,  how  many  kitchens,  cooks,  pastures,  15  rate?      They    are   pleased    with    cockleshells, 

and  ploughed  lands;  what  orchards,  stews, ^"^  whistles,  hobbyhorses,  and  such  like;  we  with 

ponds  and  parks,  coops  and  garners,  he  could  statues,  marble  pillars,  pictures,  gilded  roofs, 

spare;   what   velvets,    tissues, ^^   embroideries,  where  underneath  is  lath   and  lime,  perhaps 

laces,  he  could  lack;  and  then  how  short  and  loam.     Yet  we  take  pleasure  in  the  lie,   and 
uncertain  his  life  is;  he  were  in  a  better  way  20  are  glad  we  can  cozen  ourselves.     Nor  is  it 

to  happiness  than  to  live  the  emperor  of  these  only  in  our  walls  and  ceilings,  but  all  that  we 

delights,  and  be  the  dictator  of  fashions.    But  call  happiness  is  mere  painting  and  gilt,  and 

we  make  ourselves  slaves  to  our  pleasures,  and  all  for  money.     What  a  thin  membrane^*  of 

we  serve  fame  and  ambition,  which  is  an  equal  honour  that  is,  and  how  hath  all  true  reputation 
slavery.    Have  not  I  seen  the  pomp  of  a  whole  25  fallen,  since  money  began  to  have  any!    Yet 

kingdom,  and  what  a  foreign  king  could  bring  the  great  herd,  the  multitude,  that  in  all  other 

hither  also  to  make  himself  gazed  and  wondered  things  are  divided,  in  this  alone  conspire  and 

at,  laid  forth,  as  it  were,  to  the  show,  and  vanish  agree — to  love  money.    They  wish  for  it,  they 

«•  «   4^  :„„.,-  *K«.  ^«„„u    /■  •    1        *  iu        .X-  embrace  it,  they  adore  it,  while  yet  it  is  pos- 

»i.  e.,  to  incur  the  penalty  (viz.  loss  of  the  protection  ,       .    '  "^  .  j,  .i« 

of  the  Crown,  forfeiture  of  goods,  etc.)  provided  in  one  30  sessed  With  greater  stir  and  torment  than  it 

or  more  of  the  laws  known  as  the  Stahdes  of  Praemunire.  jo   rotten 

These  statutes  obtained  their  name  from  the  first  words  6«-'»'i'C    . 

of  a  writ  issued  under  them;  Praemunire  facias  A.  B., 

etc. — you  shall  cause  A.  B.  to  be  forewarned  that  he  ap-  "  Of  Folly. 

pear  before  us  etc.  13  An  article  purchased  at  a  fair,  a  present  brought 

»  Beggared.  from  a  fair. 

'0  Pools  or  tanks  in  which  fish  are  kept  for  the  table.         35      n  Covering,  tissue.     The  deceitful  outward  show,  the 

»i  Tissue,  a  nchly  ornamented  material,  often  inter-  (lath  and  lime,  the  painting  and  gilt)  is  but  a  thin  and  su- 

woven  with  gold  or  silver  threads.  p«rficial  layer  of  honor. 


V.  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


c.  1625-1660 


L 


|Dl|inea0  iFUtclier 

1582-1650 

THE  SHEPHERD'S  LIFE 

(From  The  Purple  Island,  1633) 

Canto  I 

Let  others  trust  the  seas,  darejieath  and  Hell, 

Search  either  Ind',  vaunt  of  "their  scars  and 

wounds: 

Let  others  their  dear  breath  (nay,  silence)  sell 

To  fools,  and  (swol'n,  not  rich)  stretch  out 

their  bounds,  160 

By  spoiling  those  that  live,  and  wronging 

dead; 
That  they  may  drink  in  pearl,  and  couch 
their  head 
In  soft,  but  sleepless  down:  in  rich,  but  restless 
bed. 

O,  let  them  in  their  gold  quaff  dropsies  down! 

O,  let  them  surfeits  feast  in  silver  bright !     1 65 

Whilst  sugar  hires  the  taste  the  brain  to  drown, 

And  bribes  of  sauce  corrupt  false  appetite. 

His  master's  rest,  health,  heart,  life,  soul, 

to  sell; 
Thus  plenty,  fulness,  sickness,  ring  their 
knell. 
Death  weds,  and  beds  them;  first  in  grave,  and 
then  in  Hell.  170 

But  ah!  let  me,  under  some  Kentish  hill. 
Near  rolling  Medway,  'mong  my  shepherd 
peers. 
With  fearless  merry-make,  and  piping  still. 
Securely  pass  my  few  and  slow-pac'd  years: 
While  yet  the  great  Augustus  of  our  nation, 
Shuts  up  old  Janus^  in  this  long  cessation, 
Strength'ning  our  pleasing  ease,  and  gives  us 
sure  vacation. 

There  may  I,  master  of  a  little  flock, 

Feed  my  poor  lambs,  and  often  change  their 

fare:  179 

My  lovely  mate  shall  tend  my  sparing  stock, 

And  nurse  my  little  ones  with  pleasing  care; 

Whose  love,  and  look,  shall  speak  their 

father  plain. 
Health  be  my  feast.  Heaven  hope,  content 
^      my  gain; 
So  m  my  little  house  my  lesser  heart  shall  reign. 

The  beech  shall  yield  a  cool  safe  canopy,      185 
While  down  I  sit,  and  chant  to  th'  echoing 
wood: 
Ah,  singing  might  I  live,  and  singing  die! 

So  by  fair  Thames,  or  silver  Medway's  flood, 

1  The  Roman  god,  the  doors  of  whose  temple  at  Rome 
were  shut  only  in  a  time  of  universal  peace.  In  1642, 
Jess  than  ten  years  after  this  tribute  was  written,  the 
Civil  War  began,  and  in  1649,  Charles  I,  the  "great 
Augustus,"  was  beheaded. 


The  dying  swan,  when  years  her  temples 

pierce, 
In  music's  strains  breathes  out  her  life  and 

verse,  190 

And  chanting  her  own  dirge  tides  on  her  wat'ry 

hearse. 

What,  shall  I  then  need  seek  a  patron  out; 
Or  beg  a  favour  from  a  mistress'  eyes, 
To  fence  my  song  uniainst  the  vulgar  rout: 
Or  shine  upon  me  with  her  geminies?^ 

What  care  1,  if  they  praise  my  slender 
song?  196 

Or  reck  I,  if  they  do  me  right  or  wrong? 
A  shepherd's  bliss  nor  stands,  nor  falls,  to  every 
tongue.  .  .  . 

Canto  XII 

Thrice,  oh,  thrice  happy  shepherd's  life  and 

state! 
When  courts  are  happiness,  unhappy  pawns! 
His  cottage  low,  and  safely  humble  gate,  10 

Shuts  out  proud  Fortune  with  her  scorns  and 
fawns: 
No  fearM  treason  breaks  his  quiet  sleep: 
Singing  all  day,  his  flocks  he  learns  to 
keep; 
Himself  as  innocent  as  are  his  simple  sheep. 

No  Serian  worms'  he  knows,  that  with  their 

thread  15 

Draw   out   their   silken   lives: — nor   silken 

pride! 

His  lanabs'  warm  fleece  well  fits  his  little  need. 

Not  in  that  proud  Sidonian  tincture*  dy'd: 

No  empty  hopes,   no  courtly  fears  him 

fright; 
Nor   begging   wants   his   middle   fortune 
bite:  20 

But  sweet  content  exiles  both  misery  and  spite. 

Instead  of  music,  and  base  flattering  tongues, 
Which  wait  to  first  salute  my  lord's  uprise; 
The  cheerful  lark  wakes  him  with  early  songs, 
And  birds'  sweet  whistling  notes  unlock  his 
eyes.  25 

In  country  plays  is  all  the  strife  he  uses; 
Or  sing,  or  dance,  unto  the  rural  Muses; 
And  but  in  music's  sports,  all  differences  re- 
fuses. 

His  certain  life,  that  never  can  deceive  him, 
Is  full  of  thousand  sweets,  and  rich  content  :30 

^Gemini,  twins,  here  "a  pair  of  eyes,"  i.  e.  both  her 
eyes. 

'  Silk  worms,  Serian  means  pertaining  to  the  Seres, 
an  Asiatic  people  from  whom  the  Greeks  and  Romans 
got  their  first  silk. 

*  The  Royal  purple.  This  color  (tincture)  is  more 
generally  associated  with  Tyre,  than  with  Sidon,  as  i: 
the  corresponding  expression  Tyrian  dye. 


199 


200 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


The  smooth-leav'd  beeches,  in  the  fields  receive 
him 
With  coolest  shades,  till  noon-tide's  rage  is 
spent: 
His  life  is  neither  tost  in  boist'rous  seas 
Of  troublous  world,  nor  lost  in  slothful 
ease; 
Pleas'd  and  full  blest  he  lives,  when  he  his  God 
can  please.  35 

His  bed  of  wool,  yields  safe  and  quiet  sleeps, 
While  by  his  side  his  faithful  spouse  hath 
place: 
His  little  son  into  his  bosom  creeps, 
The  lively  picture  of  his  father's  face: 

Never  his  humble  house  or  state  torment 

him;  40 

Less  he  could  like,  if  less  his  God  had  sent 

him; 

And  when  he  dies,  green  turfs,  with  grassy 

tomb,  content  him. 


Mlt&  iFletcljet 

1588-1623 

CHRIST'S  VICTORY  AND  TRIUMPH, 

1610 

(Christ's  Victory  in  Heaven) 

What  hath  man  done,  that  man  shall  not 
undo,  600 

Since  God  to  him  is  grown  so  near  a-kin? 
Did  his  foe  slay  him?  he  shall  slay  his  foe: 
Hath  he  lost  all?  he  all  again  shall  win: 
Is  sin  his  master?  he  shall  master  sin: 
Too  hardy  soul,  with  sin  the  field  to  try:     605 
The  only  way  to  conquer,  was  to  fly: 
But  thus  long  death  hath  liv'd,  and  now  death's 
self  shall  die. 

Ho  is  a  path,  if  any  be  misled; 

He  is  a  robe,  if  any  naked  be; 

If  any  chance  to  hunger,  he  is  bread;  610 

If  any  be  a  bondman,  he  is  free; 

If  any  be  but  weak,  how  strong  is  he? 
To  dead  men  life  he  is,  to  sick  men  health: 
To  blind  men  sight,  and  to  the  needy  wealth; 

A  pleasure  without  loss,  a  treasure  without 
stealth.  615 

Who  can  forget,  never  to  be  forgot, 
The  time,  that  all  the  world  in  slumbei-  lies: 
WTion,  hke  the  stars,  the  singing  angels  shot 
To  Earth,  and  Heav'n  awaked  all  his  eyes. 
To  see  another  Sun  at  midnight  rise  620 

On  Earth?  was  never  sight  of  pareiP  fame: 
For  God  before,  man  like  himself  did  frame, 
BuLfc  God  himself  now  like  a  man  became. 

^  A  child  he  was,  and  had  not  learn't  to  speak, 

That  with  his  word  the  world  before  did  make: 

His  mother's  arms  him  bore,  he  was  so  weak,  626 

That  with  one  hand  the  vaults  of  Heav'n  could 

shake. 

^Eqvial. 


See  how  small  room  my  infant  Lord  doth  take, 
Whom  all  the  world  is  not  enough  to  hold. 
Who  of  his  years,  or  of  his  age  hath  told?     63C 

Never  such  age  so  young,  never  a  child  so  old. 


1588-1667 

THE  AUTHOR'S  RESOLUTION  IN  A 
SONNET 

(From  Fidelia,  1615) 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despaire 

Dye,  because  a  woman's  fair? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 

Cause  anothers  Rosie  arc? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  Day 
Or  the  flowry  Meads  in  May, 
If  she  think  not  well  of  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 


Shall  my  seely^  heart  be  pin'd 
Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind? 
Or  a  well  disposed  Nature 
Joyned  with  a  lovely  feature? 

Be  she  Meeker,  Kinder  than 

Turtle-dove  or  Pellican: 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me. 

What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 

Shall  a  woman's  Vertues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  Love? 
Or  her  well  deservings  known 
Make  me  qu'te  forget  mine  own? 
Be  she  with  that  Goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  best: 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  Good  she  be? 


10 


15 


2d 


25 


35 


Cause  her  Fortune  seems  too  high 

Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 

She  that  beares  a  Noble  mind. 

If  not  outward  helpes  she  find, 

Thinks  what  with  them  he  would  do, 
That  without  them  dares  her  woo.       30 
And  unlesse  that  Minde  I  see 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be? 

Great,  or  Good,  or  Kind,  or  Faire 
I  will  ne're  the  more  despaire: 
If  she  love  me  (this  believe) 
I  will  Die  ere  she  shall  grieve. 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 

I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go, 

For  if  she  be  not  for  me 

What  care  I  for  whom  she  be?  40 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

So  now  is  come  our  joyful  feast, 

Let  every  man  be  jolly; 
Each  room  with  ivy  leaves  is  drest, 

And  every  post  with  holly.  \ 

^Used  here  in  the  sense  of  "simple,"  "artless,"  ot-f 
•foolish." 


WILLIAM  BROWNE 


201 


i'hough  some  churls  at  our  mirth  repine,    5 
Round  your  foreheads  garlands  twine, 
Drown  sorrow  in  a  cup  of  wine, 
A.nd  let  us  all  be  merry. 

Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimnies  smoke, 

And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning;  10 

]  heir  ovens  they  with  bak'd  meats  choke. 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 
Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie. 
And  if  for  cold  it  hap  could  die. 
We'll  bury  it  in  a  Christmas  pie;  15 

\nd  evermore  be  merry. 

Now  every  lad  is  wondrous  trim, 
And  no  man  minds  his  labour; 

Our  lasses  have  provided  them 
I'    A  bag-pipe  and  a  tabor.  20 

It       Young  men  and  maids,  and  girls  and  boys 
1       Give  life  to  one  another's  joys; 
f        And  you  anon  shall  by  their  noise 
**erceive  that  they  are  merry. 

Rank  misers  now  do  sparing  shun,  25 

Their  hall  of  music  soundeth ; 
And  dogs  thence  with  whole  shoulders  run, 
So  all  things  there  aboundeth. 

The  country-folk  themselves  advance, 
For  Crowdy-Mutton's^  come  out  of  France; 
And  Jack  shall  pipe  and  Jyll  shall  dance,  30 
And  all  the  town  be  merry. 

\(  d  Swash  hath  fetch'd  his  bands  from  pawn, 

And  all  his  best  apparel; 
Brisk  Nell  hath  bought  a  ruff  of  lawn  35 

With  droppings  of  the  barrel. 

And  those,  that  hardly  all  the  year 
Had  bread  to  eat  or  rags  to  wear, 
Will  have  both  clothes  and  dainty  fare. 
And  all  the  day  be  merry.  ...  40 

The  client  now  his  suit  forbears, 
The  prisoner's  heart  is  easM; 
The  debtor  drinks  away  his  cares. 
And  for  the  time  is  pleased. 

Though  other's  purses  be  more  fat,  45 

Why  should  we  pine  or  grieve  at  that; 
Hang  sorrow,  care  will  kill  a  cat. 
And  therefore  let  us  be  merry. 

Now  kings  and  queens  poor  sheep-cotes  have. 
And  mate  with  every  body;  50 

The  honest  now  may  play  the  knave 
And  wise  men  play  at  noddy. ^ 

Some  youths  will  now  a-mumming  go, 
Some  others  play  at  rowland-hoe;^ 
And  twenty  other  gameboys^  moe;  55 

1  Because  they  will  be  merry. 

Then  wherefore  in  these  merry  days 

Should  we  I  pray  be  duller? 
No,  let  us  sing  some  roundelays 

To  make  our  mirth  the  fuller.  60 

1  Crowd  is  an  old  name  for  fiddle,  so  some  think  a 
•  Qrowdy- Mutton  may  mean  a  fiddler.  Possibly  it  is  the 
name  of  some  game  of  the  French  peasants,  which  in- 
volved music  and  dancing. 

-  A  game  of  cards  resembling  cribbage.    As  noddy  also 
,  means  fool,  it  may  suggest  play  the  fool, 

» Evidently  a  Christmas  game.  *  Gambols. 


And  whilst  thus  inspir'd  we  sing. 
And  all  the  streets  with  echoes  ring; 
Woods,  and  hills,  and  every  thing 
Bear  witness  we  are  merry. 


William  Brotone 

1590-1645 

BRITANNIA'S  PASTORALS,  1613-16 

(Book  I.    SongV) 

Now  as  an  angler  melancholy  standing, 
Upon  a  green  bank  yielding  room  for  landing, 
A  wriggling  yellow  worm  thrust  on  his  hook,  640 
Now  in  the  midst  he  throws,  then  in  a  nook: 
Here  pulls  his  line,  there  throws  it  in  again. 
Mending  his  crook  and  bait,  but  all  in  vain, 
He  long  stands  viewing  of  the  curled  stream; 
At  last  a  hungry  pike,  or  well-grown  breame,  645 
Snatch  at  the  worm,  and  hasting  fast  away 
He,  knowing  it  a  fish  of  stubborn  sway. 
Pulls  up  his  rod,  but  soft;  (as  having  skill) 
Wherewith  the  hook  fast  holds  the  fish's  gill. 
Then  all  his  line  he  freely  yieldeth  him,  650 

Whilst  furiously  all  up  and  down  doth  swim 
Th'  ensnared  fish,  here  on  the  top  doth  scud. 
There,  underneath  the  banks,  then  in  the  mud; 
And  with  his  frantic  fits  so  scares  the  shoal. 
That  each  one  takes  his  hide  or  starting  hole;  655 
By  this  the  pike,  clean  wearied,  underneath 
A  willow  lies,  and  pants  (if  fishes  breathe) ; 
Wherewith  the  angler  gently  pulls  him  to  him, 
And,  lest  his  haste  might  happen  to  undo  him. 
Lays  down  his  rod,  then  takes  his  line  in  hand. 
And  by  degrees  getting  the  fish  to  land,  661 

Walks  to  another  pool:  at  length  is  winner 
Of  such  a  dish  as  serves  him  for  his  dinner: 
So  when  the  climber  half  the  way  had  got. 
Musing  he  stood,  and  busily  'gan  plot,  665 

How    (since   the   mount   did   always  steeper 

tend) 
He  might  with  steps  secure  his  journey  end.  .  .  . 

Then,  as  a  nimble  squirrel  from  the  wood. 
Ranging  the  hedges  for  his  filbert-food. 
Sits  partly  on  a  bough  his  brown  nuts  crack- 
ing, 
And  from  the  shell  the  sweet  white  kernel 
taking,  695 

Till  (with  their  crooks  and  bags)  a  sort  of  boys 
(To  share  with  him)  come  with  so  great  a  noise. 
That  he  is  forc'd  to  leave  a  nut  nigh  broke, 
And  for  his  life  leap  to  a  neighbor  oak; 
Thence  to  a  beech,  thence  to  a  row  of  ashes;  700 
Whilst   thro'   the   quagmires  and  red  water 

plashes, 
The  boys  run  dabbling  through  thick  and  thin, 
One  tears  his  hose,  another  breaks  his  shin; 
This,  torn  and  tatter'd,  hath  with  much  ado   704 
Got  by  the  briars;  and  that  hath  lost  his  shoe; 
This  drops  his  band;  that  head-long  falls  f 

haste; 
Another  cries  behind  for  being  last : 
With  sticks  and  stones,  and  mary  a  sounding 
hollow, 


202 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


The  little  fool,  with  no  wnall  sport,  they  fol- 

low 
Whilst  te,  from  tree  to  tree,  from  spray  to 


spray, 


710 


Gets  to  the  wood,  and  hides  him  in  his  dray: 
Such  flhift  made  Riot,  ere  he  could  get  up. 
And  so  from  bough   to  bough  he  won  the 

Thougn'hind'rances  from  ever  coming  there, 
Were  often  thrust  upon  him  by  Despair.        715 

iFrancifif  €iuarto 

1592-1644 

MORS  TUA 

(From  A  Feast  for  Wormes,  1620) 

Can  he  be  fair  that  withers  at  a  blast? 
Or  he  be  stronR  that  every  breath  can  cast? 
Or  he  be  wise  that  knows  not  how  to  live? 
Or  he  be  rich  that  nothing  hath  to  give? 
Can  he  be  young,  that's  feeble,  weak,  and  wan? 
So  fair,  strong,  wise,  so  rich,  so  young  is  man. 
So  fair  is  man,  that  Death  (a  parting  blast)        7 
Blasts  his  fair  flower,  and  makes  him  earth  at 

last; 
So  strong  is  man.  that  with  a  gasping  breath 
He  totters,  ana  bequeathes  his  strength  to 

Death;  lo 

So  wise  is  man,  that  if  with  Death  he  strive, 
His  wisdom  cannot  teach  him  how  to  live; 
So  rich  is  man,  that  (all  his  debts  being  paid) 
His  wealth's  the  winding-sheet  wherein  he's 

laid; 
So  young  is  man,  that,  broke  with  care  and 

sorrow,  15 

He's  old  enough  today  to  die  tomorrow: 
Why  brag'st  thou,  then,  thou  worm  of  five  foot 

long? 
Th'  art  neither  fair,  nor  strong,  nor  wise,  nor 

rich,  nor  young. 

INVIDIOSA  SENECTUS 
(From  Hieroglyphics  of  the  Life  of  Man,  1638) 

Envious  old   age   obscures   thy   feeble  light, 

•\nd  gives  thee  warning  of  approaching  night. 

St.  John  XII.  35 

Yet  a  little  while  the  light  is  with  you. 

The  days  grow  old,  the  low-pitch'd  lamp  hath 
made 

No  less  than  treble  shade, 
And  the  descend  ing  damp  doth  now  prepare     5 

To  uncurl  bright  Titan's  hair; 
vVTiose  western  wardrobe  now  begins  to  unfold 

Her  purples,  fring'd  with  gold, 
To  clothe  his  ev'ning  glory,  when  th'  alarms 
Uf  rest  shall  call  to  rest  in  restless  Thetis' 
arms.  lo 

Nature  now  calls  to  supper,  to  refresh 

The  spirits  of  all  flesh; 
The  toiling  ploughman  drives  his  thirsty  teams 

To  taste  the  slipp'ry  streams: 


30 


The  droilingi  swineherd   knocks  away,^  and 

feasts  15 

His  hungry  whining  guests: 

The  box-bill  ouzel,  and  the  dappled  thrush, 

Like  hungry  rivals,  meet  at  their  beloved  bush. 

And  now  the  cold  autumnal  dews  are  seen 

To  cobweb  ev'ry  green ;  20 

And  by  the  low-shorn  rowens  doth  appear 
The  fast-declining  year: 

The  sapless  branches  doff  their  summer  suits, 
And  wane  their  winter  fruits; 

And  stormy  blasts  have  forc'd  the  quaking 
trees  25 

To  wrap  their  trembling  limbs  in  suits  of  mossy 
frieze. 

Our  wasted  taper  now  has  brought  her  light 

To  the  next  door  to-night; 
Her  spriteless  flame,  grown  great  with  snuff, 
doth  turn 

Sad  as  her  neighb'ring  urn : 
Her  slender  inch,  that  yet  unspent  remains. 

Lights  but  to  further  pains; 
And,  in  a  silent  language,  bids  her  guest 
Prepare  his  weary  limbs  to  take  eternal  rest. 

Now   careful   age   hath   pitch'd   her   painful 
plough  35 

Upon  the  furrow'd  brow; 
And  snowy  blasts  of  discontented  care 

Have  blanch'd  the  falling  hair: 
Suspicious  envy,  mix'd  with  jealous  spite. 

Disturbs  his  weary  night :  40 

He  threatens  youth  with  age;  and  now,  alas! 
He  owns  not  what  he  is,  but  vaunts  the  man  he 
was. 

Grey  hairs,  peruse  thy  days;  and  let  thy  past 

Read  lectures  to  thy  last: 
Those  hasty  wings  that  hurried  them  away,     45 

Will  give  these  days  no  day: 
The  constant  wheels  of  nature  scorn  to  tire 

Until  her  works  expire: 
That  blast  that  nipp'd  thy  youth,  will  ruin  thee; 
That  hand  that  shook  the  branch,  will  quickly 
strike  the  tree.  50 


EPIGRAMME  3 

Art  thou  consum'd  with  soul-afflicting  crosses? 
Disturb'd  with  grief?  annoy'd  with  worldly 

losses? 
Hold  up  thy  head:  the  taper,  lifted  high. 
Will  brook  the  wind,  when  lower  tapers  die. 

1593-1633 

VERTUE 

(From  The  Temple,  1631) 
Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright,  \ 

The  bridall  of  the  earth  and  skie: 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 

For  thou  must  die. 
1  Plodding,  sluggish.  «  Knocka-off,  stops  work. 


'    Sweet  rose, 


GEORGE  HERBERT 


203 


jweet  rose,  whose  hue  angrie^  and  brave     5 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie,  10 

My  musick  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  vertuous  soul, 
Like  season'd  timber,  never  gives; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal,  15 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


THE  PULLEY 

(From  the  same) 

When  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glasse  of  blessings  standing  by, 
"  Let  us,"  said  He,  "  poure  on  him  all  we  can; 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie. 

Contract  into  a  span."  5 

So  strength  first  made  a  way; 
Then  beautie  flow'd,   then  wisdome,  honour, 

pleasure; 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that,  alone  of  all  His  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottome  lay.  10 

"For  if  I  should,"  said  He, 
**  Bestow  this  Jewell  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  in  stead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature: 

So  both  should  losers  be.  15 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest. 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessnesse: 
Let  him  be  rich  and  wearie,  that  at  least. 
If  goodnesse  leade  him  not,   yet  wearinesse 

May  tosse  him  to  my  breast."  20 


THE  ELIXIRi 

(From  the  same) 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King, 
In  all  things  Thee  to  see. 
And  what  I  do  in  anything 
To  do  it  as  for  Thee: 

Not  rudely,  as  a  beast. 
To  runne  into  an  action; 
But  still  to  make  Thee  prepossest. 
And  give  it  his  perfection. 


.     A  man  that  looks  on  glasse. 
On  it  may  stay  his  eye; 
Or  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  passe, 
And  then  the  heav'n  espie. 


10 


All  may  of  Thee  partake: 
Nothing  can  be  so  mean, 
Which  with  his  tincture^  "  for  Thy  sake,"  15 
Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 

A  servant  with  this  clause 
Makes  drudgerie  divine; 
Who  sweeps  a  room  as  for  Thy  laws, 

Makes  that  and  th'  action  fine.  20 

This  is  the  famous  stone 
That  turneth  all  to  gold; 
For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and  own 
Cannot  for  lesse  be  told.^ 


THE  COLLAR 

(From  the  same) 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cry'd,  "  No  more; 

I  will  abroad." 
What,  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine? 
My  lines  and  life  are  free;  free  as  the  road. 
Loose  as  the  winde,  as  large  as  store.  5 

Shall  I  be  still  in  suit? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  blood  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordiall  fruit? 

Sure  there  was  wine,  10 

Before  my  sighr,  did  drie  it;  there  was  corn 

Before  my  tears  did  drown  it; 
Is  the  yeare  onely  lost  to  me? 
Have  I  no  bayes  to  crown  it, 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gav?  all  blasted,        15 
All  wasted? 
Not  so,  my  heart;  but  there  is  fruit, 
And  thou  hast  hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-blown  age 
On  double  pleasures;  leave  thy  cold  dispute  20 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not;  forsake  thy  cage, 

Thy  rope  of  sands 
Which  pettie  thoughts  have  made;  and  made  to 
thee 
Good  cable,  to  enforce  and  draw, 

And  be  thy  law,  25 

While  thou  didst  wink  and  wouldst  not  see. 
Away!  take  heed; 
I  will  abroad. 
Call  in  thy  death's-head  there,  tie  up  thy  fears; 
He  that  forbears  30 

To  suit  and  serve  his  need 

Deserves  his  load. 
But  as  I  raved  and  grew  more  fierce  and 
wilde 
At  every  word, 
Methought  I  heard  one  calling,  "Childe"; 
And  I  reply'd,  "  My  Lord."      3^ 


'  Red  (angrie)  and  gorgeous,  or  splendid. 

1  An  Elixir  was  in  alchemy  a  substance  supposed  to 
possess  the  power  of  transmuting  the  baser  metals  into 
gold.  The  Oreat  Elixir  (or  Philosopher's  Stone)  was  also 
called  the  red  tincture. 


2  Tincture  being  here,  the  same  as  the  Elixir,  the  sense 
is,  that  there  is  no  action  however  mean  which,  imbued 
or  purified  by  his  (i. 
not  grow  bright. 


e.  its)  tincture  for  Thy  sake,  will 
^ „..,,„-.  To  do  a  thing  as  for  Thee  is  to  trans- 
mute the  action  from  base  metal  to  fine  gold,  and  the 
talisman  for  Thy  sake  is  the  magic  tincture  or  Elixir  which 
can  efifect  the  change. 

»  Counted.  Cannot  be  counted  less. 


204 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


1596-1667 

A  DIRGE 

(From  The  Contention  of  Ajax  and  Ulysses, 
1659) 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings: 
Sceptre  and  crown  5 

Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 

And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill;     10 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still: 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath,  15 
When  they,  poor  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow. 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See,  where  the  victor- victim  bleeds :  20 

Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb. 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 


li^ilUam  l^abington 

1605-1654 

NOX  NOCTI  INDICAT  SCIENTAM^ 

When  I  survey  the  bright 
Celestial  sphere: 
So  rich  with  jewels  hung,  that  night 
Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appear; 

My  soul  her  wings  doth  spread, 
And  heaven-ward  flies. 
The  Almighty's  mysteries  to  read 
In  the  large  volume  of  the  skies. 


10 


For  the  bright  firmament 
Shoots  forth  no  flame 
So  silent,  but  is  eloquent 
In  speaking  the  Creator's  name. 

No  unregarded  star 
Contracts  its  light 
Into  so  small  a  character, 
Remov'd  far  from  our  human  sight: 

But  if  we  steadfast  look 
We  shall  discern 
In  it,  as  in  some  holy  book, 
How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge  learn.    20 

1  "Night  to  night  sheweth  knowledge."     Psalm  sax.  2. 
Vulgate. 


It  tells  the  conqueror, 

That  far-stretched  power, 
Which  his  proud  dangers  traffick  for, 
Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  hour. 

That  from  the  farthest  North,  25 

Some  nation  may 
Yet  undiscovered  issue  forth. 
And  o'er  his  new-got  conquest  sway. 

Some  nation,  yet  shut  in 

With  hills  of  ice,  30 

May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sin, 
Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice. 

And  then  they  likewise  shall 
Their  ruin  have; 
For  as  your  selves  your  empires  fall,       35 
And  every  kingdom  hath  a  grave. 

Thus  those  celestial  fires, 
Though  seeming  mute. 
The  fallacy  of  our  desires 
And  all  the  pride  of  life  confute.  40 

For  they  have  watched  since  first 
The  world  had  birth; 
And  found  sin  in  itseK  accurst, 
And  nothing  permanent  on  earth. 


l^ic^arti  Cra^liatD 

c.  1613-1649 

AN  EPITAPH  UPON  HUSBAND  AND 
WIFE,  WHO  DIED  AND  WERE  BURIED 
TOGETHER 

To  these  whom  death  again  did  wed. 

This  grave's  the  second  marriage-bed. 

For  though  the  hand  of  Fate  could  force 

'Twixt  soul  and  body  a  divorce, 

It  could  not  sever  man  and  wife,  5 

Because  they  both  lived  but  one  life. 

Peace,  good  reader,  do  not  weep; 

Peace,  the  lovers  are  asleep. 

They,  sweet  turtles,  folded  lie 

In  the  last  knot  that  love  could  tie.  10 

Let  them  sleep,  let  them  sleep  on, 

Till  the  stormy  night  be  gone. 

And  the  eternal  morrow  dawn; 

Then  the  curtains  will  be  drawn, 

And  they  wake  into  a  light  lo 

Whose  day  shall  never  die  in  night. 


15     WISHES  TO  HIS  SUPPOSED  MISTRESS 


Whoe'er  she  be, 

That  not  impossible  she, 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me: 

Where'er  she  lie 

Lock'd  up  from  mortal  eye, 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny: 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


205 


Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  fate,  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  our  earth: 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine: 

Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 
Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 
^\nd  be  ye  call'd  my  absent  kisses. 

I  wish  her  beauty. 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist'ring  shoe-tie. 

Something  more  than 
Taffata^  or  tissue  can, 
Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 

More  than  the  spoil 

Of  shop,  or  silkworm's  toil, 

Or  a  bought  blush,  or  a  set  smile. 

A  face  that's  best 

By  its  own  beauty  dress'd, 

And  can  alone  command  the  rest.  .  .  . 

A  cheek,  where  youth 

And  blood,  with  pen  of  truth, 

Write  what  the  reader  sweetly  rueth.  .  . 

Eyes,  that  displace 

The  neighbour  diamond,  and  out-face 

That  sunshine  by  their  own  sweet  grace. 

Tresses,  that  wear 

Jewels,  but  to  declare 

How  much  themselves  more  precious  are. 

A  well-tamed  heart. 

For  whose  more  noble  smart 

Love  may  be  long  choosing  a  dart. 

Eyes,  that  bestow 

Full  quivers  on  love's  bow. 

Yet  pay  less  arrows  than  they  owe.  .  .  . 

Days,  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good  morrow. 

From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow. 

Days,  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind,  are  day  all  night.  .  .  . 

Life,  that  dares  send 

A  challenge  to  his  end. 

And  when  it  comes,  say,  Welcome  friend. 


10 


15 


20 


25 


30 


35 


40 


45 


50 


I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes:  and  I  wish — no  more. 

1  Silk,  in  Crashaw's  time  applied  to  a  soft,  thin,  silken 
fabric. 


Now,  if  Time  knows  55 

That  her,  whose  radiant  brows 
Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows; 

Her,  whose  just  bays 

My  future  hopes  can  raise, 

A  trophy  to  her  present  praise;  60 

Her,  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see: 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  she.  .  .  , 


1621-1695 

THE  RETREATE 

(From  Silex  Scintillans,  Part  L,  1^0) 

Happy  those  early  dayes,  when  I 

Shin'd  in  my  Angell-infancy! 

Before  I  understood  this  place 

Appointed  for  my  second  race. 

Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought^  6 

But  a  white,  celestiall  thought; 

When  yet  I  had  not  walkt  above 

A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  Love, 

And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space, 

Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face;  10 

When  on  some  gilded  Cloud  or  Flowre 

My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  houre. 

And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 

Some  shadows  of  eternity; 

Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound  15 

My  conscience  with  a  sinfuU  sound. 

Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispence 

A  sev'rall  sinne  to  ev'ry  sense. 

But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dresse 

Bright  Shootes  of  everlastingnesse.  20 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  1  back. 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plaine, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  traine; 
From  whence  th'  inlightened  spirit  sees  25 

That  shady  City  of  Palme  trees. 
But  ah!  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move;  30 

And,  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

DEPARTED  FRIENDS 
(From  the  same.  Part  11. ,  1655) 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light! 

And  I  alone  sit  ling'ring  here! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright. 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  brest  5 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 

Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  Sun's  remove. 
1  Aught. 


206 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


I  sec  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days;       10 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Meer  ghmmerings  and  decays. 

O  holy  Hope!  and  high  Humihty! 

High  as  the  Heavens  above; 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  shew'd 
them  me  15 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death;  the  Jewel  of  the  Just! 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark; 
WTiat  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust. 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark !  20 


THE  WORLD 
(From  the  same.  Part  I) 

1 
I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night, 
Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light. 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright; 
And  round  beneath  it,  Time,  in  hours,  days, 
years, 

Driv'n  by  the  spheres,  5 

Like  a  vast  shadow  mov'd,  in  which  the  world 

And  all  her  train  were  hurl'd. 
The  doting  Lover  in  his  quaintest  strain 

Did  there  complain; 
Near  him,  his  lute,  his  fancy,  and  his  flights,    10 

Wit's  four  delights; 
With  gloves,   and  knots  the  silly  snares  of 
pleasure. 

Yet  his  dear  Treasure, 
All  scatter'd  lay,  while  he  his  eyes  did  pour 

Upon  a  flower.  15 


The  darksome  Statesman,  hung  with  weights 

and  woe, 
Like  a  thick  midnight  fog,  mov'd  there  so  slow. 

He  did  not  stay,  nor  go; 
Condenming  thoughts  (like  sad  eclipses)  scowl 

Upon  his  soul,  20 

And  crowds  of  crying  witnesses  without 

Pursued    him    with    one    shout. 
Yet  digged  the  Mole,  and,  lest  his  ways  be 
found 

Worked  under  ground, 
Where  he  did  clutch  his  prey.    But  one  did  see 

That  policy;  26 

Churches  and  altars  fed  him*  perjuries 

Were  gnats  and  fhes; 
It  rain'd  about  him  blood  and  tears;  but  he 

Drank  them  as  free.  30 


The  fear  full  miser  on  a  heap  of  rust 

Sate  pining  all  his  hfe  there,  did  scarce  trust 

His  own  hands  with  the  dust, 
Yet  would  not  place  one  piece  above,  but  lives 

In  fear  of  thieves.  35 

Thousands  there  were  as  frantic  as  himself, 

And  hugg'd  each  one  his  pelf ; 


The  down-right  epicure  plac'd  heav'd  in  sense,* 

And  scorn'd  pretense; 
While  others,  slipped  into  a  wide  excess,  40 

Said  little  less; 
The  weaker  sort  slight,  trivial  wares  enslave. 

Who  think  them  brave, 
And  poor,  despised  truth  sate  counting  by 

Their  victory.  45 


Yet  some,  who  all  this  while  did  weep  and  sing, 
And  sing  and  weep,  soar'd  up  into  the  Ring: 

But  most  would  use  no  wing. 
O  fools,  said  I,  thus  to  prefer  dark  night 

Before  true  light!  50 

To  live  in  grots  and  caves,  and  hate  the  day 

Because  it  shows  the  way, 
The  way,  which  from  this  dead  and  dark  abode 

Leads  up  to  God, 
A  way  where  you  might  tread  the  Sun,  and  be 

More  bright  than  he!  56 

But,  as  I  did  their  madness  so  discuss, 

One  whisper'd  thus 
This  Ring  the  Bride-groom  did  for  none  provide, 

But  for  his  Bride.  60 


1634  ?-1674 
THE  APPROACH 


That  childish  thoughts  such  joy  inspire, 
Doth  make  my  wonder  and  His  glory  higher: 

His  bounty  and  my  wealth  more  great, 
It  shows  His  Kingdom  and  His  work  complete: 

In  which  there  is  not  anything  5 

Not  meet  to  be  the  joy  of  Cherubim. 

II 

He  in  our  childhood  with  us  walks, 
And  with  our  thoughts  mysteriously  he  talks; 

He  often  visiteth  our  minds. 
But  cold  acceptance  in  us  ever  finds :  i  o 

We  send  Him  often  grieved  away; 
Else  would  He  show  us  all  His  Kingdom's  joy. 

Ill 

O  Lord,  I  wonder  at  Thy  Love, 
Which  did  my  Infancy  so  early  move: 

But  more  at  that  which  did  forbear,  15 

And  move  so  long,  tho'  slighted  many  a  year: 

But  most  of  all,  at  last  that  Thou 
Thyself  shouldst  me  convert  I  scarce  know  how. 


Thy  Gracious  motions  oft  in  vain 
Assaulted  me :  my  heart  did  hard  remain  20 

Long  time:  I  sent  my  God  away. 
Grieved  much  that  He  could  not  impart  His 
joy.  ,  ^ 

I  careless  was,  nor  did  regard 
The  end  for  which  He  all  those  thoughts  pre- 
par'd; 

1  Swollen,  with  the  pleasures  of  sense. 


EDMUND   WALLER 


207 


But  now  with  new  and  open  eyes,  25 

I  see  beneath  as  if  above  the  skies; 

And  as  I  backward  look  again, 
See  all  His  thoughts  and  mine  most  clear  and 
plain. 

He  did  approach,  He  me  did  woo; 
I  wonder  that  my  God  this  thing  would  do.      30 


From  nothing  taken  first  I  was; 
What  wondrous  things  His  glory  brought  to 
pass! 
Now  in  this  world  I  Him  behold, 


And  me  enveloped  in  more  than  gold; 

In  deep  abysses  of  delights, 
In  present  hidden  precious  benefits. 


35 


Those  thoughts  His  goodness  long  before 
Prepared  as  precious  and  celestial  store; 

With  curious  art  in  me  inlaid, 
That  Childhood  might  itself  alone  be  said        40 

My  tutor,  teacher,  guide  to  be. 
Instructed  then  even  by  the  Deity. 

WONDER 
I 
How  like  an  Angel  came  I  down! 
How  bright  are  all  things  here! 
When  first  among  His  works  I  did  appear 

0  how  their  Glory  me  did  crown! 

The  world  resembled  His  Eternity,  5 

In  which  my  soul  did  walk; 
And  everything  that  I  did  see: 

Did  with  me  talk. 

II 
The  skies  in  their  magnificence, 

The  lively,  lovely  air;  10 

Oh  how  divine,  how  soft,  how  sweet,  how  fair! 

The  stars  did  entertain  my  sense, 
And  all  the  works  of  God,  so  bright  and  pure, 

So  rich  and  great  did  seem. 
As  if  they  ever  must  endure  15 

In  my  esteem. 

in 
A  native  health  and  innocence 

Within  my  bones  did  grow. 
And  while  my  God  did  all  His  Glories  show, 

1  felt  a  vigour  in  my  sense  20 
That  was  all  Spirit.    I  within  did  flow 

With  seas  of  life,  like  wine; 
I  nothing  in  the  world  did  know 
But  'twas  divine. 

IV 

Harsh  ragged  objects  were  concealed,  25 

Oppressions,  tears  and  cries. 
Sins,  griefs,  complaints,  dissensions,  weeping 
eyes 

Were  hid,  and  only  things  revealed 
Which  heavenly  Spirits  and  the  Angels  prize. 

The  state  of  Innocence  30 

And  bliss,  not  trades  and  poverties. 

Did  fill  my  sense. 


The  streets  were  paved  with  golden  stones, 

The  boys  and  girls  were  mine. 
Oh  how  did  all  their  lovely  faces  shine!  35 

The  sons  of  men  were  holy  ones. 
In  joy  and  beauty  they  appeared  to  me. 

And  everything  which  here  I  found, 
While  like  an  angel  I  did  see, 

Adorned  the  ground.  40 


VI 

Rich  diamond  and  pearl  and  gold 

In  every  place  was  seen; 
Rare  splendours,  yellow,  blue,  red,  white  and 
green, 

Mine  eyes  did  everywhere  behold. 
Great  Wonders  clothed  with  glory  did  appear ,45 

Amazement  was  my  bliss, 
That  and  my  wealth  was  everjr^vhere; 

No  joy  to  this! 

VII 

Cursed  and  devised  proprieties, 

With  envy,  avarice  50 

And  fraud,  those  fiends  that  spoil  even  Para- 
dise, 

Flew  from  the  splendour  of  mine  eyes. 
And  so  did  hedges,  ditches,  limits,  bounds, 

I  dreamed  not  aught  of  those, 
But  wandered  over  all  men's  grounds,  55 

And  found  repose. 

VIII 

Proprieties  themselves  were  mine 

And  hedges  ornaments, 
Walls,  boxes,  coffers,  and  their  rich  contents 

Did  not  divide  my  joys,  but  all  combine.   60 
Clothes,  ribbons,  jewels,  laces,  I  esteemed 

My  joys  by  others  worn: 
For  me  they  all  to  wear  them  seemed 

When  I  was  born. 


CtimunD  WMtt 

1605-1687 

ON  A  GIRDLE 

(From  Poems,  1645) 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confin'd, 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown. 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done.. 

It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere,  5 

The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer,"- 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move.- 

A  narrow  compass,  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair:        10 
Give  me  but  what  this  riband  bound. 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 

1  This  well-worn  pun  is  characteristically  Elizabethan. 
PaZe=  that  which  encompasses  (i.e.,  the  girdle)  as  well  aa 
the  fence  of  the  deer-park. 


208 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


SONG 

(From  the  same) 

Go,  lovely  Rose, 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be.         5 

Tell  her  that's  young, 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  had'st  thou  sprung 

In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died.      10 

Small  is  the  worth 

Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired.  15 

Then  die,  that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee; 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share, 

That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair.      20 


ON  THE  FOREGOING  DIVINE  POEMS 

(1686?) 

When  we  for  age  could  neither  read  nor  write. 
The  subject  made  us  able  to  indite. 
The  soul,  with  nobler  resolutions  deckt. 
The  body  stooping,  does  herself  erect: 
No  mortal  parts  are  requisite  to  raise  5 

Her,  that  unbody'd  can  her  Maker  praise. 
The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o'er: 
So,  calm  are  we,  when  passions  are  no  more: 
For,  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  so  certain  to  be  lost.  10 

Clouds   of   affection   from   our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness,  which  age  descries, 
The  soul's  dark  cottage,  batter'd  and  de- 

cay'd, 
Lets  in  new  light,  thro'  chinks,  that  time  has 

made: 
Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser,  men  become,       15 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view, 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 


3Iol)n  ©ilton 

1608-1674 

L'ALLEGRO 

(1634) 

Hence,  loathM  Melancholy,  B-  ^  . 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born  ^ 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, .^<:' 
'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights 
unholy!  (^ 


Find  out  some  uncouth*  cell,  ^  ^   ^         S  I 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous 
wings,  ^  n 

And  the  night-raven  sings;  K 
There,  under  ebon  shades  and  low-browed, 
rocks,  e. 

As  ragged  as  thy  locks,dlL  . 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell.-+^       iO 
But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free,  ^ 

In  heaven  ycleped^  Euphrosyne,  1 

And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth; 

Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth. 

With  two  sister  Graces  more;  IS 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus^bore: 

Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 

The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 

Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing. 

As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  20 

There,  on  beds  of  violets  blue. 

And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 

Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 

So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee      25 

Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 

Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles, 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek;  30 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come,  and  trip  it,  as  you  go. 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee  35 

The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honour  due. 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew. 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee. 

In  unreprovM  pleasures  free;  40 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 

And,  singing,  startle  the  dull  night, 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies. 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 

Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow,  45 

And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow. 

Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine, 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine; 

While  the  cock,  with  lively  din. 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin;  SO 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door. 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before: 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill,  £3 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill: 

Some  time  walking,  not  unseen, 

By  hedgerow  elms,  on  hillocks  'green, 

Right  against  the  eastei^n  gate 

Where  the  great  Sun  beg;ins  his  state  60 

Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light. 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight; 

Whjle  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand,  V 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land,  \ 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe,  63  '' 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 

1  Uncouth  means  here  unknown,  strange,  remote. 

2  Named. 


JOHN   MILTON 


209 


id  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale^ 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleas- 
ures, 
Whilst  the  landskip  round  it  measures:  70 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest; 
Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied,  75 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide;      ^ 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 
The  cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes.  80 

Hard  by  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
W^here  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met, 
Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 
Of  herbb,  and  other  country  messes,  85 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phlllis  dresses; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead. 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead.  90 

Sometimes,  with  secure  delight, 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  TdcIIs  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks*  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid  95 

Dancing  in  the  checkered  shade, 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holyday, 
Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail: 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale,  100 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 
How  Faery  Mab  the  junkets^  eat. 
She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said; 
And  he,  by  Friar's  lantern  led. 
Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin^  sweat  105 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set. 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
liis  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 
That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end; 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber^  fiend,  no 

And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length. 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 
Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep,         115 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  pjease  us  then. 
And  the  busy  hum'  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold. 
In  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold,  120 

'  This  ambiguous  expression  has  been  frequently  dis- 
cussed; it  may  mean  that  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
of  love;  or  that  the  shepherds  tell  stories  to  each  other; 
or  that  each  shepherd  counts  his  sheep.  Tell  may  mean 
either  relate  or  count,  as  to  "tell  a  story,"  or  to  "tell  one's 
beads,"  or  "to  tell  one's  money."  U  this  last  interpre- 
tation is  adopted  taZe=simply  to  count  the  sheep. 

*  An  early  form  of  violin. 

*  A  kind  of  cream  cheese,  here  =deIicious  sweetmeats. 
Eat  is  the  old  form  of  the  past  tense. 

8  Robin  Goodfellow,  a  serviceable  fairy  refined  and 
etherealized  by  Shakespeare  into  Puck  in  the  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream. 

''  Clvaas^t  sluggtah. 


With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Rain  influence,^  and  judge  the  prize 

Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear  12s 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 

And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 

With  mask  and  antique  pageantry; 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

On  summer  eyes  by  haunted  stream.  i30 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on. 

Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against' eating  cares,  OU  135 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian^  airs,  <=L/ 
Married  to  immortal  verse,  -6^ 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce,  "^ 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout  <S. 
Of  linkM  sweetness,  long  drawn  out,^  140 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning,  dl 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running,  dl 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie  ^ 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony;  ^ 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head  y>      145 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed  ^  b 

Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  fear  ^ 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear  '^ 
Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice.  160 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


IL  PENSEROSO 
(1634) 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred! 
How  little  you  bested, ^ 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys! 
Dwell  in  some  idle-brain,  '  5 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun-beams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train.     10 
But,  hail!  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view  15 

O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue' 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister^  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop^  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above  20 

8  Used  here  in  its  astrological  sense.  The  ladies'  eyes 
influence  the  contests,  as  the  stars  (according  to  astrology) 
influenced  human  events  and  destinies. 

» The  music  of  the  Lydians,  a  people  of  Asia  Minor, 
was  soft  and  voluptuous. 

1  Profit,  avail. 

'  Memnon  was  an  Ethiopian  Prince  famous  for  hia 
dusky  beau^;  in  this  his  sister  presumably  resembled 
him. 

'  Cassiope,  who  was  starred,  i.  e.,  turned  into  the  con* 
atellatioD  Cassiopeia^ 


-10 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


The  Sea-Nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 

Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended: 

Thee  bright-haired  Vesta''  long  of  yore 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore; 

His  daughter  she^  in  Saturn's  reign  25 

Such  mixtui-e  was  not  held  a  stain. 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 

Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove.  30 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn  35 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come;  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait. 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies. 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes:  40 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still. 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet,        45 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing; 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure;         50 
But,  first  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing. 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 
The  Cherub  Contemplation") 
And  the  mute  Silence  hist^  along,  55 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song. 
In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight, 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 
Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak.  60 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly. 
Most  musical,  most  mela'ficholy! 
Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song; 
And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen  65 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way,       70 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed. 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 
Over  some  wide-watered  shore,  75 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 
Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit. 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit. 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,  80 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth. 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

*  Goddess  of  the  fire-side. 

'Apparently  an  imperative,  "bring  silently  along." 


Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour,  85 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear,^ 
With  thrice  great  Hermes,^  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold  90 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook; 
And  of  those  demons^  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent^  95 

With  planet  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  ^°  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine,  100 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. ^^ 

But,  O  sad  Virgin !  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus^^  from  his  bower; 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing  •     105 

Such  notes  as^  warbled  to  the  string. 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek. 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek; 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan^^  bold,  110 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife. 
That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass, 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride;  115 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung. 
Of  tumeys,  and  of  trophies  hung. 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear.     120 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  tricked  and  frounced,  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy^^  to  hunt. 
But  kercheft  in  a  comely  cloud,  125 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud. 
Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 
With  minute-drops  from  off  the  eaves.  180 

And,  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me.  Goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves. 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 

'  The  constellation  of  Ursa  Major,  which  never 
sets. 

^  Hermes  Trismegistus  (i.  e.,  superlatively  or  thrice 
great),  an  Egyptian  god  to  whom  many  mystical  books 
were  ascribed. 

8  Indwelling  spirits. 

»  Agreement,  accord. 

10  Thebes.  Pelops.  Themes  of  some  of  the  greatest  of 
the  Greek  tragedies. 

"  The  stage  of  tragedy,  or  the  tragic  drama.  The 
buskin  was  the  boot  worn  by  the  actor  in  tragedy. 

12  A  legendary  Greek  poet. 

1'  Cambuscan  (said  to  be  a  corruption  of  Cambus,  or 
Genghis  Khan):  A  Tartar  king  in  Chaucer's  unfinished  V 
Squire's  Tale,  who  had  various  magical  articles; — a  ring,  V 
a  mirror,  a  sword,  and  a  brazen  horse.    Camball,  Algarsife,    i' 
and  Canace,  were  his  children. 

1*  Cephalus,  who  (according  to  Greek  legend)  was 
carried  away  by  Eos,  the  goddess  of  the  Dawn,  whib  he 
was  hunting  in  the  mountains. 


JOHN  MILTON 


211 


3f  pine,  or  monumental  oak,  135 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heavdd  stroke 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There,  in  close  covert,  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,  140 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye. 

While  the  bee  with  honied  thigh. 

That  at  her  flowry  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring. 

With  such  consort^^  as  they  keep,  145 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep. 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid;  150 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail  155 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 
And  love  the  high  embowM  roof. 
With  antique  pillars  massy-proof, 
And  storied  windows  ^^  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light.  160 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  the  full-voiced  quire  below. 
In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 
As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  esctasies,  165 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage. 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell. 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell  170 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures.  Melancholy,  give;  175 

And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


SONG.    SWEET  ECHO 

(From  Comus,  acted  1634) 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  un- 
seen 230 
Within  thy  airy  shell. 
By  slow  Meander's^  margent  green. 
And  in  the  violet-embroidered  vale 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well:  235 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair^ 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are? 

O,  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave, 

Tell  me  but  where,  240 

15  Concert,  agreement. 

J«  Stained  glass  windows  with   scenes   illustrative  of 
sacred  story. 

1  A  river  celebrated  for  its  winding  course  (hence  our 
verb  to  meander) . 

2  The  two  brothers  of  the  singer,  from  whom  she  has 
been  accidentally  separated. 


Sweet  Queen  of    Parley,    Daughter    of    the 
Sphere! 

So  may'st  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies. 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  heaven's  har- 
monies. 


SONG.    SABRINA  FAIR 


(From  the  same) 


859 


Sabrina^  fair. 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair; 

Listen  for  dear  honour's  sake. 

Goddess  of  the  silver  lake,  865 

Listen  and  save! 
Listen,  and  appear  to  us. 
In  name  of  great  Oceanus. 
By  the  earth-shaking  Neptune's  mace, 
And  Tethys'  grave  majestic  pace;  870 

By  hoary  Nereus'  wrinkled  look. 
And  the  Carpathian  wizard's^  hook; 
By  scaly  Triton's  winding  shell, 
And  old  soothsaying  Glaucus'  spell; 
By  Leucothea's  lovely  hands,  875 

And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands; 
By  Thetis'  tinsel-slippered  feet. 
And  the  songs  of  Sirens  sweet; 
By  dead  Parthenope's  dear  tomb, 
And  fair  Ligea's  golden  comb,  880 

Wherewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks; 
By  all  the  Nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance; 
Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head  885 

From  thy  coral-paven  bed. 
And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave. 
Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 

Listen  and  save! 


LYCIDASi 

(1638) 

Yet  once  more,^  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more. 

Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 

I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude. 

And  with  forced  fingers  rude 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year, 5 

Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 

Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due; 

For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 

Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?    He  knew     10 

1  A  legendary  British  princess,  who  became  the  goddess 
of  the  river  Severn. 

2  Proteus,  a  sea-god,  who  had  the  power  of  changing 
his  shape.  He  had  a  hook  (i.  e.  shepherd's  crook)  "be- 
cause he  was  the  shepherd  of  the  sea-calves." 

1  Lycidas  is  a  lament  for  the  death  of  Edward  King,  a 
young  man  of  much  promise  who  had  been  a  fellow- 
student  of  Milton  at  Cambridge  some  five  years  before. 
King  was  drowned  while  on  his  way  to  Ireland, — the  ship 
striking  a  hidden  rock  off  the  Welsh  coast  and  going  down 
in  a  calm  sea. 

2  Milton  had  probably  written  no  poetry  smce  ComtiS, 
produced  three  years  earlier  (1634). 


212 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin,  then.  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well  15 

That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse: 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words^  favour  my  destined  urn,   20 
And  as  he  passes  turn, 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud ! 

For  we  were  nursed^  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared  25 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of 

night, 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright       30 
Toward    heaven's    descent    had    sloped    his 

westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute; 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute, 
Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven 

heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long; 
And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 
But,  oh!  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art 

gone. 
Now  thou  art  gone  and  never  must  return! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert 

caves. 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'er- 

grown,  40 

And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose,  45 

Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze. 
Or  frost  to  flowers  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 
Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorse- 
less deep  50 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep^ 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona^  high. 
Nor   yet    where    Deva'^    spreads    her    wizard 

stream.  55 

Ay  me!  I  fondly  dream 

'  Words  favorable  to  the  repose  of  the  departed.  Such, 
according  to  the  Roman  rite,  were  the  words  sit  tibi  terra 
levis,  uttered  by  the  mourner  as  he  sprinkled  the  earth 
three  times  over  the  dead. 

*  Milton  now  shadows  forth  the  early  companionship  of 
King  and  himself  at  Cambridge.  Thus  the  "Satyrs"  and 
"Fauns"  (34)  are  supposed  to  represent  the  under- 
graduates, and  "Old  Damcetus  (36)  one  of  the  tutors  of 
Christ's  College. 

*  One  of  the  mountainous  heights  on  the  Welsh  coast. 

*  Anglesey,  a  great  center  of  Druidic  religion. 

'  The  Dee,  down  which  King  sailed  on  his  way  from 
Chester.  As  many  memories  of  Arthur  and  of  the  old 
Druidic  faith  were  associated  with  the  "holy  Dee,"  it 
is  called  the  "wizard,"  i.  e.  the  enchanted,  or  magic 
Jtream. 


"Had  ye  been  there,"  ...  for  what  could 

that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself ^  that  Orpheus 

bore. 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son. 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament,  60 

When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous 

roar. 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore? 

Alas!  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse?     66 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use. 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis^  in  the  shade. 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's^  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth 

raise  70 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze. 
Comes   the  blind   Fury^°  with   the  abhorrM 

shears,  75 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.   "But  not  the 

praise," 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling 

ears: 
"Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil. 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies,  80 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove: 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 
O  fountain  Arethuse,^^  and    thou   honoured 

flood,  85 

Smooth-sliding  Mincius,!*  crowned  with  vocal 

reeds. 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood. 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds. 
And  listens  to  the  Herald  of  the  Sea,^^ 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea.  90 

He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle 

swain? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  bleaked  promontory. 
They  knew  not  of  his  story;  ^  95 

And  sage  Hippotades^^  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed: 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope^^  with  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,  loo 

8  The  Muse  herself  =  Calliope.     Orpheus  was  torn  in 

Eieces  by  the  Thracian  women  at  a  Bacchanalian  festival, 
is  limbs  strewn  upon  the  plain,  and  his  head  cast  into 
the  river  Hebrus. 

9  A  tnaryllis — Necera.  These  names  borrowed  from  the 
classic  pastorals,  simply  stand  for  young  and  beautiful 
maidens. 

10  Atropos,  who  cut  the  thread  of  life,  was  one  of  the  v 
Fates.     Milton  did  not  hesitate  to  add  to  or  modify  y 
classic  myths,  when  it  suited  his  purpose.  /jij 

11  Arethusa — Mincius.  Rivers  suggestive  respectively 
of  Greek  and  Latin  pastoral  poetry. 

12  Triton. 

i«  Hippotades,  the  son  of  Hippotag,  L  e.  .^Jolua. 
1*  Panope,  or  Panopea;  wa^Ctafet/rftie  Ner^da* 


IT 

Built  in  the 


JOHN   MILTON 


213 


Juilt  in  the  eclipse, ^^  QXi6.  rigged  with  curses 

dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 
Next,  Camus,  ^^  reverend  sire,  went  footing 

slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge,  104 

Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
,  Lilie  to  that  sanguine  flower"  inscribed  with 

woe. 
"Ah!  who  hath  reft,"  quoth  he,  "my  dearest 
p-^   pledge?" 
jLast  came,  and  last  did  go, 
jThe  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  Lake;« 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain         no 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain.) ^^ 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake:— 
"How  well  could  1  have  spared  for  thee,  young 

swain. 
Enow  of  such  as,  for  their  bellies'  sake, 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold!   115 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast. 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 
Blind  mouths!  that  scarce  themselves  know  how 

to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learnt  aught  else  the 

least  120 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs! 
What  recks  it  them?    What  need  they?    They 

are  sped;^" 
And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scranneP^  pipes  of  wretched 

straw; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed,     125 
But,  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they 

draw. 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread; 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw, 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 
But  that  two-handed  engine^^  at  the  door       130 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 
Return,  Alpheus,23  the  dread  voice  is  past 

"  Eclipses  were  considered  by  the  ancients  as  out  of  the 
order  of  nature,  and  were  supposed  to  exert  a  mysterious 
and  disastrous  influence. 

'6  The  god  or  genius  of  the  Cam,  the  stream  on  which 
Cambridge  is  situated.  "  He  comes  attired  in  a  mantle  of 
the  hairy  river  weed  that  floats  on  the  Cam;  his  bonnet 
is  of  the  sedge  of  that  river,  which  exhibits  peculiar 
markings,  something  like  the  dt  cll  (alas!  alas!)  which  the 
Greek  detected  on  the  leaves  of  the  hyacinth,  in  token  of 
the  sad  death  of  the  Spartan  youth  from  whose  blood 
the  flower  had  sprung"  (Masson). 

"  Bloody  flower,  i.  e.  the  hyacinth,  which  Apollo  caused 
to  spring  up  from  the  blood  of  the  beautiful  youth  Hya- 
cinthus. 

18  St.  Peter. 

19  Forcibly,  with  power. 

20  They  are  sped,  i.  e.  they  are  advanced  in  worldly 
prosperity. 

21  Lean,  thin,  or  harsh  sounding. 

22  An  obscure  expression.  Masson  supposes  that  it 
referred  to  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament;  Newton,  to 
the  "axe  that  is  laid  unto  the  root  of  the  tree."  St.  Matt,  iii, 
10.  The  essential  meaning  is,  that  the  end  is  at  hand, 
and  the  avenger,  with  his  weapon  of  destruction,  is  at 
the  door. 

23  A  youthful  hunter,  who,  changed  into  a  river,  pur- 
sued the  nymph  Arethusa  by  a  channel  under  the  sea. 
He  overtook  her,  and  the  pursuer  and  pursued  were 
united  in  a  fountain  on  an  island  off  the  coast  of  Sicily. 
Alpheus  being  thus  related  to  Sicily,  to  invoke  him  is  to 
invoke  the  "Sicilian  Muse,"  the  muse  of  pastoral  poetry. 


That  shrunk  thy  streams;  return  Sicilian  Muse 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues.  135 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing 

brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star^*  sparely 

looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes^ 
That   on   the   green   turf   suck   the   honeyed 

showers,  i40 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe"  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked^^  with 

jet, 
The  glowing  violet,  145 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine. 
With    cowslips   wan  that   hang   the   pensive 

head. 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery^^  wears; 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed. 
And  daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears,        150 
To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For  so,  to  interpose  a  httle  ease. 
Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise, ^^ 
Ay  me!  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding 


Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled; 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides,  156 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 
Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world  i^^ 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  Vows  denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus*"  old,  1 60 

Where  the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  mount^^ 
Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold. 
Look  homewardj^Angel,  now,  and  melt  with 
'^      rtfthi 

And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 
Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no 

more,  165 

For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead. 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor. 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled 

ore  170 


24  Sirius,  or  the  Dog-star,  was  anciently  associated  with 
sultry  weather.  Here  called  "swart,"  i.  e.,  dark,  or 
swarthy,  because  of  the  tanning  effect  of  the  summer 
suns. 

25  Rathe  =esiTly;  the  positive,  now  out  of  use,  of  rather, 
earlier,  sooner. 

26  Streaked,  spotted. 

27  Sad  embroidery,  i.  e.,  the  garb  of  mourning. 

28  An  untrue  fancy;  the  body  of  the  drowned  Lycidaa 
never  having  been  recovered, 

29  The  world  of  monsters  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

30  Lands  End  in  Cornwall  was  called  Bellerium  by  the 
Romans.  Bellerus  here  does  not  appear  to  be  a  real 
personage;  the  name  was  apparently  coined  by  Milton 
from  that  of  the  promontory,  with  the  idea  of  raising  the 
implication  that  the  region  was  named  after  some  one  so- 
called. 

31  St.  Michael's  Mount,  a  rocky  islet  near  the  coast  of 
Cornwall,  supposed  to  be  guarded  by  the  Archangel 
Michael.  "The  great  vision"  is  St.  Michael,  seated  on 
the  ledge  of  rock  called  St.  Michael's  chair,  and  gazing 
far  across  the  sea  towards  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold 
(the  former  being  a  town,  the  second  a  stronghold  on  the 
Spanish  coast) ,  i.  e.,  looking  in  the  direction  of  Spain. 


214 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky: 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked 

the  waves, 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves,        175 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies. 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move,     180 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore. 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood.        185 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and 

rills, 
While  the  still  mom  went  out  with  sandals 

gray: 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay:'* 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills. 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay.        19 1 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue: 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 

SONNETS 

On  His  Having  Arrived  at  the  Age  of 

Twenty-Three 

(1631) 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentietn 

year! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  nor  blossom 
shew'th. 
Perhaps   my    semblance    might    deceive    the 
truth  5 

That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near; 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear, 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  en- 
du'th. 
Yet,  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow. 

It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even       10 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high, 
Towards  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will  of 
Heaven, 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-Master's  eye. 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 
(1655) 
Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose 
bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshiped  stocks  and 
stones, 
Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans        5 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient 
fold 

'*  So  called  because  Lycidas  follows  the  elegiac  manner 
of  Theocritxis  and  Moschus,  who  wrote  in  Doric  Greek. 


Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.    Their 

moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.    Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes 

sow  10 

O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth 

sway 
The  triple  Tyrant;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundredfold  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

On  His  Blindness 

(From  Poems,  etc.,  1673.    Written  c.  1655?) 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide. 

And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul 

more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present    5 

My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide; 

"Doth     God     exact     day-labour,     light 

denied?" 
I  fondly  ask.    But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not 
need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.    Who 
best  10 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best. 
His  state 
Is  kingly:  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

To  Cyriack  Skinner 

(First  printed  in  Phillips'  Life  of  Milton,  1694. 
Written  c.  1655) 

Cyriack,    this   three   years'   day   these   eyes, 
though  clear. 
To  outward  view,  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 
Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot; 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 
Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  throughout  the  year,  5 
Or  man,  or  woman.    Yet  I  argue  not 
Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right  onward.    What  supports  me,  dost  thou 
'  ask? 

The  conscience,  friend,  to  have  lost  them 
over-plied  10 

In  Liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task. 
Of  which  all  Europe  rings  from  side  to  side. 
This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the 

world's  vain  mask, 
Content,  though  blind,  had  I  no  better  guide. 

XXI 

To  Cyriack  Skinner 

Cyriack,  whose  grandsire  on  the  royal  bench 
Of  British  Themis,  with  no  mean  applause. 
Pronounced,  and  in  his  volumes  taught,  our 

laws, 
Which  others  at  their  bar  so  often  wrench, 


JOHN  MILTON 


215 


To-day   deep   thoughts   resolve   with   me   to 
drench  5 

In  mh-th  that  after  no  repenting  draws; 
Let  Euclid  rest,  and  Archimedes  pause, 
And  what  the  Swede  intend,  and  what  the 
French. 
To  measure  Hfe  leam  thou  betimes,  and  know 
Toward  solid  good  what  leads  the  nearest 


way; 


10 


For  other  things  mild  Heaven  a  time  ordains, 
And  disapproves  that  care,  though  wise  in  show, 
That  with  superfluous  burden  loads  the  day. 
And,  when  God  sends  a  cheerful  hour,  re- 
frains. 


PARADISE  LOST 

Book  I 

Of  Man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe. 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat,  5 

Sing,  heavenly  Muse,  that,  on  the  secret  top 
Of  Oreb,^  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 
That  shepherd^  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seed 
In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and  earth 
Rose  out  of  Chaos :  or,  if  Sion  hill  10 

Delight  thee  more,   and  Siloa's'  brook  that 

flowed 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song. 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues       15 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 
And  chiefly  Thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  pure, 
Instruct  me,  for  Thou  know'st;  Thou  from  the 

first 
Wast  present,  and,  with  mighty  wings  out- 
spread, 20 
Dove-hke  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  Abyss, 
And  mad'st  it  pregnant:  what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine,  what  is  low  raise  and  support; 
That,  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  Eternal  Providence,  25 
And  j  ustif y  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

Say  first — for  Heaven  hides  nothing  from  thy 
view, 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  Hell — say  first  what  cause 
Moved  our  grand  Parents,  in  that  happy  state. 
Favoured  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  fall  off  30 

From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  will 
For  one  restraint,  lords  of  the  World  besides. 
Who  first  seduced  them  to  that  foul  revolt? 
Th'  infernal  serpent;  he  it  was  whose  guile, 
Stirred  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceived     35 
The  mother  of  mankind,  what  time  his  pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  Heaven,  with  all  his  host 
Of  rebel  Angels,  by  whose  aid,  aspiring 

^Oreb:  Sinai.  At  Oreb  (Horeb)  God  spoke  to  Moses 
out  of  the  burning  bush;  from  Mt.  Sinai  Moses  received 
the  Law.    Exod.  iii.  1,  and  xxiv.,  12-18. 

2  Moses. 

3  The  pool  or  brook  of  Siloah  near  the  temple  at  Je- 
rusalem. 


To  set  himseK  in  glory  above  his  peers, 
He  trusted  to  have  equalled  the  Most  High,     40 
If  he  opposed,  and,  with  ambitious  aim 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchy  of  God, 
Raised   impious  war  in  Heaven  and  battle 

proud. 
With  vain  attempt.    Him  the  Almighty  Power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from   the  ethereal 

sky,  ^  45 

With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition,  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire. 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arms. 
Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day  and 

night  50 

To  mortal  men,  he,  with  his  horrid  crew. 
Lay  vanquished,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf. 
Confounded,  though  immortal.    But  his  doom 
Reserved  him  to  more  wrath;  for  now  the 

thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain  55 

Torments  him:  round  he  throws  his  baleful 

eyes. 
That  witnessed^  huge  affliction  and  dismay. 
Mixed  with  obdurate  pride  and  steadfast  hate. 
At  once,  as  far  as  Angel's  ken,  he  views 
The  dismal  situation  waste  and  wild.  60 

A  dungeon  horrible,  on  all  sides  roimd, 
As  one  great  furnace  flamed;  yet  from  those 

flames 
No  light;  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe. 
Regions    of    sorrow,    doleful    shades,    where 

peace  65 

And  rest  can  never  dwell,  hope  never  comes 
That  comes  to  all,  but  torture  without  end 
Still  urges,  and  a  fiery  deluge,  fed 
With  ever-burning  sulphur  unconsumed. 
Such  place  Eternal  Justice  had  prepared  70 

For  those  rebellious;  here  their  prison  ordained 
In  utter  darkness,  and  their  portion  set. 
As  far  removed  from  God  and  light  of  Heaven, 
As  from  the  centre  thrice  to  the  utmost  pole.^ 
O  how  unHke  the  place  from  whence  they  fell!  75 
There  the  companions  of  his  fall,  o'erwhelmed 
With  floods  and  whirlwinds  of  tempestuous 

fire. 
He  soon  discerns;  and,  weltering  by  his  side 
One  next  himself  in  power,  and  next  in  crime, 
Long  after  known  in  Palestine,  and  named       81 
Beelzebub.    To  whom  the  Arch-Enemy, 
And  thence  in  Heaven  called  Satan,*  with  bold 

words 
Breaking  the  horrid  silence,  thus  began: — 
"If  thou  beest  he — but  Oh  how  fallen!  how 

changed 
From  him! — who,  in  the  happy  realms  of  light, 
Cloth'd   with   transcendent  brightness,   didst 

outshine  86 

*  Bore  witness  to. 

5  According  to  the  old  astronomy,  the  earth  was  the 
center  of  the  physical  universe.  Milton  declares  that 
the  distance  from  hell  to  heaven  is  thrice  the  distance 
from  the  earth  to  the  outer  limit  of  the  physical  universe, 
or  the  "utmost  pole." 

« The  name  Satan  means  in  Hebrew  an  enemy,  ot 
adversary. 


216 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


Myriads,  though  bright— If  he  whom  mutual 

league, 
United  thoughts  and  counsels,  equal  hope 
And  hazard  in  the  glorious  enterprise, 
Joined  with  nie  once,  now  misery  hath  joined  90 
in  equal  ruin ;  into  what  pit  thou  seest 
From  what  height  fallen;  so  much  the  stronger 

proved 
He  with  his  thunder:  and  till  then  who  knew 
The  force  of  those  dire  arms?   Yet  not  for  those, 
Nor  what  the  potent  Victor  in  his  rage  "    95 

Can  else  inflict,  do  1  repent,  or  change, 
Though  changed  in  out\^ard  lustre,  that  fixed 

mind, 
And  high  disdain  from  sense  of  injured  merit. 
That  with  the  Mightiest  raised  me  to  contend. 
And  to  the  fierce  contention  brought  along   lOO 
Innumerable  force  of  Spirits  armed. 
That  durst  dislike  his  reign,  and,  me  preferring. 
His  utmost  power  with  adverse  power  opposed 
In  dubious  battle  on  the  plains  of  Heaven, 
And  shook  his  throne.    What  though  the  field 

be  lost?  105 

All  is  not  lost —  the  unconquerable  will, 
And  study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate. 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield: 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome? 
That  glory  never  shall  his  wrath  or  might       110 
Extort  from  me.    To  bow  and  sue  for  grace 
With  suppliant  knee,  and  deify  his  power 
Who,  from  the  terror  of  his  arm,  so  late 
Doubted  his  empire — that  were  low  indeed; 
That  were  an  ignominy  and  shame  beneath    lis 
This  downfall;  since,  by  fate,  the  strength  of 

Gods, 
And  this  empyreal  substance,  cannot  fail; 
Since,  through  experience  of  this  great  event, 
In  arms  not  worse,  in  foresight  much  advanced. 
We  may  with  more  successful  hope  resolve     120 
To  wage  by  force  or  guile  eternal  war. 
Irreconcilable  to  our  grand  Foe, 
Who  now  triumphs,  and  in  the  excess  of  joy 
Sole  reigning  holds  the  tyranny  of  Heaven." 
So  spake  the  apostate  Angel,  though  in  pain,  125 
Vaunting  aloud,  but  racked  with  deep  despair; 
And  him  thus  answered  soon  his  bold  com- 
peer:— 
"O  Prince,  O  chief  of  many-thronM  Powers, 
That  led  the  embattled  Seraphim  to  war 
Under  thy  conduct,  and,  in  dreadful  deeds      130 
Fearless,  endangered  Heaven's  perpetual  King, 
And  put  to  proof  his  high  supremacy. 
Whether  upheld  by  strength,  or  chance,  or  fate! 
Too  well  I  see  and  rue  the  dire  event 
That,  with  sad  overthrow,  and  foul  defeat,     135 
Hath  lost  us  Heaven,  and  all  this  mighty  host 
In  horrible  destruction  laid  thus  low. 
As  far  as  Gods  and  Heavenly  Essences 
Can  perish:  for  the  mind  and  spirit  remain 
Invincible,  and  vigour  soon  returns,  140 

Though  all  our  glory  extinct,  and  happy  state 
Here  swallowed  up  in  endless  misery. 
But  what  if  He  our  Conqueror  (w^hom  I  now 
Of  force  believe  Almighty,  since  no  le^s 
Than  such  could  have  o'erpower'd  such  force  as 

ours)  '  145 


Have  left  us  in  this  our  spirit  and  strength^ 

entire. 
Strongly  to  suffer  and  support  our  pains. 
That  we  may  so  suffice  his  vengeful  ire. 
Or  do  him  mightier  service  as  his  thralls 
By  right  of  war,  whate'er  his  business  be,        150 
Here  in  the  heart  of  Hell  to  work  in  fire. 
Or  do  his  errands  in  the  gloomy  Deep? 
What  can  it  then  avail,  though  yet  we  feel 
Strength  undiminished,  or  eternal  being 
To  undergo  eternal  punishment?  "  155 

Whereto  with  speedy  words  the  Arch-Fiend 

replied : — 
"  Fallen  Cherub !  to  be  weak  is  miserable, 
Doing  or  suffering :  but  of  this  be  sure — • 
To  do  aught  good,  never  will  be  our  task, 
But  ever  to  do  ill  our  sole  delight,  1 60 

As  being  the  contrary  to  His  high  will 
Whom  we  resist.    If  then  his  providence 
Out  of  our  evil  seek  to  bring  forth  good. 
Our  labour  must  be  to  pervert  that  end. 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil;      165 
Which  oft-times  may  succeed,  so  as  perhaps 
Shall  grieve  him,  if  I  fail  not,  and  disturb 
His  inmost  counsels  from  their  destined  aim. 
But  see!  the  angry  Victor  hath  recalled 
His  ministers  of  vengeance  and  pursuit  170 

Back  to  the  gates  of  Heaven;  the  sulphurous 

hail, 
Shot  after  us  in  storm,  o'erblown,  hath  laid 
The  fiery  surge  that  from  the  prooJT^ioe 
Of  Heaven  received  us  falling;  and  the  thunder, 
Winged  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage, 
Perhaps  hath  spent  his  shafts,  and  ceases  now 
To  bellow  through   the  vast  and  boundless 

deep.  177 

Let  us  not  slip  the  occasion,  whether  scorn. 
Or  satiate  fury  yield  it  from  our  Foe. 
Seest  thou  yon  dreary  plain,  forlorn  and  wild, 
The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light,  i8l 

Save  what  the  glimmering  of  these  livid  flames 
Casts  pale  and  dreadful?  Thither  let  us  tend. 
From  off  the  tossing  of  these  fiery  waves; 
There  rest,  if  any  rest  can  harbour  there;  183 
And,  re-assembling  our  afflicted  powers, 
Consult  how  we  may  henceforth  most  offend 
Our  enemy,  our  own  loss  how  repair. 
How  overcome  this  dire  calamity, 
What  reinforcement  we  may  gain  from  hope,  190 
If  not,  what  resolution  from  despair." 

Thus  Satan,  talking  to  his  nearest  mate. 
With  head  uplift  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed;  his  other  parts  besides 
Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and  large,  195 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood;  in  bulk  as  huge 
As  whom  the  fables  name,  of  monstrous  size, 
Titanian^  or  Earth-born,  that  warred  on  Jove, 
Briareus,^  or  Typhon,^  whom  the  den 
By  ancient  Tarsus  held,  or  that  sea-beast       2oq 

'  The  Titans,  in  Greek  mythologry.  were  the  children  r*t^ 
heaven  and  Earth.     Of  gigantic  size,  the  Titans  typify 
strength  and  lawlessness. 

8  A  giant,  with  a  hundred  arms  and  fifty  heads. 

» A  giant  brought  forth  by  the  Earth  to  contend  with 
the  Gods.  Overcome  by  Jupiter,  he  was  placed  beneath 
iEtna,  or  according  to  others  under  the  "serboniar. 
bog." 


JOHN  MILTON 


217 


Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  his  works 

Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean  stream. 

Him,  haply  slumbering  on  the  Norway  foam, 

The  pilot  of  some  small  night-foundered  skiff. 

Deeming  some  island,  oft,  as  seamen  tell,        205 

With  fixM  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind, 

Moors  by  his  side  under  the  lee,  while  night 

Invests  the  sea,  and  wished  morn  delays. 

So  stretched  out  huge  in  length  the  Arch-Fiend 

lay,  209 

Chained  on  the  burning  lake;  nor  ever  thence 
Had  risen,  or  heaved  his  head,  but  that  the  will 
And  high  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven 
Left  him  at  large  to  his  own  dark  designs, 
That  with  reiterated  crimes  he  might 
Heap  on  himself  damnation,  while  he  sought  215 
Evil  to  others,  and  enraged  might  see 
How  all  his  malice  served  but  to  bring  forth 
Infinite  goodness,  grace,  and  mercy,  shown 
On  Man  by  him  seduced,  but  on  himself        219 
Treble  confusion,  wrath,  and  vengeance  poured. 
Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the  pool 
His  mighty  stature;  on  each  hand  the  flames, 
Driv'n  backward,  slope  their  pointing  spires, 

and  rolled 
In  billows,  leave  i'  the  midst  a  horrid  vale. 
Then  with  expanded  wings  he  steers  his  flight 
Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air,  226 

That  felt  unusual  weight;  till  on  dry  land 
He  lights — if  it  were  land  that  ever  burned 
With  solid,  as  the  lake  with  liquid  fire,  229 

And  such  appeared  in  hue:  as  when  the  force 
Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill 
Torn  from  Pelorus,i°  or  the  shattered  side 
Of  thundering  iEtna,  whose  combustible 
And  fuelled  entrails,  thence  conceiving  fire,    234 
Sublimed^^  with  mineral  fury,  aid  the  winds, 
And  leave  a  singM  bottom  all  involved 
With  stench  and  smoke.    Such  resting  found 

the  sole 
Of  unblest  feet.  Him  follow'd  his  next  mate; 
Both  glorying  to  have  scaped  the  Stygian  flood 
As  gods,  and  by  their_pwn  recovered  strength. 
Not  by  the  sufferance  of  supernal  power.  241 
"Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  clime," 
Said  then  the  lost  Archangel,  "this  the  seat 
That    we    must    change    for    Heaven? — this 

mournful  gloom 
For  that  celestial  light?    Be  it  so,  since  he       245 
Who  now  is  sovran  can  dispose  and  bid 
What  shall  be  right:  farthest  from  Him  is  best. 
Whom  reason  hath  equalled,  force  hath  made 

supreme 
Above  his  equals — Farewell,  happy  fields. 
Where  joy  for  ever  dwells!    Hail  horrors!  hail 
Infernal  World!  and  thou,  profoundest  Hell,  251 
Receive  thy  new  possessor — one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time. 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  Heaven  of  Hell,  a  Hell  of  Heaven. 
What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same,       256 
And  what  I  should  be,  all  but  less  than  he 

10  A  promontory  on  the  coast  of  Sicily,  not  far  from 
Mt.  .Etna. 

11  Sublimed,  i.  e.  either  uplifted,  or  changed  into  vapor,  by 
the  fury  (violent  inter-action)  of  the  combustible  min- 
erals, which  are  the  fuelled  entrails  of  the  volcano. 


Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater?    Here  at 

least 
We  shall  be  free:  the  Almighty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  his  envy,  will  not  drive  us  hence :      260 
Here  we  may  reign  secure;  and,  in  my  choice, 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  Hell: 
Better  to  reign  in  Hell,  than  serve  in  Heaven. 
But  wherefore  let  we  then  our  faithful  friends. 
The  associates  and  co-partners  of  our  loss,      265 
Lie  thus  astonished  on  the  oblivious  pool. 
And  call  them  not  to  share  with  us  their  part 
In  this  unhappy  mansion,  or  once  more 
With  rallied  arms  to  try  what  may  be  yet 
Regained  in  Heaven,  or  what  more  lost  in  Hell?  " 
So  Satan  spake;  and  him  Beelzebub  271 

Thus    answered: — "Leader    of    those    armies 

bright 
Which,  but  the  Omnipotent,  none  could  have 

foiled! 
If  once  they  hear  that  voice,  their  liveliest  pledge 
Of  hope  in  fears  and  dangers — heard  so  oft  275 
In  worst  extremes,  and  on  the  perilous  edge 
Of  battle,  when  it  raged,  in  all  assaults 
Their  surest  signal — they  will  soon  resume 
New  courage  and  revive,  though  now  they  lie 
Grovelling  and  prostrate  on  yon  lake  of  fire,  280 
As  we  erewhile,  astounded  and  amazed 
No  wonder,  fallen  such  a  pernicious  height!" 

He  scarce  had  ceased,  when  the  superior  Fiend 
Was  moving  toward  the  shore;  his  ponderous 

shield. 
Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round,  285 
Behind  him  cast.  The  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  Orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist^^  views 
At  evening,  from  the  top  of  Fesole,!^ 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands,  290 

Rivers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe. 
His  spear — to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 
Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  ammiraP^  were  but  a  wand — 
He  walked  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps        295 
Over  the  burning  marie",  not  like  those  steps 
On  Heaven's  azure;  and  the  torrid  clime 
Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  with  fire. 
Nathless  he  so  endured,  till  on  the  beach 
Of  that  inflamed  feea  he  stood,  and  called        300 
His  legions — Angel  Forms,  who  lay  entranced. 
Thick  as  autumnal  leaves,  that  strow  the  brooks 
In  Vallorpbrosa,^^  where  the  Etrurian  shades. 
High  over-arched  embower;  or  scattered  sedge 
Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  armed  305 
Hath  vexed  the  Red-Sea  coast,  whose  waves 

o'er  threw 
Busiris^^  and  his  Memphian  chivalry, 
While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 
The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 
From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcasses    3 1 0 

12  Galileo.    Artist,  one  versed  in  the  liberal  arts. 

12  Fesole  is  a  hill  near  Florence,  and  Valdarno  the  valley 
of  the  Arno,  in  which  Florence  is  situated. 

1*  Ammiral  =  admiral,  hence  the  admiral's  ship,  the 
flag-ship. 

"5  Vallombrosa  (i.  e.  "shady  valley"),  a  valley  about 
18  miles  from  Florence. 

i«  An  Egyptian  King,  here  wrongly  identified  with  the 
Pharoah  who  oppressed  the  Israelites.  Memphian,  here 
used  in  the  general  sense  of  Egyptian. 


218 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


And  broken  chariot- wheels.    So  thick  bestrown, 
Abject  and  lost,  lay  these,  covering  the  flood, 
Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 
He  called  so  loud  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  Hell  resounded: — "Princes,  Potentates,    315 
Warriors,  the  Flower  of  Heaven — once  yours; 

now  lost, 
If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 
Eternal  Spirits!  Or  have  ye  chosen  this  place 
After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 
Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find      320 
To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  heaven? 
Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 
To  adore  the  Conqueror,  who  now  beholds 
Cherub  and  Seraph  rolling  in  the  flood 
With  scattered  arms  and  ensigns,  till  anon     325 
His  swift  pursuers  from  Heaven-gates  discern 
The  advantage,  and  descending,  tread  us  down 
Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 
Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf? — 
Awake,  arise,  or  be  for  ever  fallen ! "  330 

They  heard,  and  were  abashed,  and  up  they 

sprung 
Upon  the  wing,  as  when  men  wont  to  watch. 
On  duty  sleeping  found  by  whom  they  dread, 
Rouse  and  bestir  themselves  ere  well  awake. 
Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight         335 
In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not  feel; 
Yet  to  their  General's  voice  they  soon  obeyed 
Innumerable.    As  when  the  potent  rod 
Of  Amram's  son,i^  jq  Egypt's  evil  day. 
Waved  round  the  coast,  up-called  a  pitchy  cloud 
Of  locusts,  warping  on  the  eastern  wind,         341 
That  o'er  the  realm  of  impious  Pharaoh  hung 
Like  Night,  and  darkened  all  the  land  of  Nile; 
So  numberless  were  those  bad  Angels  seen 
Hovering  on  wing  under  the  cope  of  Hell,        345 
'Twixt  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  fires; 
Till,  as  a  signal  given,  th'  uplifted  spear 
Of  their  great  Sultan  waving  to  direct 
Their  course,  in  even  balance  down  they  light 
On  the  firm  brimstone,  and  fill  all  the  plain :  350 
A  multitude  like  which  the  populous  North 
Poured  never  from  her  frozen  loins,  to  pass 
Rhene^s  or  the  Danaw,^^  when  her  barbarous 

sons 
Came  like  a  deluge  on  the  South,  and  spread 
Beneath  Gibraltar  to  the  Lybian  sands.  355 

Forthwith  from  every  squadron  and  each  band. 
The  heads  and  leaders  thither  haste  where 

stood 
Their  great  Commander — godlike  Shapes,  and 

Forms 
Excelling  human;  princely  Dignities;  359 

And  Powers  that  erst  in  Heaven  sat  on  thrones, 
Though  of  their  names  in  Heavenly  records  now 
Be  no  memorial,  blotted  out  and  rased 
By  their  rebellion  from  the  Books  of  Life. 
Nor  had  they  yet  among  the  sons  of  Eve 
Got  them  new  names,  till,  wandering  o'er  the 

earth,  365 

Through  God's  high  sufferance  for  the  trial  of 

man, 
By  falsities  and  lies  the  greatest  part 
Of  mankind  they  corrupted  to  forsake 

"  Moses.    Exod.  x.  12-15.        «  Rhine.        "  Danube. 


God  their  Creator,  and  the  invisible 
Glory  of  Him  that  made  them  to  transform    370 
Oft  to  the  image  of  a  brute,  adorned 
With  gay  religions  full  of  pomp  and  gold, 
And  devils  to  adore  for  deities: 
Then  were  they  known  to  men  by  various  names, 
And  various  idols  through  the  heathen  world. 
Say,  Muse,  their  names  then  known,  who 

first,  who  last,  376 

Roused  from  the  slumber  on  that  fiery  couch. 
At  their  great  Emperor's  call,  as  next  in  worth, 
Came  singly  where  he  stood  on  the  bare  strand, 
While  the  promiscuous  crowd  stood  yet  aloof. 
The  chief  were  those  who,  from  the  pit  of 

Hell  381 

Roaming  to  seek  their  prey  on  Earth,  durst  fix 
Their  seats,  long  after,  next  the  seat  of  God, 
Their  altars  by  His  altar,  gods  adored 
Among  the  nations  round,  and  durst  abide     385 
Jehovah  thundering  out  of  Sion,  throned 
Between  the  Cherubim ;  yea,  often  placed 
Within  His  sanctuary  itself  their  shrines. 
Abominations;  and  with  cursed  things  ^ 

His  holy  rites  and  solemn  feasts  profaned,  390 
And  with  their  darkness  durst  affront  his  light. 
First,   Moloch,   horrid  king,   besmeared   with 

blood 
Of  human  sacrifice,  and  parents'  tears; 
Though,  for  the  noise  of  drums  and  timbrels 

loud. 
Their    children's   cries   unheard    that   passed 

through  fire  395 

To  his  grim  idol.    Him  the  Ammonite 
Worshipp'd  in  Rabba^"  and  her  watery  plain, 
In  Argob  and  in  Basan,  to  the  stream 
Of  utmost  Arnon.    Nor  content  with  such 
Audacious  neighbourhood,  the  wisest  heart    400 
Of  Solomon  he  led  by  fraud  to  build 
His  temple  right  against  the  temple  of  God 
On  that  opprobrious  hill,2i  and  made  his  grove 
The    pleasant    valley    of    Hinnom,22    Tophet 

thence 
And  black  Gehenna  called,  the  type  of  Hell. 
Next,  Chemos,^^  the  obscene  dread  of  Moab's 

sons,  406 

From  Aroar  to  Nebo,  and  the  wild 
Of  southmost  Abarim :  in  Hesebon 
And  Horonaim,  Seon's  realm,  beyond 
The  flowery  dale  of  Sibma  clad  with  vines,     410 
And  Eleale  to  the  Asphaltic^*  pool: 
Peor  his  other  name,  when  he  enticed 
Israel  in  Sittim,^^  on  their  march  from  Nile, 
To  do  him  wanton  rites,  which  cost  them  woe. 
Yet  thence  his  lustful  orgies  he  enlarged         415 
Even  to  that  hill  of  scandal,  by  the  grove 
Of  Moloch  homicide,  lust  hard  by  hate; 

20  "City  of  Waters,"  capital  of  the  land  of  the  Ammor- 
ites. 

21  The  Mount  of  Olives.    I  Kings,  xi.  7. 

22  Hinnom  {Tophet,  ot  Gehenna)  a  beautiful  valley  near 
Jerusalem,  which,  after  it  had  been  defiled  by  the  sacrifi- 
cial worship  of  Moloch,  was  converted  into  a  repulsive 
place  where  the  refuse  of  the  city  was  cast  and  burnt. 

25  The  chief  god,  or  Baal  of  the  Moabites,  and  wor- 
shipped as  Moloch  by  the  Ammonites.  He  is  spoken  of  as 
Baal  Peor  (Numb.  xxv.  3)  i.  e.  the  Baal  who  was  wor- 
shipped at  Mt.  Peor,  in  Moab. 

24  The  Dead  Sea. 

2*  A  valley  in  the  land  of  Moab.    Numb.  xxv. 


JOHN  MILTON 


219 


Till  good  Josiah^fl  drove  them  thence  to  Hell. 
With  these  came  they,  who,  from  the  bordering 

flood 
Of  old  Euphrates  to  the  brook  that  parts        420 
Egypt  from  Syrian  ground,  had  general  names 
Of  Baalim?~'  and  Ashtoroth — those  male, 
These  feminine:  For  Spirits,  when  they  please, 
Can  either  sex  assume,  or  both;  so  soft 
And  uncom pounded  is  their  essence  pure,       425 
Not  tied  or  manacled  with  joint  or  limb, 
Nor  founded  on  the  brittle  strength  of  bones. 
Like  cumbrous  flesh;  but,  in  what  shape  they 

choose. 
Dilated  or  condensed,  bright  or  obscure. 
Can  execute  their  aery  purposes,  430 

And  works  of  love  or  enmity  fulfil. 
For  those  the  race  of  Israel  oft  forsook 
Their  Living  Strength,  and  unfrequented  left 
His  righteous  altar,  bowing  lowly  down 
To  bestial  gods;  for  which  their  heads  as  low  435 
Bowed  down  in  battle,  sunk  before  the  spear 
Of  despicable  foes.    With  these  in  troop. 
Came  Astoreth,  whom  the  Phoenicians  called 
Astarte,  queen  of  heaven,  with  crescent  horns; 
To  whose  bright  image  nightly  by  the  moon  440 
Sidonian  virgins  paid  their  vows  and  songs: 
In  Sion  also  not  unsung,  where  stood 
Her  temple  on  the  offensive  mountain,  built 
By  that  uxorious  king  whose  heart,  though 

large. 
Beguiled  by  fair  idolatresses,  fell  445 

To  idols  foul.    Thajnmuz^^  came  next  behind, 
Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allured 
The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  amorous  ditties  all  a  summer's  day. 
While  smooth  Adonis  from  his  native  rock    450 
Ran  purple  to  the  sea,  supposed  with  blood 
Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded:  the  love-tale 
Infected  Sion's  daughters  with  like  heat, 
Whose  wanton  passions  in  the  sacred  porch 
Ezekiel  saw,  when,  by  the  vision  led,  455 

His  eye  survey 'd  the  dark  idolatries 
Of  alienated  Judah.    Next  came  one 
Who  mourned  in  earnest,  when  the  captive  ark 
Maim'd  his  brute  image,  head  and  hands  lopt 

off 
In  his  own  temple,  on  the  grunsel  edge,^^        460 
Where  he  fell  flat,  and  shamed  his  worshippers: 
Dagon^^  his  name,  sea-monster,  upward  man 
And  downward  fish;  yet  had  his  temple  high 
Reared  in  Azotus,  dreaded  through  the  coast 
Of  Palestine,  in  Gath  and  Ascalon,  465 

And  Accaron,  and  Gaza's  frontier  bounds. 
Him  foUow'd  Rimmon,^^  whose  delightful  seat 

'     26  Josiah.    II  Kings,  xxiii,  10. 

27  Baalim — Ashtoroth,  the  Hebrew  plurals  of  Baal  (the 
sun  god)  and  Astoroth  (the  moon-goddess) .  Milton  means 
that  with  the  gods  before  named,  came  other  gods  of  the 
sun  and  moon,  worshipped  under  various  names  from  the 
Euphrates  on  the  East  to  the  brook  Sihor.  (Joshua, 
XV.  4)  that  divided  Egypt  from  Syria. 

28  The  Oriental  original  of  the  Greek  Adonis.  Tham- 
muz (or  Tammuz)  was  killed  by  a  wild  boar,  and  every 
year,  when  the  stream  Adonis  (which  flows  from  Lebanon, 
the  scene  of  his  death)  was  colored  by  the  red  washings  of 
its  upper  banks,  the  waters  were  supposed  to  be  tinged 
with  his  blood. 

29  Threshold.  ">  The  god  of  the  Philistines. 
*i  A  Syrian  god  (v.  II  Kings,  v) . 


Was  fair  Damascus,  on  the  fertile  banks 
Of  Abbana  and  Pharphar,  lucid  streams. 
He  also  against  the  house  of  God  was  bold:    470 
A  leper  once  he  lost,  and  gained  a  king — 
Ahaz,  his  sottish  conqueror,  whom  he  drew 
God's  altar  to  disparage  and  displace 
For  one  of  Syrian  mode,  whereon  to  burn 
His  odious  offerings,  and  adore  the  gods  475 

Whom  he  had  vanquished.     After  these,  ap- 
peared 
A  crew  who,  under  names  of  old  renown — 
Osiris,  Isis,  Orus,  and  their  train — 
With  monstrous  shapes  and  sorceries,  abused 
Fanatic  Egypt  and  her  priests  to  seek  480 

Their   wandering    gods    disguised    in    brutish 

forms  • 

Rather  than  human.    Nor  did  Israel  scape 
The  infection,  when  their  borrowed  gold  com- 


485 


The  calf  in  Oreb;  and  the  rebel  king^s 
.  Doubled  that  sin  in  Bethel  and  in  Dan, 
Likening  his.  Maker  to  the  grazed  ox — 
Jehovah,  who  in  one  night,  when  he  passed 
From    Egypt    marching,    equall'd    with    one 

stroke 
Both  her  first-born  and  all  her  bleating  gods. 
BeliaP^  came  last;  than  whom  a  Spirit  more 
lewd       '  490 

Fell  not  from  Heaven,  or  more  gross  to  love 
Vice  for  itseK.    To  him  no  temple  stood, 
Or  ajtkr  smoked;  yet  who  more  oft  than  he 
In  temples  and  at  altars,  when  the  priest 
Turns  atheist,  as  did  Eli's  sons,  who  filled       495 
With  lust  and  violence  the  house  of  God? 
In  courts  and  palaces  he  also  reigns. 
And  in  luxurious  cities,  where  the  noise 
Of  riot  ascends  above  their  loftiest  towers. 
And  injury  and  outrage ;  and  when  night        500 
Darkens  the  streets,  then  wander  forth  the 

sons 
Of  Belial,  flown^*  with  insolence  and  wine. 
Witness  the  streets  of  Sodom,  and  that  night 
In  Gibeah,  when  the  hospitable  door 
Exposed  a  matron,  to  avoid  worse  rape.  505 

These  were  the  prime  in  order  and  in  might: 
The  rest  were  long  to  tell;   though  far  re- 
nowned 
The  Ionian  gods — of  Javan's  issue^^  held 
Gods,  yet  confessed  later  than  Heaven  and 

Earth, 
Their  boasted  parents; — Titan,  Heaven's  first- 
born, 510 
With  his  enormous  brood,  and  birthright  seized 
By  younger  Saturn;  he  from  mightier  Jove, 
His  own  and  Rhea's  son,  like  measure  found; 
So   Jove   usurping   reigned.      These,    first    in 

Crete 
And  Ida  known,  thence  on  the  snowy  top       515 
Of  cold  Olympus  ruled  the  middle  air, 

32  Jeroboam.  J  Kings,  xii.  26-29.  . 

33  The  spirit  of  evil,  or  worthlessness,  here  personified 
by  Milton.-  Cf.  the  scriptural  "sons  of  Belial,"  "sons  of 
wickedness,"  "children  of  the  devil."  \ 

34  Flooded,  filled. 

35  Javan's  issue,  i.  e.  the  lonians,  or  Greeks,  who  were 
among  those  supposed  to  be  descended  from  Javan,  the 
son  of  Japhet.    Gen.  x.  2-4. 


220 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


Their  highest  heaven;    or   on    the    Delphian 

chff, 
Or  in  Dodona,  and  through  all  the  bounds 
Of  Doric  land;  or  who  with  Saturn  old 
Fled  over  Adria^^  to  the  Hesperian^^  fields,      520 
And  o'er  the  Celtic  roam'd  the  utmost  Isles. 
All  these  and  more  came  flocking;  but  with 
looks 
Downcast  and  damp;  yet  such  wherein  ap- 
peared 
Obscure  some  glimpse  of  joy,  to  have  found 

their  Chief 
Not  in  despair,  to  have  found  themselves  not 
lost  525 

In  loss  itself;  which  on  his  countenance  cast 
Like  doubtful  hue.    But  he,  his  wonted  pride 
Soon  recollecting,  with  high  words,  that  bore 
Semblance   of   worth,    not   substance,    gently 

raised 
Their   fainting   courage,    and   dispelled    their 
fears:  530 

Then  straight  commands  that,  at  the  warlike 

sound 
Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions,  be  uprearcd 
His    mighty    standard:    that    proud    honour 

claimed 
Azazel  as  his  right,  a  Cherub  tall: 
Who  forthwith  from  the  glittering  staff  un- 
furled 535 
Th'  imperial  ensign;  which,  full  high  advanced. 
Shone  like  a  meteor  streaming  to  the  wind, 
With  gems  and  golden  lustre  rich  emblazed, 
Seraphic  arms  and  trophies;  all  the  while 
Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds :         540 
At  which  the  universal  host  up-sent 
A  shout,  that  tore  Hell's  concave,  and  beyond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 
All  in  a  moment  through  the  gloom  were  seen 
Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air,  545 
With  orient  colours  waving:  with  them  rose 
A  forest  huge  of  spears;  and  thronging  helms 
Appeared,  and  serried  shields  in  thick  array 
Of  depth  immeasureable.    Anon  they  move 
In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood^s         550 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders,^^ — such  as  raised 
To  height  of  noblest  temper,  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle,  and  instead  of  rage 
Deliberate    valour    breathed,    firm    and    un- 
moved 
With  dread  of  death  to  flight  or  foul  retreat;   555 
Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  swage 
With  solemn  touches  troubled  thoughts,  and 

chase 
Anguish  and  doubt  and  fear  and  sorrow  and 

pain 
From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.    Thus  they, 
Breathing  united  force,  with  fix^  thought,     560 
Moved  on  in  silence  to  soft  pipes,  that  charmed 

»  The  Adriatic  Sea. 

"  //esperMin=We3tem:  here,  the  lands  west  of  Greece. — 
Italy,  the  Celtic  lands  of  Gaul  etc.  as  far  as  the  British 
Isles. 

^  In  Dorian  music  the  scale  differed  from  that  in  use 
among  the  Lydians  and  others,  this  distinctive  scale 
(or  arrangement  of  tones  and  half  tones  in  the  octave)  wsis 
called  the  Dorian  mood,  i.  e.  mode,  or  system.  Doric 
music  was  invigorating  and  martial  in  character. 

••  A  musical  instrument  resembling  a  flageolet. 


Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil.    And 

now 
Advanced  in  view  they  stand — a  horrid  front 
Of  dreadful  length  and  dazzling  arms,  in  guise 
Of  warriors  old,  with  ordered  spear  and  shield, 
Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty  Chief  566 
Had  to  impose.  He  through  the  armed  files 
Darts  his  experienced  eye,  and  soon  traverse 
The  whole  battalion- views, — their  order  due. 
Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods;  570 

Their  number  last  he  sums.     And  now  his 

heart 
Distends  with  pride,   and,  hardening  in  his 

strength. 
Glories:  for  never  since  created  Man 
Met  such  embodied  force  as,  named  with  these, 
Could  merit  more  than  that  small  infantry"*  575 
Warred  on  by  cranes — though  all  the  giant 

brood 
Of  Phlegra"  with  the  heroic  race  were  joined 
That  fought  at  Thebes  and  Ilium,  on  each  side 
Mixed  with  auxiliar  gods;  and  what  resounds 
In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son,^^  530 

Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights; 
And  all  who  since,  baptized  or  infidel. 
Jousted  in  Aspramont,  or  Montalban, 
Damasco,  or  Morocco,  or  Trebisond, 
Or  whom  Biserta^^  sent  from  Afric  shore         585 
When  Charlemain  with  all  his  peerage,  fell 
By  Fontarabbia.    Thus  far  these  beyond 
Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observed 
Their  dread  Commander.    He,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent,  590 

Stood  like  a  tower.    His  form  had  yet  not  lost 
All  its  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  Archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured:  as  when  the  sun  new-risen, 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air  595 

Shorn  of  his  beams,  or,  from  behind  the  moon, 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs.     Darkened  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  the  Archangel :  but  his  face     600 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek,  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 
Waiting  revenge.    Cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 
Signs  of  remorse  and  passion,  to  behold  605 

The  fellows  of  his  crime,  the  followers  rather 
(Far  other  once  beheld  in  bliss),  condemned 
For  ever  now  to  have  their  lot  in  pain — 
Millions  of  Spirits  for  his  fault  amerced 
Of  Heaven,  and  from  eternal  splendours  flung 
For  his  revolt — yet  faithful  how  they  stood,  61  i 
Their  glory  withered;  as  when  Heaven's  fire 
Hath  scathed  the  forest  oaks  or  mountain  pines, 
With  singM  top  their  stately  growth,  though 

bare. 
Stands  on  the  blasted  heath.    He  now  prepared 

^0  Pygmies,  a  legendary  nation  of  dwarfs,  v.  Iliad.  Hi., 
3-6. 

*i  The  early  name  of  a  peninsula  in  Thrace,  the  scene 
of  a  conflict  between  the  gods  and  the  Titans,  or  "giant 
brood." 

«  King  Arthur. 

^'  A  Saracen  town  on  the  Mediterranean  coast  of 
Africa. 


JOHN  MILTON 


221 


To  speak;  whereat  their  double  ranks  they 

bend  616 

From  wing  to  wing,  and  half  enclose  him  round 
With  all  his  peers:  attention  held  them  mute. 
Thrice  he  assayed,  and  thrice,  in  spite  of  scorn. 
Tears,  such  as  Angels  weep,  burst  forth:  at  last 
Words  interwove  with  sighs,  found  out  their 

way:—  621 

"O  myriads  of  immortal  Spirits!  O  Powers 
Matchless,  but  with  the  Almighty!— and  that 

strife 
Was  not  inglorious,  though  the  event  was  dire, 
As  this  place  testifies,  and  this  dire  change 
Hateful  to  utter.    But  what  power  of  mind,    626 
Foreseeing  or  presaging,  from  the  depth 
Of   knowledge   past   or   present,   could   have 

feared 
How  such  united  force  of  gods,  how  such 
As  stood  like  these,  could  ever  know  repulse? 
For  who  can  yet  believe,  though  after  loss,      631 
That  all  these  puissant  legions,  whose  exile 
Hath  emptied  Heaven,  shall  fail  to  re-ascen'd. 
Self-raised,  and  re-possess  their  native  seat? 
For  me,  be  witness  all  the  host  of  Heaven,       635 
If  counsels  different,  or  dangers  shunned 
By  me,  have  lost  our  hopes.    But  he  who  reigns 
Monarch  in  Heaven,  till  then  as  one  secure 
Sat  on  his  throne,  upheld  by  old  repute, 
Consent  or  custom,  and  his  regal  state  640 

Put  forth  at  full,  but  still  his  strength  con- 

cwiled : 
Which  tempted  our  attempt,  and  wrought  our 

fall. 
Henceforth  his  might  we  know,  and  know  our 

own, 
So  as  not  either  to  provoke,  or  dread 
New  war  provoked ;  our  better  part  remains  645 
To  work  in  close  design,  by  fraud  or  guile, 
What  force  effected  not;  that  he  no  less 
At  length  from  us  may  find,  Who  overcomes 
By  force  hath  overcome  but  half  his  foe. 
Space  may  produce  new  Worlds;  whereof  so  rife 
There  went  a  fame  in  Heaven  that  He  ere  long 
Intended  to  create,  and  therein  plant  652 

A  generation  whom  his  choice  regard 
Should  favour  equal  to  the  Sons  of  Heaven; 
Thither,  if  but  to  pry,  shall  be  perhaps  655 

Our  first  eruption — thither  or  elsewhere: 
For  this  infernal  pit  shall  never  hold 
Celestial  Spirits  in  bondage,  nor  the  Abyss 
Long  under  dark^ess  cover.   But  these  thoughts 
Full  counsel  must  mature.    Peace  is  despaired; 
For  who  can  think  submission?     War,  then, 

war  661 

Open  or  understood,  must  be  resolved." 

He  spake:  and,  to  confirm  his  words,  out-flew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the 

thighs 
Of  mighty  Cherubim ;  the  sudden  blaze  665 

Far  round  illumined  Hell.    Highly  they  raged 
Against  the  Highest,  and  fierce  with  grasped 

arms 
Clashed  on  their  sounding  shields  the  din  of 

war. 
Hurling  defiance  toward  the  vault  of  Heaven. 
Th^re  stood  a  hill  not  far,  whose  grisly  top 


Belched  fire  and  rolling  smoke;  the  rest  entire 
Shone  with  a  glossy  scurf — undoubted  sign    672 
That  in  his  womb  was  hid  metallic  ore, 
The  work  of  sulphur.     Thither,  winged  with 


A  numerous  brigade  hastened:  as  when  bands 
Of  pioneers,  with  spade  and  pickaxe  armed,   676 
Forerun  the  royal  camp,  to  trench  a  field. 
Or  cast  a  rampart.    Mammon  led  them  on — 
Mammon,  the  least  erected  spirit  that  fell 
From  Heaven;  for  even  in  Heaven  his  looks  and 
thoughts  680 

Were  always  downward  bent,  admiring  more 
The  riches  of  Heaven's  pavement,  trodden  gold, 
Than  aught  divine  or  holy  else  enjoyed 
In  vision  beatific.    By  him  first 
Men  also,  and  by  his  suggestion  taught,  685 

Ransacked    the    Centre,    and    with    impious 

hands 
Rifled  the  bowels  of  their  mother  earth 
For  treasures  better  hid.     Soon  had  his  crew 
Opened  into  the  hill  a  spacious  wound. 
And  digged  out  ribs  of  gold.    Let  none  admire** 
That  riches  grow  in  Hell;  that  soil  may  best   691 
Deserve  the  precious  bane.    And  here  let  those 
Who  boast  in  mortal  things,  and  wondering  tell 
Of  Babel,  and  the  works  of  Memphian  kings, 
Learn  how  their  greatest  monuments  of  fame, 
And  strength,  and  art,  are  easily  outdone       696 
By  Spirits  reprobate,  and  in  an  hour 
What  in  an  age  they,  with  incessant  toil 
And  hands  innumerable,  scarce  perform. 
Nigh  on  the  plain,  in  many  cells  prepared,      700 
That  underneath  had  veins  of  liquid  fire 
Sluiced  from  the  lake,  a  second  multitude 
With  wondrous  art  founded  the  massy  ore, 
Severing  each  kind,  and  scummed  the  bullion- 
dross; 
A  third  as  soon  had  formed  within  the  ground 
A  various  mould,  and  from  the  boiling  cells    706 
By  strange  conveyance  filled  each  hollow  nook: 
As  in  an  organ,  from  one  blast  of  wind, 
To   many   a  row   of   pipes   the   sound-board 

breathes. 
Anon  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge  710 

Rose  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet — 
Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 
Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 
With  golden  architrave;  nor  did  there  want 
Cornice  or  frieze,  with  bossy  sculptures  graven; 
The  roof  was  fretted  gold.    Not  Babylon        717 
Nor  great  Alcairo,  such  magnificence 
Equalled  in  all  their  glories,  to  enshrine 
Belus  or  Serapis  their  gods,  or  seat  720 

Their  kings,  when  Egypt  with  Assyria  strove 
In  wealth  and  luxury.    The  ascending  pile 
Stood  fixed  her  stately  height;  and  straight  the 

doors, 
Opening  their  brazen  folds,  discover,  wide 
Within,  her  ample  spaces  o'er  the  smooth       725 
And  level  pavement;  from  the  archM  roof 
Pendent  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 
Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 
With  naphtha  and  asphaltus,  yielded  light 
**  Wonder. 


222 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


\.s  from  a  sky.   The  hasty  multitude  730 

Admiring  entered;  and  the  work  some  praise, 
^nd  some  the  architect.    His  hand  was  known 
^n  Heaven  by  many  a  towered  structure  high, 
tVhere  sceptred  Angels  held  their  residence, 
Vnd  sat  as  Princes,  whom  the  supreme  King  735 
ilxalted  to  such  power,  and  gave  to  rule, 
5ach  in  his  hierarchy,  the  Orders  bright. 
S^or  was  his  name  unheard  or  unadored 
'n  ancient  Greece;  and  in  the  Ausonian  land*^ 
VIen  called  him  Mulciber,*^  and  how  he  fell 
Ji'rom  Heaven,  they  fabled,  thrown  by  angry 

Jove  741 

5heer  o'er  the  crystal  battlements:  from  morn 
ro  noon  he  fell,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
\  summer's  day,  and  with  the  setting  sun 
3ropt  from  the  zenith,  like  a  falling  star,         745 
])n  Lemnos,  the  Mgean  isle.    Thus  they  relate, 
Jarring;  for  he  with  this  rebellious  rout, 
^ell  long  before;  nor  aught  availed  him  now 
ro  have  built  in  Heaven  high  towers;  nor  did  he 

scape 
3y  all  his  engines,  but  was  headlong  sent,       750 
kVith  his  industrious  crew,  to  build  in  Hell. 
Meanwhile,   the  winged  Heralds,  by  com- 
mand 
)f  sovereign  power,  with  awful  ceremony 
\.nd  trumpet's  sound,    throughout   the  host 

proclaim 
K  solemn  council  forthwith  to  be  held  755 

^t  Pandemonium,^^  the  high  capital 
)f  Satan  and  his  peers.    Their  summons  called 
?'rom  every  band  and  squared  regiment 
3y  place  or  choice  the  worthiest:  they  anon 
►Vith  hundreds  and  with  thousands  trooping 

came,  760 

Utended.    All  access  was  thronged;  the  gates 
\.nd  porches  wide,  but  chief  the  spacious  hall 
Though  like  a  covered  field,  where  champions 

bold 
>Vont  ride  in  armed,  and  at  the  Soldan's^ 

chair, 
Defied  the  best  of  Panim^^  chivalry  765 

ro  mortal  combat,  or  career  with  lance), 
rhick  swarmed,  both  on  the  ground  and  in  the 

air 
Crushed  with  the  hiss  of  rustling  wings.    As 

bees 
;n  spring-time,   when  the  Sun  with  Taurus 

rides, 
^our  forth  their  populous  youth  about  the  hive 
;n  clusters;  they  among  fresh  dews  and  flowers 
^"ly  to  and  fro,  or  on  the  smoothM  plank,       772 
rhe  suburb  of  their  straw-built  citadel, 
^ew  rubbed  with  balm,  expatiate  and  confer 
rheir  state-afTairs :  so  thick  the  airy  crowd     775 
5warmed  and  were  straitened;  till,  the  signal 

given, 
3ehold  a  wonder!    They  but  now  who  seemed 
;n  bigness  to  surpass  Earth's  giant  sons, 
^ow  less  than  smallest  dwarfs,  in  narrow  room 
rhrong  numberless — like  that  pygmean  race^ 
<5  Italy.  «  The  softener,  i.  e.  Vulcan. 

"  The  abode  of  all  the  Demons,  as  the  Pantheon  is  the 
.bode  of  all  the  gods. 
«  Sultan.  «  Pagan. 

">  The  ancients  placed  the  Pygmies  in  India. 


Beyond  the  Indian  mount;  or  fairy  elvea,      781 

Whose  midnight  revels,  by  a  forest-side 

Or  fountain,  some  belated  peasant  sees, 

Or  dreams  he  sees,  while  over-head  the  Moon 

Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  Earth  785 

Wheels  her  pale  course;  they,  on  their  mirth  and 

dance 
Intent,  with  jocund  music  charm  his  ear; 
At  once  with  joy  and  fear  his  heart  rebounds. 
Thus  incorporeal  Spirits  to  smallest  forms 
Reduced  their  shapes  immense,  and  were  at 

large,  790 

Though  without  number  still,  amidst  the  hall 
Of  that  infernal  court.    But  far  within. 
And  in  their  own  dimensions,  like  themselves, 
The  great  Seraphic  Lords  and  Cherubim 
In  close  recess  and  secret  conclave  sat,  795 

A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats, 
Frequent  and  full.     After  short  silence  then. 
And  summons  read,  the  great  consult  began. 

From  Book  III 

Hail,  holy  Light!  offspring  of  Heaven  first-born! 

Or  of  the  Eternal  coetemal  beam 

May  I  express  thee  imblamed?  since  God  is 

light, 
And  never  but  in  unapproachM  light 
Dwelt  from  eternity— dwelt  then  in  thee,  5 

Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate! 
Or  hear'st  thou^  rather  pure  Ethereal  stream. 
Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell?    Before  the  Sun, 
Before  the  Heavens,  thou  wert,  and  at  the  voice 
Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  invest  10 

The  rising  World  of  waters  dark  and  deep, 
Won  from  the  void  and  formless  Infinite. 
Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing, 
Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  de- 
tained 
In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while  in  my  flight. 
Through  utter  and  through  middle  Darkness 
borne,  16 

With  other  notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre 
I  sung  of  Chaos  and  eternal  Night, 
Taught  by  the  Heavenly  Muse  to  venture  down 
The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  re^ascend,  20 

Though  hard  and  rare.   Thee  I  revisit  safe, 
And  feel  thy  sovereign  vital  lamp;  but  thou 
Revisit'st  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn; 
So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quenched  their 
orbs,  25 

Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.    Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I  to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt 
Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song;  but  chief 
Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath. 
That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and  warbling  flow, 
Nightly  I  visit;  nor  sometimes  forget  32 

Those  other  two  equalled  with  me  in  fate. 
So  were  I  equalled  with  them  in  renown, 
Blind  Thamyris^  and  blind  Maeonides,^  35 

1  i.  e.  would  you  rather  hear  yourself  called  (do  you 
hear  rather  when  you  are  called). 

*  A  legendary  poet  of  Greece. 

*  Homer,  reputed  son  of  Maion. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY 


22 


And  Tiresias*  and  Phineus*  prophets  old: 
Then  feed  on  thoughts  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers;  as  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darkling,  and  in  shadiest  covert  hid, 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note.    Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return;  but  not  to  me  returns  41 

Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose. 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine; 
But  cloud  instead  and  ever-during  dark  45 

Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair, 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  Nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  rased, 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out.  50 
So  much  the  rather  thou.  Celestial  Light, 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her 

powers 
Irradiate;  there  plant  eyes;  all  mist  from  thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight.  55 

From  Book  VII 
Descend  from  Heaven,  Urania,^  by  that  name 
If  rightly  thou  art  called,  whose  voice  divine 
Following,  above  the  Olympian  hill  I  soar, 
Above  the  flight  of  Pegasean  wing! 
The  meaning,  not  the  name,  I  call ;  for  thou       5 
Nor  of  the  Muses  nine,  nor  on  the  top 
Of  old  Olympus  dwell'st;  but  heavenly-born, 
Before  the  hills  appeared  or  fountain  flowed, 
Thou  with  Eternal  Wisdom  didst  converse. 
Wisdom  thy  sister,  and  with  her  didst  play      1 0 
In  presence  of  the  Almighty  Father,  pleased 
With  thy  celestial  song,    tip  led  by  thee. 
Into  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  I  have  presumed, 
An  earthly  guest,  and  drawn  empyreal  air. 
Thy  tempering.    With  like  safety  guided  down. 
Return  me  to  my  native  element;  16 

Lest,  from  this  flying  steed  unreined  (as  once 
Bellerophon,  though  from  a  lower  clime) 
Dismounted,  on  the  Aleian  field  I  fall. 
Erroneous  there  to  wander  and  forlorn.  20 

Half  yet  remains  unsung,  but  narrower  bound 
Within  the  visible  Diurnal  Sphere. 
Standing  on  Earth,  not  rapt  above  the  pole. 
More  safe  I  sing  with  mortal  voice,  unchanged 
To   hoarse   or   mute,    though   fallen   on   evil 

days,  25 

On  evil  days  though  fallen,  and  evil  tongues, 
In    darkness,    and    with    dangers    compassed 

round, 
And  solitude;  yet  not  alone,  while  thou 
Visit'st  my  slumbers  nightly,  or  when  Morn 
Purples  the  East.    Still  govern  thou  my  song,  30 
Urania,  and  fit  audience  find,  though  few, 
But  drive  far  off  the  barbarous  dissonance 
Of  Bacchus  and  his  revellers,  the  race 
Of  that  wild  rout  that  tore  the  Thracian  bard^ 
In  Rhodope,  where  woods  and  rocks  had  ears  35 
To  rapture,  till  the  savage  clamour  drowned 

*  Blind  prophets  in  Greek  legends. 

1  Literally  ("the  heavenly  one")  one  of  the  Muses  in 
Greek  mythology  but  here  the  Divine  inspiration,  the 
"heavenly  Muse"  invoked  at  the  beginning  of  the  poem. 

2  OrpheuB.    Of.  Lycidas,  lines.  57-63. 


Both  harp  and  voice;  nor  could  the  Muse  dc 

fend 
Her  son.    So  fail  not  thou  who  thee  implores; 
For  thou  art  heavenly,  she  an  empty  dream. 

From  Book  IX 
No  more  of  talk  where  God  or  Angel  Guest 
With  Man,  as  with  his  friend,  familiar  used 
To  sit  indulgent,  and  with  him  partake 
Rural  repast,  permitting  him  the  while 
Venial    discourse    unblamed.      1    now    mus 

change 
Those  notes  to  tragic — foul  distrust,  and  bread 
Disloyal,  on  the  part  of  man,  revolt 
And  disobedience;  on  the  part  of  Heaven, 
Now  alienated,  distance  and  distaste. 
Anger  and  just  rebuke,  and  judgment  given,    i 
That  brought  into  this  World  a  world  of  woe 
Sin  and  her  shadow  Death,  and  Misery, 
Death's  harbinger.    Sad  task !  yet  argument 
Not  less  but  more  heroic  than  the  wrath 
Of  stern  Achilles  on  his  foe  pursued  i, 

Thrice  fugitive  about  Troy  wall;  or  rage 
Of  Turnus  for  Lavinia  disespoused; 
Or  Neptune's  ire,  or  Juno's,  that  so  long 
Perplexed  the  Greek,  and  Cytherea's  son: 
If  answerable  style  I  can  obtain  2( 

Of  my  celestial  Patroness,  who  deigns 
Her  nightly  visitation  unimplored. 
And  dictates  to  me  slumbering,  or  inspires 
Easy  my  unpremeditated  verse, 
Since  first  this  subject  for  heroic  song  2i 

Pleased  me,  long  choosing  and  beginning  late 
Not  sedulous  by  nature  to  indite 
Wars,  hitherto  the  only  argument 
Heroic  deemed,  chief  mastery  to  dissect 
With  long  and  tedious  havoc  fabled  knights     3( 
In  battles  feigned  (the  better  fortitude 
Of  patience  and  heroic  martyrdom 
Unsung),  or  to  describe  races  and  games. 
Or  tilting  furniture,  emblazoned  shields. 
Impresses  quaint,  caparisons  and  steeds,  3t 

Bases  and  tinsel  trappings,  gorgeous  knights 
At  joust  and  tournament;  then  marshalled  feasi 
Served  up  in  hall  with  sewers  and  seneshals 
The  skill  of  artifice  or  office  mean; 
Not  that  which  justly  gives  heroic  name  4C 

To  person  or  to  poem !  Me,  of  these 
Nor  skilled  nor  studious,  higher  argument 
Remains,  sufficient  of  itself  to  raise 
That  name,  unless  an  age  too  late,  or  cold 
Climate,  or  years,  damp  my  intended  wing      45 
Depressed;  and  much  they  may  if  all  be  mine, 
Not  hers  who  brings  it  nightly  to  my  ear. 

1618-1667 
THE  WISH 

(From  The  Mistress,  1647) 

Well  then,I  now  do  plainly  see 
This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree; 
The  very  honey  of  all  earthly  joy 
Does,  of  all  meats,  the  soonest  cloy; 


224 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


And  they,  methinks,  deserve  my  pity  5 

Who  for  it  can  endure  the  stings, 
The  crowd,  the  buzz,  and  murmurings 

Of  this  great  hive,  the  city! 

Ah,  yet,  ere  I  descend  to  the  grave, 
May  I  a  small  house  and  large  garden  have;     10 
And  a  few  friends,  and  many  books,  both  true, 
Both  wise,  and  both  delightful  too! 

And  since  Love  ne'er  will  from  me  flee, — 
A.  mistress  moderately  fair, 
And  good  as  guardian-angels  are,  15 

Only  beloved,  and  loving  me! 

^  fountains!  when  in  you  shall  I 

Myself  eased  of  unpeaceful  thoughts  espy? 

3  fields!  O  woods!  when,  when  shall  1  be  made 

rhe  happy  tenant  of  your  shade?  20 

Here's  the  spring-head  of  pleasure's  flood! 
Here's  wealthy  Nature's  treasury, 
Where  all  the  riches  lie,  that  she 

Has  coined  and  stamped  for  good. 

Pride  and  ambition  here  25 

3nly  in  far-fetched  metaphors  appear; 

Here  naught  but  winds  can  hurtful  murmurs 

scatter, 
And  naught  but  echo  flatter. 

The  gods  when  they  descended  hither 
From  heaven  did  always  choose  their  way;      30 
And  therefore  we  may  boldly  say 

That  'tis  the  way  too  thither. 

How  happy  here  should  I 
And  one  dear  She  live,  and  embracing  die! 
5he  who  is  all  the  world,  and  can  exclude         35 
Ln  deserts  solitude. 

I  should  have  then  this  only  fear: 
Lest  men,  when  they  my  pleasures  see, 
Should  hither  throng  to  live  like  me, 

And  so  make  a  city  here.   '  40 


THE  GRASSHOPPER 

(From  Miscellanies,  1650) 

Happy  Insect,  what  can  be 
[n  happiness  compar'd  to  thee? 
Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 
rhe  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine! 
Nature  waits  upon  thee  still,  5 

And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill. 
Tis  fiU'd  where  ever  thou  dost  tread, 
Nature  selfe's  thy  Ganimed.^ 
rhou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing; 
Happier  than  the  happiest  King!  10 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see. 
All  the  plants  belong  to  thee. 
All  that  summer  hours  produce. 
Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 
Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plow;  15 

Farmer  he  and  land-lord  thou! 
Thou  doest  innocently  joy; 
Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy; 
The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee. 
More  harmonious  than  he.  20 

*  Ganymede,  the  cup-bearer  of  Zeiia. 


Thee  country  hindes  with  gladness  hear, 

Prophet  of  the  ripened  year! 

Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire; 

Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee  of  all  things  upon  earth,  25 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth, 

Happy  insect,  happy  thou. 

Dost  neither  age,  nor  winter  know, 

But  when  thou'st  drunk,   and   danced,   and 

sung. 
Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among  30 

(Voluptuous,  and  wise  with  all. 
Epicurean  animal!) 
Sated  with  thy  summer  feast, 
Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 


BREAD  AND  LIBERTY 

(From  Essay  Of  Liberty) 

For  the  few  hours  of  life  allotted  me. 

Give  me  (great  God)  but  bread  and  liberty. 

I'll  beg  no  more:  if  more  thou'rt  pleas'd  to  give, 

I'll  thankfully  that  overplus  receive: 

If  beyond  this  no  more  be  freely  sent,  6 

I'll  thank  for  this,  and  go  away  content. 

1621-1678 
THE  GARDEN 

(Written  c.  1650,  published  first  in  first  col- 
lected edition  of  Marvell's  Poems,  1681) 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze, 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays. 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb,  or  tree. 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade,     5 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid. 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close, 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose! 


Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below. 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow; 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 


10 


15 


No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 

So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 

Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 

Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name,     20 

Little,  alas!  they  know  or  heed, 

How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed! 

Fair  trees!  where'er  your  barks  I  wound. 

No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 


When  we  have  run  our  passion's  heat, 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 
The  gods,  who  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race; 


25 


ANDREW  MARVELL 


22^ 


Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so, 

Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow;  so 

And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed, 

Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead! 

Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head; 

The  luscious  clusters  of  a  vine  35 

Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 

The  nectarine,  and  curious^  peach. 

Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach; 

Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass. 

Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass.  40 

Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness; — 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 

Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find; 

Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these,  45 

Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas, 

Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root,  50 

Casting  the  body's  vest^  aside. 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide: 
There,  like  a  bu-d,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight,  55 

Waves  in  its  plume  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  garden-state. 

While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate: 

After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 

What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet!  60 

But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 

To  wander  solitary  there: 

Two  paradises  are  in  one, 

To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew  65 

Of  flowers,  and  herbs,  this  dial  new, 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run, 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we!  70 

How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckoned  but  with  herbs  and  flowers? 


BERMUDAS 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride, 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along, 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song. 

"  What  should  we  do  but  sing  his  praise,  5 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze, 
Un:o  an  isle  so  long  unknown. 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own? 
Where  he  the  huge  sea-monster  wracks,^ 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs,  10 

1  Here,  in  the  unusual  sense  of  delicious. 

2  The  body  is  the  vest  (vesture,  garment)  of  the  soul. 
Cf.  "  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay."     (Mcht.  of  Ven.  V.,  1). 

1  Wrecks,  destroys. 


He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage. 

Safe  from  the  storms  and  prelate's  rage. 

He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring, 

Which  here  enamels  everything, 

And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care,  i; 

On  daily  visits  through  the  air; 

He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright, 

Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night. 

And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close, 

Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus^  shows;  2( 

He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 

And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet. 

But  apples  plants  of  such  a  price, 

No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice; 

With  cedars  chosen  by  his  hand,  2t 

From  Lebanon,  he  stores  the  land, 

And  makes  the  hollow  seas,  that  roar, 

Proclaim  the  ambergrease  on  shore; 

He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 

The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast,  3C 

And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 

A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 


" Oh!  let  our  voice  his  praise  exalt, 

'Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault. 

Which,  then  (perhaps)  rebounding,  may     3S 

Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  Bay." 

Thus  sung  they  in  the  English  boat, 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note, 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime. 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time.  40 

TO  HIS  COY   MISTRESS 

Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time, 

This  coyness,  lady,  were  no  crime. 

We  would  sit  down,  and  think  which  way 

To  walk,  and  pass  our  long  love's  day. 

Thou  by  Indian  Ganges'  side  5 

Should'st  rubies  find:  I  by  the  tide 

Of  Humber  would  complain.    I  would 

Love  you  ten  years  before  the  flood. 

And  you  should,  if  you  please,  refuse 

Till  the  conversion  of  the  Jews;  10 

My  vegetable  love  should  grow 

Vaster  than  empires  and  more  slow; 

An  hundred  years  should  go  to  praise 

Thine  eyes,  and  on  thy  forehead  gaze; 

Two  hundred  to  adore  each  breast,  15 

But  thirty  thousand  to  the  rest; 

An  age  at  least  to  every  part. 

And  the  last  age  should  show  your  heart. 

For,  lady,  you  deserve  this  state, 

Nor  would  I  love  at  lower  rate.  20 


But  at  my  back  I  always  hear 
Time's  winged  chariot  hurrying  near. 
And  yonder  all  before  us  lie 
Deserts  of  vast  eternity. 
Thy  beauty  shall  no  more  be  found. 
Nor,  in  thy  marble  vault  shall  sound 
My  echoing  song:  then  worms  shall  try 
That  long  preserved  virginity. 


25 


2  Or  Hormuz,  a  city  at  the  entrance  to  the  Persian 
Gulf.    a.  Par.  Lost.  n.  2.   . 


226 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


And  your  quaint  honour  turn  to  dust, 
And  into  ashes  all  my  lust:  30 

The  grave's  a  fine  and  private  place, 
But  none,  I  think,  do  there  embrace. 

Now  therefore  while  the  youthful  hue 
Sits  on  thy  skin  like  morning  dew, 
And  while  thy  willing  soul  transpires  35 

At  every  pore  with  instant  fires, 
Now  let  us  sport  us  while  we  may, 
And  now,  like  amorous  birds  of  prey 
Rather  at  once  our  time  devour, 
Than  languish  in  his  slow-chaped^  power.  40 
Let  us  roll  all  our  strength  and  all 
Our  sweetness  up  into  one  ball. 
And  tear  our  pleasures  with  rough  strife. 
Thorough  the  iron  gates  of  life; 
Thus,  though  we  cannot  make  our  sun       45 
Stand  still,  yet  we  will  make  him  run. 

Wi^omni  CaretD 

1589-1639 

DISDAIN  RETURNED 

(Printed,  without  concluding  stanza,  in  Porter's 
Madrigalles  and  Ayres,  1632) 
He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek. 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires; 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires. 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay,  5 

So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 

Kindle  never-dying  fires;  10 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

No  tears,  Celia,  now  shall  win. 
My  resolved  heart  to  return; 

I  have  searched  that  soul  within  15 

And  find  naught  but  pride  and  scorn; 

I  have  learned  thy  arts,  and  now 

Can  disdain  as  much  as  thouf 


1591-1674 

ARGUMENT  TO  HESPERIDES 

(From  Hesperides,  1648) 

I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers. 

Of  April,  May,  of  June  and  July-flowers; 

I   sing  of   May-poles,   hock-carts,^   wassails,^ 

wakes,  ^ 
Of  bride-grooms,  brides,  and  of  their  bridal- 
cakes; 

1  Slow-jawed.     (Chap,  or  chop  =  a  jaw.)     Rather  let  us 
devour  time  at  once,  than  be  eaten  by  his  slow  jaws. 

>  The  last  carts  to  return  from  the  fields  at  harvest- 
home. 

2  It  was  a  rural  custom  to  drink  the  health  of,  or  to 
wassail,  the  fruit  trees  on  Christmas  eve. 

'  Originally  festivals  held  in  celebration  of  the  dedica- 
tion of  a  church. 


I  write  of  youth,  of  love,  and  have  access       5 
By  these  to  sing  of  cleanly  wantonness; 
I  sing  of  dews,  of  rains,  and,  piece  by  piece 
Of  balm,  of  oil,  of  spice  and  ambergris; 
I  sing  of  times  trans-shifting,  and  1  write 
How  roses  first  came  red  and  lilies  white;      10 
I  write  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I  sing 
The  Court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  fairy  king; 
I  write  of  hell;  I  sing  (and  ever  shall) 
Of  heaven,  and  hope  to  have  it  after  all. 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING 

(From  the  same) 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  mom 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air: 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see  6 

The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 

Each  flower  has  wept  and  bow'd  toward  the 

east 
Above  an  hour  since :  yet  you  have  not  dress'd; 

Nay !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed? 

When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said  10 

And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,  'tis  sin. 

Nay,  profanation  to  keep  in, 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen  15 

To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and 
green. 
And  sweet  as  Flora.    Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair; 
Fear  not;  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you :  20 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept. 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept; 
Come  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night: 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill  25 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.    Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in 

praying: 
Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come;  and,  coming,  mark 

How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a 

park  30 

Made  green  and  trimm'd  with  trees;    see 
how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 

Or  branch:  each  porch,  each  door  ere  this 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove ;       35 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 

And  open  fields  and  we  not  see  't? 

Come,  we'll  abroad;  and  let's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May;  40 

And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  stay- 
ing; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 


227 


There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come  45 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some  have  dispatched  their  cakes  and  cream, 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream: 
And  some  have  wept,  and  woo'd,  and  plighted 

troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off 
sloth:  50 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even: 
Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying  55 

This  night,  and  locks  pick'd,  yet  we're  not 
a-Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go  while  we  are  in  our  prime; 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty.  60 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun: 
And,  as  a  vapour  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 

So  when  you  or  I  are  made  65 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade. 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decay- 
ing, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  arMaying.  70 

TO  PRIMROSES  FILLED  WITH  MORN- 
ING DEW 

(From  the  same) 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes?  can  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you. 
Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teem'd  her  refreshing  dew?  5 

Alas!  you  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower, 
Nor  felt  th'  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind. 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years,  10 

Or  warp'd  as  we. 
Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  orphans  young, 
To  speak  by  tears,  before  ye  have  a  tongue. 

Speak,    whimp'ring    younglings,    and    make 
known  15 

The  reason  why 
Ye  droop  and  weep; 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep? 
Or  childish  lullaby? 
Or  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet  20 

The  violet? 
Or  brought  a  kiss 
From  that  sweetheart  to  this? 
No,  no,  this  sorrow  shown 

By  your  tears  shed  25 

Would  have  this  lecture  read: 


That  things  of  greatest,  so  of  meanest  worth, 
Conceiv'd  with  grief  are,  and  with  tears  brought 
forth. 


TO  THE  VIRGINS,  TO  MAKE  MUCH  OF 
TIME 

\y  (From  the  same) 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  time  is  still  a-flying: 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  Sun,      5 

The  higher  he's  a-getting. 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 

When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer;    10 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  ye  may  go  marry: 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime       15 
You  may  forever  tarry. 


TO  DAFFODILS 

(From  the  same) 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 

Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 

Stay,  stay,  6 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  evensong; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
•    Will  go  with  you  along.  10 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 

As  you,  or  anything. 

We  die,  15 

As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 
Away, 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again.  20 


THE  HAG 
(From  the  same) 

The  hag  is  astride 

This  night  for  to  ride. 
The  devil  and  she  together; 

Through  thick  and  through  thin. 

Now  out  and  then  in,  3 

Though  ne'er  so  foul  be  the  weather. 

A  thorn  or  a  burr 
She  takes  for  a  spur, 
With  a  lash  of  a  bramble  she  rides  now; 


228 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


Through  brakes  and  through  briars,  10 

O'er  ditches  and  mires, 
She  follows  the  spirit  that  guides  now. 

No  beast  for  his  food 

Dare  now  range  the  wood, 
But  hush'd  in  his  lair  he  lies  lurking;  15 

While  mischiefs,  by  these, 

On  land  and  on  seas, 
At  noon  of  night  are  a-working. 

The  storm  will  arise 

And  trouble  the  skies;  20 

This  night,  and  more  for  the  wonder. 

The  ghost  from  the  tomb 

Affrighted  shall  come, 
Call'd  out  by  the  clap  of  the  thunder. 


A  THANKSGIVING  TO  GOD,  FOR  HIS 

. HOUSE 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell. 

Wherein  to  dwell; 
A  little  house,  whose  hiunble  roof 

Is  weather  proof; 
Under  the  spars  of  which  I  lie  5 

Both  soft  and  dry; 
Where  thou,  my  chamber  for  to  ward, 

Hast  set  a  guard 
Of  harmless  thoughts,  to  watch  and  keep 

Me,  while  I  sleep.  10 

Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  fate; 

Both  void  of  state; 
And  yet  the  threshold  of  my  door 

Is  worn  by  th'  poor. 
Who  thither  come,  and  freely  get  15 

Good  words,  or  meat. 
Like  as  my  parlour,  so  my  hall 

And  kitchen's  small; 
A  little  buttery,  and  therein 

A  little  bin,  20 

Which  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  bread 

Unchipt,  unflead;^ 
Some  brittle  sticks  of  thorn  or  briar 

Make  me  a  fire, 
Close  by  whose  living  coal  I  sit,  25 

And  glow  like  it. 
Lord,  I  confess  too,  when  I  dine. 

The  pulse  is  thine 
And  aU  those  other  bits  that  be 

There  placed  by  thee;  30 

The  worts, 2  the  purslane,^  and  the  mess 

Of  water-cress, 
Which  of  thy  kindness  thou  hast  sent; 

And  my  content 
Makes  those,  and  my  beloved  beet,  35 

To  be  more  sweet. 
'Tis  thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth. 
And  giv'st  me  wassail  bowls  to  drink. 

Spiced  to  the  brink.  40 

Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soils  my  land. 


'  Unbroken,  uncut. 

*  Vegetables,  such  as  cabbage,  turnips,  etc. 


'  Salad. 


And  giv'st  me,  for  my  bushel  sown, 

Twice  ten  for  one; 
Thou  mak'st  my  teeming  hen  to  lay       41 

Her  egg  each  day; 
Besides,  my  healthful  ewes  to  bear 

Me  twins  each  year; 
The  while  the  conduits  of  my  kine 

Run  cream  for  wine;  50 

All  these,  and  better,  thou  dost  send 
Me,  to  this  end, — 
That  I  should  render  for  my  part, 

A  thankful  heart; 
Which,  fired  with  incense,  I  resign,  55 

As  wholly  thine; 
— But  the  acceptance,  that  must  be, 

My  Christ,  by  Thee. 

HIS  GRANGE,  OR  PRIVATE  WEALTH 

Though  clock, 
To  tell  how  night  draws  hence,  I've  none, 

A  cock 
I  have  to  sing  how  day  draws  on: 

I  have  5 

A  maid,  my  Prue,i  by  good  luck  sent, 

To  save 
That  little,  Fates  me  gave  or  lent. 

A  hen 
I  keep,  which,  creeking  day  by  day,  10 

Tells  when 
She  goes  her  long  white  egg  to  lay: 

A  goose 
I  have,  which,  with  a  jealous  ear. 

Lets  loose  15 

Her  tongue,  to  tell  what  danger's  near. 

A  lamb 
I  keep,  tame,  with  my  morsels  fed, 

Whose  dam 
An  orphan  left  him,  lately  dead:  20 

A  cat 
I  keep,  that  plays  about  my  house. 

Grown  fat 
With  eating  many  a  miching^  mouse: 

To  these  25 

A  Trasy'  I  do  keep,  whereby 

I  please 
The  more  my  rural  privacy: 

V/hich  are: 
But  toys,  to  give  my  heart  some  ease: —    3C 

Where  care 
None  is,  slight  things  do  lightly  please 

g)ir  aoljn  g>ucM(ng 

1609-1641 

ORSAMES'  SONG 
(From  Aglaura,  acted  1637) 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover?  \ 

Prithee,  why  so  pale?  \  v 

Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her,  f 

Looking  ill  prevail? 
Prithee,  why  so  pale?  5 

'  An  old  servant  of  Herrick's,  named  Prudence. 

*  Sly.  »  His  pet  spaniel. 


ROBERT  BURTON 


22C 


Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute?  10 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame,  this  will  not  move: 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herseK  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  her!  15 


1618-1658  > 

TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 
(From  Lucasta,  1649) 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 


Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make. 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


Hobert  115urton 

1577-1640 

BURTON  TELLS  WHY  HE  WRITES  UN- 
DER THE  NAME  OF  DEMOCRITUS 
JUNIOR 

(From  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  1621) 


True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field, 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 
As  you,  too,  shall  adore,— 

I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much. 
Loved  I  not  honour  more. 

TO  ALTHEA  FROM   PRISON^ 

(From  the  same) 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair. 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound. 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 


When,  like  committed  linnets,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud,  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

*  Composed  in  1642  during  the  poet's  confinement  in 
the  Gatehouse  at  Westminster,  for  his  advocacy  of  the 
royal  cause. 


Democritus,^  as  he  is  described  by  Hippoc- 
rates,"^ and  Laertius,^  was  a  little  wearish'*  old 
man,  very  melancholy  by  nature,  averse  from 
5      company  in  his  latter  days,  and  much  given  to 
5  solitariness,  a  famous  Philosopher  in  his  age, 
coevus  with  Socrates,  wholly  addicted  to  his 
studies  at  the  last,  and  to  a  private  life,  writ 
many  excellent  works,  a  great  Divine,  accord- 
jQ      ing  to  the  divinity  of  those  times,  an  expert 
10  Physician,  a  Politician,  an  excellent  Mathe- 
matician, as  Diacosmus  and  the  rest  of  his 
works  do  witness.    He  was  much  delighted  with 
the  studies  of  Husbandry,  saith  Columella,^  and 
often  I  find  him  cited  by  Constantinus  and 
15  others,  treating  of  that  subject.    He  knew  the 
natures,  differences  of  all  beasts,  plants,  fishes, 
birds;  and,  as  some  say,  could  understand  the 
tunes  and  voices  of  them.    In  a  word,  he  was 
omnifariam  doctus,  a  general  scholar,  a  great 
^20  student;  and  to  the  intent  he  might  better 
contemplate,  I  find  it  related  by  some,  that  he 
put  out  his  eyes,  and  was  in  his  old  age  volun- 
tarily blind,   yet  saw  more  than  all  Greece 
besides,  and  writ  of  every  subject,  Nihil  in  toto 
^^25  opificio  naturce  de  quo  non  scripsit.^    A  man  of 
an   excellent   wit,   profound   conceit;   and   to 
attain  knowledge  the  better  in  his  younger 

1  Democritus  (c.  460-c.  357  B.  C.)  was  a  Greek  philos- 

^  _       opher,  traveller,  and  author.     He  is  supposed  to  have 

^'^       gained  his  title,  "The  Laughing  Philosopher,"  from  the 

30  humorous  delight  he  took  in  watching  the  follies  of  other 

men.     Burton  called  himself  Democritus  Junior,  because 

he  believed  that  he  resembled  the  elder  Democritus  in 

disposition; — at   least  in  some   particulars.      Hence,   in 

describing  "The  Laughing  Philosopher,"  Burton  is  also 

giving  us  a  glimpse  into  the  peculiarities  of  his  own 

20       character  and  humors. 


35 


2  A   famous   Greek   physician   called    "the   father   of 
medicine." 

3  Diogenes  Laertius,  a  Greek  author,  who  wrote  a  book 
on  the  lives  of  the  ancient  philosophers. 

*  Weak,  withered. 

5  A  Roman  writer  on  agriculture,  who  was  born  in 
Spain  about  tlie  beginning  of  the  Christian  era. 

6  There  was  nothing  in  the  entire  workings  of  nature 
that  he  did  not  write  about. 


230  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

years,  he  travelled  to  Egypt  and  Athens,  to  Plato  commends,  out  of  him  Ldpsius^^  approves 
confer  with  learned  men,  admired  of  some,  and  furthers,  as  fit  to  be  imprinted  in  all  curious 
despised  of  others.  After  a  wandering  life,  he  wits,  not  he  a  slave  of  one  science,  or  dwell  alto- 
settled  at  Abdera,  a  town  in  Thrace,  and  was  gether  in  one  subject  as  most  do,  but  to  rove 
sent  for  thither  to  be  their  Law-maker,  Re-  5  abroad,  centum  puer  artium,  ^^  to  have  an  oar  in 
corder  or  Town-clerk  as  some  will;  or  as  others,  every  mxin's  boat,  to  taste  of  every  dish,  and  sip  of 
he  was  there  bred  and  born.  Howsoever  it  every  cup,  which  saith  Montaigne,  was  well  per- 
was,  there  he  lived  at  last  in  a  garden  in  the  formed  by  Aristotle  and  his^^  learned  country- 
suburbs,  wholly  betaking  himself  to  his  studies,  man  Adrian  Turnebus.  This  roving  humour 
and  a  private  life,  saving  that  sometimes  he  lo  (though  not  with  like  success)  I  have  ever  had, 
would  walk  down  to  the  haven,  and  laugh  heartily  and  like  a  ranging  spaniel,  that  barks  at  ever^? 
at  such  variety  of  ridiculous  objects,  which  there  bird  he  sees,  leaving  his  game,  I  have  followed 
he  saiv.''  Such  a  one  was  Democritus.  all,  saving  that  which  I  should,  and  may  justly 
But  in  the  mean  time,  how  doth  this  concern  complfin,  and  truly,  qui  ubique  est,  nusquam 
me,  or  upon  what  reference  do  I  usurp  h\s>\5est,^^  v^hxchGesner^^  did  in  modesty,  th^kilhorve 
habit?  I  confess  that  indeed  to  compare  myself  read  many  books,  but  to  little  purpose,  for 
to  him  for  aught  I  have  yet  said,  were  both  want  of  good  method,  I  have  confusedly  tum- 
impudency  and  arrogancy,  I  do  not  presume  to  bled  over  divers  authors  in  our  Libraries,  with 
make  any  parallel.  Antistat  mihi  millibus  small  profit  for  want  of  art,  order,  memory, 
Irecentis,  parvus  sum,  nullum  sum,  altum  nee  20  judgement.  I  never  travelled  but  in  Map  or 
3piro,  nee  spero.^  Yet  thus  much  I  will  say  of  Card,  in  which  my  unconfined  thoughts  have 
myself,  and  that  I  hope  without  all  suspicion  of  freely  expatiated,  as  having  ever  been  especially 
pride,  or  self  conceit,  I  have  lived  a  silent,  delighted  with  the  study  of  Cosmography. 
sedentary,  solitary,  private  life,  mz/ii  and  mwsis'  Saturn  was  the  lord  of  my  geniture,^^  cul- 
in  the  University  as  long  almost  as  Xenocrates  25  minating,  etc.,  and  Mars  principal  significator  of 
in  Athens,  ad  senectam  fere,^°  to  lea.rn  wisdom  a.s  manners,  in  partile  conjunction  with  mine 
be  did,  penned  up  most  part  in  my  study.  For  Ascendant;  both  fortunate  in  their  houses,  etc. 
[  have  been  brought  up  a  student  in  the  most  I  am  not  poor,  I  am  not  rich;  nihil  est,  nihil 
flourishing  College  of  Europe,  augustissimo  deest,"^^  I  have  little,  I  want  nothing;  all  my 
zollegio,  and  can  brag  with  Jovius,^^  almost,  30  treasure  is  in  Minerva's  tower.  Greater  prefer- 
in  ea  luce  domicilii  Vaticani,  totius  orbis  cele-  ment  as  I  could  never  get,  so  am  I  not  in  debt 
berrimi,  per  37  annos  multa  opporiunaque  for  it,  I  have  a  competency  (Laus  Deo)  from  my 
iidici;^^  for  30  years  I  have  continued  (having  noble  and  munificent  Patrons,  though  I  live 
the  use  of  as  good  Libraries  as  ever  he  had)  a  still  a  Collegiate  student,  as  Democritus  in  his 
scholar,  and  would  be  therefore  loth,  either  by  35  garden,  and  lead  a  monastick  life,  ipse  mihi 
living  as  a  drone,  to  be  an  unprofitable  or  un-  theatrum,^^  sequestered  from  those  tumults  and 
worthy  a  Member  of  so  learned  and  noble  a  troubles  of  the  world,  et  tanquum  in  specula 
society,  or  to  write  that  which  should  be  any  positus,^^  (as  he  said)  in  some  high  place  above 
way  dishonourable  to  such  a  royal  and  ample  you  all,  like  Stoicus  Sapiens,  omnia  secula, 
foundation.  Something  I  have  done,  though  40  praeterita  presentiaque  videns,  una  velut  in- 
by  my  profession  a  Divine,  yet  turbine  raptus  tuitu,^^  I  hear  and  see  what  is  done  abroad,  how 

ingenii,^^  as  he  said,  out  of  a  running  wit,  an  ,.  t    *     x-    •     mka^  1«n«^    t?i     •  v   i,-i  i    •  4.     a 

^         '       ^               ,.1    J        •    J      T    1-    J                   X  "  Justus  Lipsius  (1547-1606)  a  Flemish  philologist  and 

unconstant,  unsettled   mind,    I   had   a  great  critic, 

desire  (not  able  to  attain  to  a  superficial  skill  in  ^  The  child  of  a  hundred  arts. 

.      ;      ,                                   ix     •         •         n     i       1  "  Montaigne's.      Montaigne    (1533-1592),    the    great 
any),    to   have  some   smattering   m   all,    to    be  45  French  essayist,  refers  several  times  to  his  friend  Adrian 

aliguis  in  omnibus,  nvllus  in  singulis,^^  which  Turnebus,  and  he  says  that  Turnebus  "knew  more,  and 

^                                 '                               ^         '  knew  what  he  did  know  better,  than  any  man  of  his  time, 

or  long  before  him." 

^  We  are  told  that  Burton  would  go  "down  to  the  >»  He  who  is  everywhere,  is  nowhere. 
Bridge-foot  in  Oxford,"  and  Usten  to  "the  Bargemen  scold  i*  Konrad  von  Gesner  (1516-1565),  a  Swiss  naturalist 
and  storm  and  swear  at  one  another,  at  which  he  would  and  scholar,  who  was  professor  first  of  Greek  and  after- 
set  his  hands  to  his  sides  and  laugh  most  profusely."  wards  of  physics. 

8  He  excels  me  in  three  hundred  thousand  ways,  I  am  20  According  to  the  old  pseudo-science  of  Astrology,  the 

small,  I  am  nothing,  nor  do  I  either  wish  for  greatness,  or  character  and  destiny  of  a  person  was  determined  by  the 

expect  it.  position  of  the  planets  at  the  time  of  his  birth.     In  Bur- 

"  For  myself  and  for' my  studies.  ton's  time  even  learned  men  still  believed  in  the  influence 

1°  Almost  to  old  age.    Burton  was  about  forty-five  when  of  the  stars  on  human  affairs.    Burton  tells  us  that  he  was 

the  ylrm^omy  was  published.  born  when   Saturn   and   Mars   were   in   partile   (exact) 

"  Paulus  Jovius  (1483-1552)  a  noted  Italian  historian.  conjunction.    One  born  under  the  influence  of  Saturn  was 

'2  In  that  enlightened  air  of  the  Vatican  Library,  the  supposed  to  have  a  saturnine  (grave,  or  gloomy)  disposi- 

most  famous  in  the  whole  world,  I  have  come  to  know  tion. 

in  thirty-seven  years  many  useful  things.  21  Nothing  is  there,  nothing  is  lacking. 

"  Snatched  from  the  whirlpool  of  my  natural  inclina-  *2 1  myself  make  a  theatre  for  myself, 

tion.   ^  *2  And  set  as  it  were  in  a  watch  tower. 

"Literally — "Somebody  in  all  (branches  of  learning  **  Beholding  all  ages,  past  and  present,  as  if  ip  one 

although) ,  nothing  in  each  (especial  branch) ."  vi«w. 


ROBERT  BURTON  23 

others,  run,  ride,  turmoil,  and  macerate  them-  sounding  in  our  ears:  instead  of  nuptial  Torches 
selves  in  court  and  country,  far  from  those  we  have  firing  of  Towns  and  Cities:  for  triumpht 
wrangling  lawsuits,  auloe  vanitatum,  fori  am-  lamentations;  for  joy,  tears.  So  it  is,  and  so  i 
hitionem,  ridere  mecum  soleo:^^  I  laugh  at  all,  was,  and  ever  mil  be.  He  that  refuselh  to  see  an, 
only  secure  lest  my  suit  go  amiss,  my  ships  perish,  5  hear,  to  suffer  this,  is  not  fit  to  live  in  this  work 
corn  and  cattle  miscarry,  trade  decay.  /  have  and  knows  not  the  common  condition  of  all  men 
no  wife  nor  children  good  or  had  to  provide  for.  to  whom,  so  long  as  they  live,  with  a  reciproca 
A  mere  spectator  of  other  men's  fortunes  and  course,  joys  and  sorrows  are  annexed,  and  sue 
adventures,  and  how  they  act  their  parts,  which  ceed  one  another.  It  is  inevitable,  it  may  not  b^ 
methinks  are  diversely  presented  unto  me,  as  10  avoided,  and  why  then  should'st  thou  be  s< 
from  a  common  theatre  or  scene.  much  troubled?     Grave  nihil  est  homini  quoi 

fert  necessitas,^  as  Tully  deems  out  of  an  ol( 
Poet,    that    which    is    necessary    cannot    b( 

REMEDIES     AGAINST     DISCONTENTS  ,  ggX,  iil^%r':S/r^:\Sf  I' 
(From  the  same)  endured:  make  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  con 

form  thyself  to  undergo  it.  Si  longa  est,  levi. 
Discontents  and  grievances  are  either  general  est;  si  gravis  est,  hrevis  est;  if  it  be  long,  'ti; 
or  particular;  general  are  wars,  plagues,  hght;  if  grievous,  it  cannot  last;  it  will  away 
dearths,  famine,  fires,  inundations,  unseason- 20  c?zes  dolorem  minuit,''  and  if  naught  else,  yei 
able  weather,  epidemical  diseases,  which  time  will  wear  it  out,  custom  will  ease  it 
afflict  whole  Kingdoms,  Territories,  Cities:  or  oblivion  is  a  common  medicine  for  all  losses 
peculiar  to  private  men,  as  cares,  crosses,  injuries,  griefs,  and  detriments  whatsoever 
losses,  death  of  friends,  poverty,  want,  sick-  and  when  they  are  once  past,  this  commodit% 
ness,  orbities,^  injuries,  abuses,  etc.  generally  25  comes  of  infelicity,  it  makes  the  rest  of  our  lif 
all  discontent,  homines  quatimur  fortunoe  salo^  sweeter  unto  us:  atque  haec  oHm  meminiss€ 
no  condition  free;  quisque  suos  patimur  manes.^  juvabit;^  the  privation  and  want  of  a  thing  man% 
Even  in  the  midst  of  our  mirth  and  jollity,  there  times  makes  it  more  pleasant  and  delightsome  than 
is  some  grudging,  some  complaint;  as  he  saith,  before  it  was.  We  must  not  think,  the  happiesi 
our  whole  life  is  a  glucupicron,  a  bitter  sweet  30  of  us  all,  to  escape  here  without  some  misfor- 
passion,  honey  and  gall  mixt  together,  we  are      tunes, 

all  miserable  and  discontent;  who  can  deny  it?  Usque  adeo  nulla  est  sincera  voluptas, 

If  all,  and  that  it  be  a  common  calamity,  an      Sollicitumquealiquidlaetisintervenit.^  .  .  . 
inevitable   necessity,    all   distressed,    then   as 

Cardan^  infers,  who  art  thou  that  hopest  to  go  35  Whatsoever  is  under  the  Moon  is  subject  to 
free?  Why  dost  thou  not  grieve  thou  art  a  mortal  corruption,  alteration;  and,  so  long  as  thou 
man,  and  not  governor  of  the  world?  Ferre  quam  livest  upon  the  earth,  look  not  for  other.  Thou 
sortem  patiuntur  omnes,  Nemo  recuset !  //  it  shall  not  here  find  peaceable  and  cheerful  days, 
be  common  to  all,  why  should  one  man  be  more  dis-  quiet  times,  but  rather  clouds,  storms,  calumnies; 
quieted  than  another?    If  thou  alone  wert  dis- 'io  such  is  our  fate.  .  .  . 

tressed,  it  were  indeed  more  irksome,  and  less  Yea,  but  thou  thinkest  thou  arj  more  miser- 

to  be  indured;  but,  when  the  calamity  is  com-  able  than  the  rest,  other  men  are  happy  in  re- 
mon,  comfort  thyself  with  this,  thou  hast  more  spect  of  thee,  their  miseries  are  but  flea- 
fellows,  Solamen  miseris  socios  habuisse  doloris,^  bitings  to  thine,  thou  alone  art  unhappj'-,  none 
'tis  not  thy  sole  case,  and  why  shouldst  thou  45  so  bad  as  thyself.  Yet  if,  as  Socrates  said,  all 
be  so  impatient?  /,  but,  alas!  we  are  more  the  men  in  the  world  should  come  and  bring  their 
miserable  than  others;  what  shall  we  do?  Besides  grievances  together,  of  body,  mind,  fortune,  sores, 
private  miseries,  we  live  in  perpetual  fear,  and  ulcers,  madness,  epilepsies,  agues,  and  all  those 
danger  of  common  enemies:  we  have  Bellona's  common  calamities  of  beggary,  want,  servitude, 
whips,  and  pitiful  outcries,  for  Epithalamiums;  50  imprisonment,  and  lay  them  on  a  heap  to  be 
for  pleasant  Musick,  that  fearful  noise  of  Ord-  equally  divided,  wouldst  thou  share  alike,  and 
nance,    Drums,    and    warlike    Trumpets,    still      take  thy  portion,  or  be  as  thou  art?     Without 

question  thou  wouldst  be  as  thou  art.     If  some 

26 1  am  wont  to  smile  to  myself  at  the  empty  vanity  of        Ttinifpr    <hnu]c{    <3flv     to    mvp    im    nil    onnfpnt 
the  palace,  and  the  ambition  of  the  market-place.  Jupiter    snouia    say,    tO    give    US    ail    content, 

1  Bereavements  (Lat.  orbus) .  «  Nothing  which  necessity  imposes  is  burdensome  to 

2  We  men  are  tossed  on  the  sea  of  fortune.  men. 

3  We  suffer  each  one  of  us  his  own  punishment.  ''  A  day  makes  trouble  less. 

*  Giralamo   Cardano  (1501-1576),  an    Italian   philos-  » And  moreover  it  will  delight  us  to  remember  those 

opher,  mathematician,  and  astrologer.  things  in  time  to  come. 

'  The  solace  of  the  unhappy  is  to  have  had  companions  '  All  the  way  along  there  is  no  true  pleasure.     Some 

in  suffering.  trouble  intrudes  upon  our  joys. 


232  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

"Jam  faciam,  quod  vultis;  eris  tu,  qui  modo  We  are  sent  as  so  many  soldiers  into  this 

miles,  world,  to  strive  with  it,  the  flesh,  the  devil;  our 

Mercator;  tu,  consultus  modo,  rusticus;  hinc  life  is  a  warfare,  and  who  knows  it  not?    Non 

vos,  est  ad  asira  mollis  e  terris  via:^^  and  therefore, 

Vos  hinc  mutatis  discedite  partibus;  eia!  5  per  adventure,  this  world  here  is  made  troublesome 

Quid  statis?  nolint."  unto  us,  that,  as  Gregory  notes,  we  should  not  be 

Well,  be  't  so  then :  you,  master  soldier,  ^^^f^'"^  ^^  ^^^  ^«^'  «^^  -^^^^^^  ^^^^^^^  ^^  «^^ 

Shall  be  a  merchant;  you,  sir  lawyer,  ^  ^^'  '  ','  •,    ^    i  -m  .1  1 

A  country  gentleman;  go  you  to  this,  ,   ^?,^^  *^^°  ^^^"^^  *«  ^.^^^^"-    ^^  *^^  ^^^  ^^ 

That  side  you;  why  stand  ye?    It's  well  as 'tis.  ^°  *^«"^^^^^^^'    ^f^  y^^   m   misery    m   many 
*^  grievances,  on  the  other  side  you  have  many 

Every  man  knows  his  own,  but  not  others*  pleasant  sports,  objects,  sweet  smells,  delight- 
defects  and  miseries;  and  His  the  nature  of  all  some  tastes,  musick,  meats,  herbs,  flowers,  etc. 
men  still  to  reflect  upon  themselves,  their  own  mis-  to  recreate  your  senses.  Or  put  case  thou  art 
fortunes,  not  to  examine  or  consider  other  men's,  15  now  forsaken  of  the  world,  dejected,  con- 
not  to  confer  themselves  with  others:  to  re-  temned,  yet  comfort  thyself,  as  it  was  said  to 
count  their  miseries,  but  not  their  good  gifts,  Hagar  in  the  wilderness,  God  sees  thee,  he  takes 
fortunes,  benefits,  which  they  have,  to  ruminate  notice  of  thee:  there  is  a  God  above  that  can 
on  their  adversity,  but  not  once  to  think  on  vindicate  thy  cause,  that  can  relieve  thee, 
their  prosperity,  not  what  they  have,  but  20  And  surely  Seneca  thinks  he  takes  delight  in 
what  they  want:  to  look  still  on  them  that  go  seeing  thee.  The  gods  are  well  pleased  when 
before,  but  not  on  those  infinite  numbers  that  they  see  great  men  contending  with  adversity,  as 
come  after.  Whereas  many  a  man  would  we  are  to  see  men  fight,  or  a  man  with  a  beast. 
think  himself  in  heaven,  a  petty  Prince,  if  he  had  But  these  are  toys  in  respect.  Behold,  saith  he, 
but  the  least  part  of  that  fortune  which  thou  so  25  a  spectacle  worthy  of  God:  a  good  man  contented 
much  repinest  at,  abhorrest,  and  accountest  a  with  his  estate.  A  tyrant  is  the  best  sacrifice  to 
most  vile  and  wretched  estate.  How  many  Jupiter,  as  the  ancients  held,  and  his  best  ob- 
thousands  want  that  which  thou  hast!  how  ject  a  contented  mind.  For  thy  part  then  rest 
many  myriads  of  poor  slaves,  captives,  of  such  satisfied,  cast  all  thy  care  on  him,  thy  burden  on 
as  work  day  and  night  in  coal-pits,  tin-mines,  30  him,  rely  on  him,  trust  on  him,  and  he  shall 
with  sore  toil  to  maintain  a  poor  living,  of  such  nourish  thee,  care  for  thee,  give  thee  thine  heart's 
as  labour  in  body  and  mind,  live  in  extreme  desire;  say  with  David,  God  is  our  hope  and 
anguish,  and  pain,  all  which  thou  art  free  from!  strength,  in  troubles  ready  to  be  found,  Psal.  46, 1. 
O  fortunatos  nimium  bona  si  sua  nortnt!^^  For  they  that  trust  in  the  Lord  shall  be  as  Mount 
Thou  art  most  happy  if  thou  couldst  be  con- 35  Sion,  which  cannot  be  removed,  Psal.  125  1,  2. 
tent,  and  acknowledge  thy  happiness.  ...  As  the  mountains  are  about  Jerusalem,  so  is 

Be  content  and  rest  satisfied,  for  thou  art  well      the  Lord  about  his  people,  henceforth  and  for- 
in  respect  of  others;  be  thankful  for  that  thou      ever. 
hast,  that  God  hath  done  for  thee;  he  hath  not 
made  thee  a  monster,  a  beast,  a  base  creature,  40 

ln:rJM;A"Ut7it,  thouS\  wen  a:  ^^^  ^Tljomas  ©berburg 

thou  art.  ...  1581-1613 

Our  life  is  but  short,  a  very  dream,  and  while 
we  look  about,  immortalitas  adest,  eternity  is  at  45         j^  FAIR  AND  HAPPY  MILKMAID 
hand:  our  life  is  a  pilgrimage  on  earth,  which 

wise  men  pass  with  great  alacrity.    If  thou  be  in  (From  Characters  1614) 

woe.  sorrow,  want,  distress,  in  pain,  or  sickness, 

think  of  that  of  our  Apostle,  God  chastiseth  A  fair  and  happy  milkmaid  is  a  country 
them  whom  He  loveth.  They  that  sow  in  tears  50  wench  that  is  so  far  from  making  herself 
shall  reap  in  joy.  Psal.  126,  6.  As  the  furnace  beautiful  by  art,  that  one  look  of  hers  is  able  to 
proveth  the  potter's  vessel,  so  doth  temptation  try  put  all  face-physic  out  of  countenance.  She 
men's  thoughts,  Eccl.  27,  5;  'tis  for  thy  good,  knows  a  fair  look  is  but  a  dumb  orator,  to 
periisses  nisi  periisses:  hadst  thou  not  been  so  commend  virtue,  therefore  minds  it  not.  All 
visited,  thou  hadst  been  utterly  undone;  as  55  her  excellencies  stand  in  her  so  silently,  as  if 
gold  in  the  fire,  so  men  are  tried  in  adver-  they  had  stolen  upon  her  without  her  knowl- 
sity.  ...  edge.      The   lining   of   her   apparel   which   is 

»  O  too  happy  ones,  if  only  they  reaUzed  their  own  good       ^^^^^^^ '  ^^  ^^^  better  than  OUtsides  of  tissue;  for 
fortune.    V.  Virg.  Georg.  H,  458.  u  The  road  from  the  earth  to  the  stars  is  not  so  easy. 


THOMAS  HOBBES  233 

though  she  be  not  arrayed  in  the  spoil  of  the  sign  of  undervalue,  either  direct  in  their  persons, 
silk-worm,  she  is  decked  in  innocency,  a  far  or  by  reflection  in  their  kindred,  their  friends, 
better  wearing.  She  doth  not,  with  lying  long  their  nation,  their  profession,  or  their  name, 
abed,  spoil  both  her  complexion  and  conditions:  Hereby  it  is  manifest  that  during  the  time 

nature  hath  taught  her,  too  immoderate  sleep  5  men  live  without  a  common  power  to  keep 
is  rust  to  the  soul:  she  rises,  therefore  with  them  all  in  awe,  they  are  in  that  condition 
chanticleer,  her  Dame's  cock,  and  at  night  which  is  called  war;  and  such  a  war,  as  is  of 
makes  the  lamb  her  curfew.  The  golden  ears  every  man,  against  every  man.  For  "war" 
of  corn  fall  and  kiss  her  feet  when  she  reaps  consisteth  not  in  battle  only,  or  in  the  act  of 
them,  as  if  they  wished  to  be  bound  and  led  lo  fighting;  but  in  a  tract  of  time  wherein  the  will 
prisoners  by  the  same  hand  that  felled  them,  to  contend  by  battle  is  sufficiently  known:  and 
Her  breath  is  her  own,  which  scents  all  the  year  therefore  the  notion  of  "time"  is  to  be  con- 
long  of  June,  like  a  new-made  haycock.  She  sidered  in  the  nature  of  war,  as  it  is  in  the 
makes  her  hand  hard  with  labour,  and  her  nature  of  weather.  For  as  the  nature  of  foul 
heart  soft  with  pity;  and  when  winters  even- 15  weather  lieth  not  in  a  shower  or  two  of  rain,  but 
ings  fall  early  (sitting  at  her  merry  wheel)  she  in  an  inclination  thereto  of  many  days  together; 
sings  a  defiance  to  the  giddy  wheel  of  fortune,  so  the  nature  of  war  consisteth  not  in  actual 
She  doth  all  things  with  so  sweet  a  grace,  it  fighting,  but  in  the  known  disposition  thereto 
seems  ignorance  will  not  suffer  her  to  do  ill,  during  all  the  time  there  is  no  assurance  to  the 
being  her  mind  is  to  do  well.  She  bestows  her  20  contrary.  All  other  time  is  "peace." 
year's  wages  at  next  fair,  and  in  choosing  her  Whatsoever  therefore  is  consequent  to  a  time 

garments  counts  no  bravery  i'  the  world  like  of  war,  where  every  man  is  enemy  to  every 
decency.  The  garden  and  bee-hive  are  all  man,  the  same  is  consequent  to  the  time 
her  physic  and  chirurgery,  and  she  lives  the  wherein  men  live  without  other  security  than 
longer  for  it.  She  dares  go  alone  and  unfold  25  what  their  own  strength  and  their  own  inven- 
sheep  in  the  night,  and  fears  no  manner  of  ill  tion  shall  furnish  them  withal.  In  such  condi- 
because  she  means  none;  yet  to  say  truth,  she  is  tion  there  is  no  place  for  industry,  because  the 
never  alone,  for  she  is  still  accompanied  with  fruit  thereof  is  uncertain,  and  consequently  no 
old  songs,  honest  thoughts,  and  prayers,  but  culture  of  the  earth;  no  navigation,  nor  use  of 
short  ones,  yet  they  have  their  efficacy,  in  that  30  the  commodities  that  may  be  imported  by  sea; 
they  are  not  palled  with  ensuing  idle  cogita-  no  commodious  building;  no  instruments  of 
tions.  Thus  lives  she,  and  all  her  care  is  she  moving  and  removing  such  things  as  require 
may  die  in  the  Spring  time,  to  have  store  of  much  force;  no  knowledge  of  the  face  of  the 
flowers  stuck  upon  her  winding  sheet.  earth;  no  account  of  time;  no  arts;  no  letters; 

35  no  society;  and,  which  is  worst  of  all,  continual 

fear  and  danger  of  violent  death;  and  the  life 

tE^l)OtttaSf    )^Obb$0  of  man,  solitary,   poor,   nasty,   brutish,    and 

1588-1679  j^  jjj^y  gggjjj  strange  to  some  man  that  has 

40  not  well  weighed  these  things,  that  Nature 
WAR  should  dissociate  and  render  men  apt  to  invade 

,_,         r     .  .1.      1  i  £jtri  N  and  destroy  o»e  another;  and  he  may  therefore, 

(From  Lemaihan,^  1651)  ^^^  trusting  to  this  inference,  made  from  the 

In  the  nature  of  man,  we  find  three  principal  passions,  desire  perhaps  to  have  the  same  con- 
causes  of  quarrel.  First,  competition;  secondly,  45  firmed  by  experience.  Let  him  therefore 
diffidence;^  thirdly,  glory.  The  first  maketh  consider  with  himself,  when  taking  a  journey, 
men  invade  for  gain,  the  second  for  safety,  and  he  arms  himself,  and  seeks  to  go  well  accom- 
the  third  for  reputation.  The  first  use  violence,  panied ;  when  going  to  sleep,  he  locks  his  doors ; 
to  make  themselves  masters  of  other  men's  when  even  in  his  house,  he  locks  his  chest;  and 
persons,  wives,  children,  and  cattle;  the  second,  50  this  when  he  knows  there  be  laws,  and  pubhc 
to  defend  them;  the  third,  for  trifles,  as  a  word,  officers,  armed  to  revenge  allmjuries  shall  be 
a  smile,  a  different  opinion,  and  any  other     done  him;  what  opmion  he  has  of  his  teliow 

1  The  Leviathan  a  creature  of  gigantic  size  and  strength.  subjects  when  he  rides  armed;  of  hlS  feUow- 
is  used  by  Hobbes  as  the  type  of  his  ideal  of  the  state.    He       citizens  when  he  locks  hlS  dOOrS,   ana  01   ms 

a^aS?  a'nf  riio^  brthe"e""ci°e°'Xt  'a1>  KlX'p^wS  55  chUdren  and  ^rvants  when  he  locks  his  chests. 

over  its  subjects,  hence  he  makes  Leviathan  the  symbol  of  Does  he  not  there  as  much  aCCUSe  mankmQ  Dy 
"that  mortal  god"  the  strong  state,  armed,  and  dominant       ,  .         x-  ^  j  Aq  \yy  j^y  words?     But  neither 

over  all.    So,  in  the  passage  given  here,  he  alludes  to  the       niS  actions,  as  l  uo  uy  uiy  wyi    o 

evils  which  follow  "when  men  live  without  a  common  of  us  accuse  man  s  nature  m  It.  liie  aesires 
■"^Ssu SackTtSd'rncl'in  othera.  and  Other  passions  of  man  are  in  themselvea  no 


234  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

sin.    No  more  are  the  actions  that  proceed  from      by  their  industry  to  obtain  them.    And  reason 
those  passicTis,  till  they  know  a  law  that  for-      suggesteth  convenient  articles  of  peace,  upon 
bids  them;  which  till  laws  be  made  they  cannot      which  men  may  be  drawn  to  agreement, 
know,  nor  can  any  law  be  made  till  they  have 
agreed  upon  the  person  that  shall  make  it.  5 

It  may  perad venture  be  thought  there  was  31^3"^^    ^iSlltOn 

never  such  a  time  nor  condition  of  war  as  this; 

and  I  believe  it  was  never  generally  so  over  all  1593-1683 

the  world,  but  there  are  many  places  where  „  *  T^xT^-ri.T^  -r^^-r^Tr^^^T^  » ^-rnr^  -n.-rr^^^-.-r^. 
they  live  so  now.     For  the  savage  people  in  ,o  HAWKING,   HUNTING,  AND  FISHING* 

many  places  in  America,  except  the  govern-         ^f^^j^  y^^  Complete  Angler,  fifth  ed.  1676) 
ment  of  small  families,  the  concord  whereof 

dependeth  upon  natural  lust,  have  no  govern-  Piscator.  You  are  well  overtaken,  gentle- 
ment  at  all,  and  live  at  this  day  in  that  brutish  men,  a  good  morning  to  you  both;  I  have 
manner,  as  I  said  before.  Howsoever,  it  may  15  stretched  my  legs  up  Tottenham  Hill  to  over- 
be  perceived  what  manner  of  life  there  would  take  you,  hoping  your  business  may  occasion 
be  where  there  were  no  common  power  to  fear  you  towards  Ware,  whither  I  am  going  this 
by  the  manner  of  life  which  men  that  have      fine,  fresh  May  morning. 

formerly  lived  under  a  peaceful  government,  Venator.  Sir,  I,  for  my  part,  shall  almost 
used  to  degenerate  into  a  civil  war.  20  answer  your  hopes;  for  my  purpose  is  to  drink 

But  though  there  had  never  been  any  time  my  morning's  draught  at  the  Thatched  House 
wherein  particular  men  were  in  a  condition  of  in  Hoddesden;  and  I  think  not  to  rest  till  I 
war  one  against  another;  yet  in  all  times  kings  come  thither,  where  I  have  appointed  a  friend 
and  persons  of  sovereign  authority,  because  of  or  two  to  meet  me:  but  for  this  gentleman  that 
their  independency,  are  in  continual  jealousies  25  you  see  with  me,  I  know  not  how  far  he  intends 
and  in  the  state  and  posture  of  gladiators;  his  journey;  he  came  so  lately  into  my  company, 
having  their  weapons  pointing,  and  their  eyes  that  I  have  scarce  had  time  to  ask  him  the 
fixed   on    one   another;   that   is,    their   forts,      question. 

garrisons,  and  guns  upon  the  frontiers  of  their  Auceps.  Sir,  I  shall  by  your  favour,  bear 
kingdoms;  and  continual  spies  upon  their  30  you  company  as  far  as  Theobald's;  and  there 
neighbours;  which  is  a  posture  of  war.  But  leave  you,  for  then  I  turn  up  to  a  friend's  house 
because  they  uphold  thereby  the  industry  of  who  mews  a  hawk  for  me, 2  which  I  now  long  to 
their  subjects,  there  does  not  follow  from  it     see. 

that  misery  which  accompanies  the  liberty  of  Ven.  Sir,  we  are  all  so  happy  as  to  have  a 
particular  men.  35  fine,  fresh,  cool  morning,  and  I  hope  we  shall 

To  this  war  of  every  man,  against  every  each  be  the  happier  in  the  other's  company, 
man,  this  also  is  consequent — that  nothing  can  And,  gentlemen,  that  I  may  not  lose  yours,  I 
be  unjust.  The  notions  of  right  and  wrong,  shall  either  abate  or  amend  my  pace  to  enjoy 
justice  and  injustice,  have  there  no  place,  it;  knowing  that,  as  the  Italians  say,  "Good 
Where  there  is  no  common  power,  there  is  no  40  company  in  a  journey  makes  the  way  to  seem 
law;  where  no  law,  no  injustice.     Force  and     the  shorter." 

fraud  are  in  war  the  two  cardinal  virtues.  Jus-  Auc.  It  may  do  so.  Sir,  with  the  help  of  good 
tice  and  injustice  are  none  of  the  faculties  discourse,  which,  methinks  we  may  promise 
neither  of  the  body  nor  mind.  If  they  were,  from  you  that  both  look  and  speak  so  cheer- 
they  might  be  in  a  man  that  were  alone  in  the  45  fully;  and,  for  my  part,  I  promise  you  as  an 
world,  as  well  as  his  senses  and  passions.  They  invitation  to  it,  that  I  will  be  as  free  and  open- 
are  qualities  that  relate  to  men  in  society,  not  hearted  as  discretion  will  allow  me  to  be  with 
in  soUtude.    It  is  consequent  also  to  the  same     strangers. 

condition,  that  there  be  no  propriety,  no  domin-         Ven.  And,  Sir,  I  promise  the  like, 
ion,  no  "mine"  and  "thine"  distinct;  but  only  50     Pisc.  I  am  right  glad  to  hear  your  answers: 
that  to  be  every  man's  that  he  can  get,  and  for 

so  long  as  he  can  keep  it.     And  thus  much  for  ,,  ^  This  conversation  is  between  Piscator  (the  fisherman). 

,1       .11  J...  1  •  r  t  ,  .  Venator  (the  hunter),  and  Auceps  (the  fowler,  or  bird- 

tne  HI  condition  which  man  by  mere  nature  is  catcher).    These  representatives  of  three  kinds  of  sport, 

actually  placed  in;  though  with  a  possibility  to  ™^*  ,°ear  Tottenham,  a  town  some  five  miles  north  of 

„„_^  ,     ,.  .,  •  i.«  _xi     •     xt-  •  London.     They  then  appear  to  have  taken  the  main 

come  out  Ot  it,  consisting  partly  in  the  passions,  65  road  toward  Ware,  a  town  on  the  river  Lea.  some  fifteen 

partly  in  his  reason.  ^^  twenty  miles  north  of  Tottenham.     The   Thatched 

rpi  .  J.-U    J.  •      f  ±  House  on  the  Ware  road,  lay  directly  in  their  route: 

ine  passions  tnat  incline  men  to  peace,  are  Theobald's  was  a  magnificent  country-seat,   about  six 

fear  of  death;  desire  of  such  things  as  are     miles  north  of  Tottenham. 

„^„^„„„„,  .^    '  J.         T   •  e^   "'o   <iic  2  Takes  care  of  a  hawk  durmg  the  mewing,  or  moultin* 

necessary  to  commodious  uvmg;  and  a  hope     season. 


IZAAK  WALTON  235 

and  in  confidence  you  speak  the  truth,  I  shall      "  Lucian,  well  skill' d  in  scoffing,  this  hath  writ: 

put  on  a  boldness  to  ask  you,   Sir,  whether      Friend,  that' s  your  folly  which  you  think  your  wit: 

business  or  pleasure  caused  you  to  be  so  early      This  you  vent  oft,  void  both  of  wit  and  fear, 

up,  and  walk  so  fast;  for  this  other  gentleman      Meaning  another,  when  yourself  you  jeer:' 

hath  declared  he  is  going  to  see  a  hawk  that  a  5 

friend  mews  for  him.  If  to  this  you  add  what  Solomon  says  of 

Ven.  Sir,  mine  is  a  mixture  of  both,  a  little  scoffers,  that,  "they  are  an  abomination  to 
business  and  more  pleasure:  for  I  intend  this  mankind,"  (Prov.  xxiv.  9),  let  him  that  thinks 
day  to  do  all  my  business,  and  then  bestow  fit,  scoff  on,  and  be  a  scoffer  still;  but  I  account 
another  day  or  two  in  hunting  the  otter,  which,  lo  them  enemies  to  me,  and  to  all  that  love  virtue 
a  friend,  that  I  go  to  meet,  tells  me,  is  much      and  Angling. 

pleasanter  than  any  other  chase  whatsoever:  And  for  you  that  have  heard  many  grave, 

howsoever  I  mean  to  try  it;  for  to-morrow  serious  men  pity  Anglers;  let  me  tell  you,  Sir] 
morning  we  shall  meet  a  pack  of  otter-dogs  of  there  be  many  men  that  are  by  others  taken 
noble  Mr.  Sadler's,'  upon  Amwell  Hill,*  who  15  to  be  serious  and  grave  men,  which  we  contemn 
will  be  there  so  early,  that  they  intend  to  pre-  and  pity.  Men  that  are  taken  to  be  grave, 
vent^  the  sun  rising.  because  nature  hath  made  them  of  a  sour  com- 

Pisc.  Sir,  my  fortune  has  answered  my  de-  plexion,  money-getting  men,  men  that  spend 
sires;  and  my  purpose  is  to  bestow  a  day  or  all  their  time,  first  in  getting,  and  next  in 
two  in  helping  to  destroy  some  of  those  vil- 20  anxious  care  to  keep  it;  men  that  are  con- 
lanous  vermin;  for  I  hate  them  perfectly,  demned  to  be  rich,  and  then  alwa3^s  busy  or 
because  they  love  fish  so  well,  or  rather,  be-  discontented:  for  these  poor-rich-men,  we 
cause  they  destroy  so  much;  indeed,  so  much.  Anglers  pity  them  perfectly,  and  stand  in  no 
that,  in  my  judgment  all  men  that  keep  otter-  need  to  borrow  their  thoughts  to  think  ourselves 
dogs  ought  to  have  pensions  from  the  King  to  25  so  happy.  No,  no.  Sir,  we  enjoy  a  contented- 
encourage  them  to  destroy  the  very  breed  of  ness  above  the  reach  of  such  dispositions,  and 
those  base  otters,  they  do  so  much  mischief,      as  the  learned  and  ingenious  Montaigne  says 

Ven.  But  what  say  you  to  the  foxes  of  the  like  himself  freely,  "When  my  cat  and  I  enter- 
nation?  Would  not  you  as  willingly  have  them  tain  each  other  with  mutual  apish  tricks,  as 
destroyed?  for  doubtless  they  do  as  much  mis-  30  playing  with  a  garter,  who  knows  but  that  I 
chief  as  otters  do.  make  my  cat  more  sport  than  she  makes  me? 

Pisc.  Oh,  Sir,  if  they  do,  it  Is  not  so  much  to  Shall  I  conclude  her  to  be  simple,  that  has  her 
me  and  my  fraternity  as  those  base  vermin  the  time  to  begin  or  refuse  to  play  as  freely  as  I 
otters  do.  myself  have?    Nay,  who  knows  but  that  it  is  a 

Auc.  Why,  Sir,  I  pray,  of  what  fraternity  are  35  defect  of  my  not  understanding  her  language 
you,  that  you  are  so  angry  with  the  poor  otters?      (for  doubtless  cats  talk  and  reason  with  one 

Pisc.  I  am.  Sir,  a  Brother  of  the  Angle,  and  another)  that  we  agree  no  better?  And  who 
therefore  an  enemy  to  the  otter:  for  you  are  to  knows  but  that  she  pities  me  for  being  no  wiser 
note  that  we  Anglers  all  love  one  another,  and  than  to  play  with  her,  and  laughs  and  censures 
therefore  do  I  hate  the  otter  both  for  my  own  40  my  folly  for  making  sport  for  her,  when  we  two 
and  for  their  sakes  who  are  of  my  brotherhood,      play  together?" 

Ven.  And  I  am  a  lover  of  hounds;  I  have  Thus  freely  speaks  Montaigne  concerning 
followed  many  a  pack  of  dogs  many  a  mile,  and  cats;  and  I  hope  I  may  take  as  great  a  hberty 
heard  many  merry  huntsmen  make  sport  and  to  blame  any  man,  and  laugh  at  him  too,  let 
scoff  at  anglers.  45  him  be  never  so  grave,  that  hath  not  heard  what 

Auc.  And  I  profess  myself  a  Falconer,  and  Anglers  can  say  in  the  justification  of  their  art 
have  heard  many  grave,  serious  men  pity  andrecreation;  which  I  may  again  tell  you  is  so 
them,  'tis  such  a  heavy,  contemptible,  dull  full  of  pleasure,  that  we  need  not  borrow  their 
recreation.  thoughts  to  think  ourselves  happy. 

Pisc.  You  know,  gentlemen  'tis  an  easy  50  Ven.  Sir,  you  have  almost  amazed  me;  for 
thing  to  scoff  at  any  art  or  recreation:  a  little  though  I  am  no  scoffer,  yet  I  have,  T  pray  let 
wit,  mixed  with  ill-nature,  confidence,  and  me  speak  it  without  offence,  always  looked  upon 
malice,  will  do  it;  but  though  they  often  venture  Anglers  as  more  patient  and  more  simple  men 
boldly,  yet  they  are  often  caught  even  in  theip  than  I  fear  I  shall  find  you  to  be. 
own  trap,  according  to  that  of  Lucian,  the  55  Pisc  Sir,  I  hope  you  will  not  judge  my 
father  of  the  family  of  scoffers.  earnestness   to   be   impatience:    and   for   my 

» A  well-known  sportsman  and  country-gentleman  of  simpHcity,  if  by  that  you  mean  a  harmlessness, 
the  time.'  „    „         ^        •,         .u    r  «.  or  that  simpUcity  which  was  usually  found  in 

*  Amwell  13  a  small  vil  age  a  few  miles  south  of  Ware.       ^,  .     ...        ^Y   .  ,. ^     _,^   „,^,^     „«   ikv^^^.*- 

^Anticipate  the  sunrise.  the  primitive  Christians,  who  were,  as  most 


236  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

Anglers  are,  quiet  men,  and  followers  of  peace,  have  her  wings  scorched  by  the  sun's  heat,  she 
men  that  were  so  simply-wise  as  not  to  sell  their  flies  so  near  it,  but  her  mettle  makes  her  care- 
consciences  to  buy  riches,  and  with  them  less  of  danger;  for  she  then  needs  nothing,  but 
vexation  and  a  fear  to  die;  if  you  mean  such  makes  her  nimble  pinions  cut  the  fluid  air, 
simple  men  as  lived  in  those  times  when  there  5  and  so  makes  her  high  way  over  the  steepest 
were  fewer  lawyers;  when  men  might  have  had  mountains  and  deepest  rivers,  and  in  her 
a  lordship  safely  conveyed  to  them  in  a  piece  of  glorious  career  looks  with  contempt  upon 
parchment  no  bigger  than  your  hand,  though  those  high  steeples  and  magnificent  palaces 
several  sheets  will  not  do  it  safely  in  this  wiser  which  we  adore  and  wonder  at;  from  which 
age;  I  say,  Sir,  if  you  take  us  Anglers  to  be  10  height  I  can  make  her  to  descend  by  a  word 
such  simple  men  as  I  have  spoken  of,  then  from  my  mouth  (which  she  both  knows  and 
myself  and  those  of  my  profession  will  be  glad  obeys),  to  accept  of  meat  from  my  hand,  to 
to  be  so  understood:  but  if  by  simplicity  you  own  me  for  her  master,  to  go  home  with  me 
meant  to  express  a  general  defect  in  those  that  and  be  willing  the  next  day  to  afford  me  the 
profess  and  practise  the  excellent  art  of  Angling  15  like  recreation. 

I  hope  in  time  to  disabuse  you,  and  make  the  And  more;  this  element  of  air  which  I  pro- 

contrary  appear  so  evidently,  that,  if  you  will  fess  to  trade  in,  the  worth  of  it  is  such,  and  it 
but  have  patience  to  hear  me,  I  shall  remove  is  of  such  necessity,  that  no  creature  whatso- 
all  the  anticipations  that  discourse,  or  time,  or  ever,  not  only  those  numerous  creatures  that 
prejudice,  have  possessed  you  with  against  20  feed  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  but  those  various 
that  laudable  and  ancient  art;  for  I  know  it  is  creatures  that  have  their  dwelling  within  the^ 
worthy  the  knowledge  and  practice  of  a  wise  waters, — every  creature  that  hath  life  in  its 
man.  nostrils  stands  in  need  of  my  element.     The 

But,  gentlemen,  though  I  be  able  to  do  this,  waters  cannot  preserve  the  fish  without  air, 
I  am  not  so  unmannerly  as  to  engross  all  the  25  witness  the  not  breaking  of  ice  in  an  extreme 
discourse  to  myself;  and  therefore,  you  two  frost:  the  reason  is,  for  that  if  the  inspiring  and 
having  declared  yourselves,  the  one  to  be  expiring  organ  of  any  animal  be  stopped,  it 
a  lover  of  hawks,  the  other  of  hounds,  I  shall  suddenly  yields  to  nature,  and  dies.  Thus 
be  most  glad  to  hear  what  you  can  say  in  the  necessary  is  air  to  the  existence  both  of  fish 
commendation  of  that  recreation  which  each  30  and  beasts,  nay,  even  to  man  himself;  that 
of  you  love  and  practise;  and  having  heard  air,  or  breath  of  life  with  which  God  at  first 
what  you  can  say,  I  shall  be  glad  to  exercise  inspired  mankind  (Gen.  ii.  7),  he,  if  he  wants 
your  attention  with  what  I  can  say  concerning  it,  dies  presently,  becomes  a  sad  object  to  all 
my  own  recreation  and  art  of  Angling,  and  by  that  loved  and  beheld  him,  and  in  an  instant 
this  means  we  shall  make  the  way  to  seem  the  35  turns  to  putrefaction. 

shorter:  and  if  you  like  my  motion,  I  would  Nay,  more,  the  very  birds  of  the  air,  those 

have  Mr.  Falconer  to  begin.  that  be  not  hawks,  are  both  so  many  and  so 

Aug.  Your  motion  is  consented  to  with  all  useful  and  pleasant  to  mankind,  that  I  must 
my  heart;  and,  to  testify  it,  I  will  begin  as  you  not  let  them  pass  without  some  observations: 
have  desired  me.  40  they  both  feed  and  refresh  him :  feed  him  with 

And  first  for  the  element  that  I  used  to  trade  their  choice  bodies,  and  refresh  him  with  their 
in,  which  is  the  air,  an  element  of  more  worth  heavenly  voices.  I  will  not  undertake  to  men- 
than  weight,  an  element  that  doubtless  exceeds  tion  the  several  kinds  of  fowl  by  which  this  is 
both  the  earth  and  water;  for  though  I  some-  done;  and  his  curious  palate  pleased  by  day, 
times  deal  in  both,  yet  the  air  is  most  properly  45  and  which  with  their  very  excrements^  afford 
mine,  I  and  my  hawks  use  that  most,  and  it  him  a  soft  lodging  at  night.  These  I  will  pass 
yields  us  most  recreation;  it  stops  not  the  high  by,  but  not  those  little  nimble  musicians  of 
soaring  of  my  noble,  generous  falcon ;  in  it  she  the  air,  that  warble  forth  their  curious  ditties, 
ascends  to  such  an  height,  as  the  dull  eyes  of  with  which  nature  hath  furnished  them  to  the 
beasts  and  fish  are  not  able  to  reach  to;  their  50  shame  of  art. 

bodies  are  too  gross  for  such  high  elevations:  As  first,  the  lark,  when  she  means  to  rejoice, 

in  the  air  my  troops  of  hawks  soar  up  on  high,  to  cheer  herself  and  those  that  hear  her,  she 
and  when  they  are  lost  in  the  sight  of  men,  then  quits  the  earth,  and  sings  as  she  ascends 
then  they  attend  upon  and  converse  with  the  higher  into  the  air;  and,  having  ended  her 
gods;  therefore  I  think  my  eagle  is  so  justly  55  heavenly  employment,  grows  then  mute  and 
styled  Jove's  servant  in  ordinary:  and  that  very  sad  to  think  she  must  descend  to  the  dull 
falcon,  that  I  am  now  going  to  see,  deserves  earth,  which  she  would  not  touch  but  for  ne- 
no  meaner  a  title,  for  she  usually  in  her  flight  cessity. 
endangers  herself,  like  the  son  of  Daedalus,  to       ei.  e.,  their  feathers;  used  to  stuff  beds,  pillows,  etc. 


IZAAK  WALTON  237 

How  do  the  blackbird  and  thrasseF  with  nourisheth,  and  descend  to  the  least  of  crea- 
their  melodious  voices  bid  welcome  to  the  tures,  how  doth  the  earth  afford  us  a  doctrinal 
cheerful  spring,  and  in  their  fixed  mouths  example  in  the  little  emmet,  who  in  the  summer 
warble  forth  such  ditties  as  no  art  or  instrument  provides  and  lays  up  her  winter  provision,  and 
can  reach  to!  5  teaches  man  to  do  the  hke!    The  earth  feeds 

Nay,  the  smaller  birds  also  do  the  like  in  their  and  carries  those  horses  that  carry  us.  If  I 
particular  seasons,  as  namely  the  laverock,^  would  be  prodigal  of  my  time  and  your  pa- 
the  titlark,  the  little  linnet,  and  the  honest  tience,  what  might  not  I  say  in  commendation 
robin,  that  loves  mankind  both  alive  and  dead,      of  the  earth?  that  puts  limits  to  the  proud  and 

But  the  nightingale,  another  of  my  airy  lo  raging  sea,  and  by  that  means  preserves  both 
creatures,  breathes  such  sweet  loud  music  out  man  and  beast,  that  it  destroys  them  not,  as 
of  her  little  instrumental  throat,  that  it  might  we  see  it  daily  doth  those  that  venture  upon  the 
make  mankind  to  think  miracles  are  not  sea,  and  are  there  shipwrecked,  drowned,  and 
ceased.  He  that  at  midnight,  when  the  very  left  to  feed  haddocks;  when  we  that  are  so 
labourer  sleeps  securely,  should  hear,  as  I  have  15  wise  as  to  keep  ourselves  on  earth,  walk,  and 
very  often,  the  clear  airs,  the  sweet  descants,  talk,  and  live,  and  eat,  and  drink,  and  go  a 
the  natural  rising  and  falling,  the  doubling  hunting:  of  which  recreation  I  will  say  a  little, 
and  redoubling  of  her  voice,  might  well  be  and  then  leave  Mr.  Piscator  to  the  commenda- 
hfted    above    earth,    and    say,    "Lord,    what      tion  of  Angling. 

music  hast  thou  provided  for  the  saints  in  20  Hunting  is  a  game  for  Princes  and  noble 
lieaven,  when  thou  affordest  bad  men  such  persons;  it  hath  been  Ijighly  prized  in  all  ages; 
music  on  earth!"  .  .  .  it  was  one  of  the  qualifications  that  Xenophon 

Ven.  Well,  Sir,  and  I  will  now  take  my  turn,  bestowed  on  his  Cyrus,  that  he  was  a  hunter 
and  will  first  begin  with  a  commendation  of  of  wild  beasts.  Hunting  trains  up  the  younger 
the  earth,  as  you  have  done  most  excellently  of  25  .iobility  to  the  use  of  manly  exercises  in  their 
the  air;  the  earth  being  that  element  upon  -iper  age.  What  more  manly  exercise  than 
which  I  drive  my  pleasant,  wholesome,  hungry  hunting  the  wild-boar,  the  stag,  the  buck, 
trade.  The  earth  is  a  solid,  settled  element;  the  fox,  or  the  hare!  How  doth  it  preserve 
an  element  most  universally  beneficial  both  to  health,  and  increase  strength  and  activity! 
man  and  beast:  to  men  who  have  their  several  30  And  for  the  dogs  that  we  use,  who  can  com- 
recreations  upon  it,  as  horse-races,  hunting,  mend  their  excellency  to  that  height  which 
sweet  smells,  pleasant  walks:  the  earth  feeds  they  deserve?  How  perfect  is  the  hound  at 
man,  and  all  those  several  beasts  that  both  smelling,  who  never  leaves  or  forsakes  his 
feed  him  and  afford  him  recreation.  What  first  scent,  but  follows  it  through  so  many 
pleasure  doth  man  take  in  hunting  the  stately  35  changes  and  varieties  of  other  scents,  even  over 
stag,  the  generous  buck,  the  wild-boar,  the  and  in  the  water,  and  into  the  earth!  What 
cunning  otter,  the  crafty  fox,  and  the  fearful  music  doth  a  pack  of  dogs  then  make  to  any 
hare!  And  if  1  may  descend  to  a  lower  game,  man,  whose  heart  and  ears  are  so  happy  as 
what  pleasure  is  it  sometimes  with  gins  to  to  beset  to  the  tune  of  such  instruments!  How 
betray  the  very  vermin  of  the  earth!  as  namely,  40  will  a  right  greyhound  fix  his  eye  on  the  best 
the  fitchet,9  the  fulimart,  the  ferret,  the  pole-  buck  in  a  herd,  single  him  out,  and  follow  him, 
cat,  the  mould  warp,  1°  and  the  like  creatures  and  him  only,  through  a  whole  herd  of  rascal' ^ 
that  live  upon  the  face  and  within  the  bowels  game,  and  still  know  and  then  kill  him!  For 
of  the  earth!  How  doth  the  earth  bring  forth  my  hounds,  I  know  the  language  of  them,  and 
herbs,  flowers,  and  fruits,  both  for  physic  and  45  they  know  the  language  and  meanmg  of  one 
the  pleasure  of  mankind!  and  above  all,  to  me  another,  as  perfectly  as  we  know  the  voices 
at  least,  the  fruitful  vine,  of  which  when  I  of  those  with  whom  we  discourse  daily, 
drink  moderately  it  clears  my  bjain,  cheers  I  might  enlarge  myself  in  the  commendation 

my  heart,  and  sharpens  my  wit.  How  could  of  hunting,  and  of  the  noble  hound  especially, 
Cleopatra  have  feasted  Mark  Antony  with  50  as  also  of  the  docibleness  of  dogs  m  general; 
eight  wild-boars  roasted  whole  at  one  supper,  and  I  might  make  many  observations  of  land- 
and  other  meat  suitable,  if  the  earth  had  not  creatures,  that  for  composition,  order,  figure, 
been  a  bountiful  mother?  But  to  pass  by  the  and  constitution,  approach  nearest  to  the 
mighty  elephant,  which  the  earth  breeds  and      completeness  and  understanding  of  man;  es- 

V  Throstle,  son.-thrush.  55  pecially  of  those  creatur^  which  Moses  m  the 

8  Lark,  skylark.  ,^  ^    ,       law  permitted  to   the  Jews,    (i^v.  ix.   J-»;, 

9  The  filchet,  or  fitchew,  the  fulimart  (fumart,  or  foul-  ,  •  v  ,  cloVCn  hoofs  and  chew  the  Cud, 
mart),  and  the  pole-cat  closely  resemble  each  other,  all       wnicn  nave   ciovcu   iiuuio   a  , 

IndbadV^^  '^"^  ^^"^^^  ^'  *^^  "^''''''''  "^  ''"'"'  "  "Animals  unfit  to  chase  or  kill  on  account  of  ignoble 

*°io  Thrcoinmon  mole.  quality  or  lean  condition." 


238  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

which  I  shall  forbear  to  name,  because  I  will  increase  of  wood  to  be  from  water  of  rain,  or 
not  be  so  uncivil  to  Mr.  Piscator,  as  not  to  from  dew,  and  not  to  be  from  any  other  ele- 
allow  him  a  time  for  the  commendation  of  ment.  And  they  affirm,  they  can  reduce  this 
angling,  which  he  calls  an  art;  but  doubtless  wood  back  again  to  water;  and  they  affirm, 
'tis  an  easy  one:  and,  Mt.  Auceps,  I  doubt  we  5  also,  the  same  may  be  done  in  any  animal  or 
shall  hear  a  watery  discourse  of  it,  but  I  hope  vegetable.  And  this  I  take  to  be  a  fair  testi- 
' twill  not  be  a  long  one.  mony  of   the  excellency    of  my   element   of 

Auc.  And  I  hope  so  too,  though  I  fear  it      water, 
will.  The  water  is  more  productive  than  the  earth. 

Pisc.  Gentlemen,  let  not  prejudice  pre- 10  Nay,  the  earth  hath  no  fruitfulness  without 
possess  you,  I  confess  my  discourse  is  like  to  showers  or  dews;  for  all  the  herbs,  and  flowers 
prove  suitable  to  my  recreation,  calm  and  and  fruits,  are  produced  and  thrive  by  the 
quiet;  we  seldom  take  the  name  of  God  into  water;  and  the  very  minerals  are  fed  by  streams 
our  mouths,  but  it  is  either  to  praise  Him  or  that  run  underground,  whose  natural  course 
pray  to  Him ;  if  others  use  it  vainly  in  the  midst  15  carries  them  to  the  tops  of  many  high  moun- 
of  their  recreations,  so  vainly  as  if  they  meant  tains,  as  we  see  by  several  springs  breaking 
to  conjure,  I  must  tell  you  it  is  neither  our  forth  on  the  tops  of  the  highest  hills;  and  this 
fault  nor  our  custom;  we  protest  against  it.  is  also  witnessed  by  the  daily  trial  and  testi- 
But  pray  remember,  I  accuse  nobody;  for  as      mony  of  several  miners. 

I  would  not  make  "a  watery  discourse,"  so  20  Nay,  the  increase  of  those  creatures  that 
I  would  not  put  too  much  vinegar  into  it;  nor  are  bred  and  fed  in  the  water  are  not  only 
would  I  raise  the  reputation  of  my  own  art  more  and  more  miraculous,  but  more  advan- 
by  the  diminution  of  another's.  And  so  tageous  to  man,  not  only  for  the  lengthening 
much  for  the  prologue  to  what  I  meant  to  of  his  life,  but  for  the  preventing  of  sickness; 
say.  •  25  for  'tis  observed  by  the  most  learned  physi- 

And  now  for  the  water,  the  element  that  I  cians,  that  the  casting  off  of  Lent  and  other 
trade  in.  The  water  is  the  eldest  daughter  of  fish  days,  which  hath  not  only  given  the  lie 
the  creation,  the  element  upon  which  the  to  so  many  learned,  pious,  wise  founders  of 
Spirit  of  God  did  first  move  (Gen.  i.  2),  the  colleges,  for  which  we  should  be  ashamed, 
element  which  God  commanded  to  bring  forth  30  hath  doubtless  been  the  chief  cause  of  those 
living  creatures  abundantly;  and  without  which  many  putrid,  shaking,  intermitting  agues, 
those  that  inhabit  the  land,  even  all  creatures  unto  which  this  nation  of  ours  is  now  more 
that  have  breath  in  their  nostrils,  must  sud-  subject  than  those  wiser  countries  that  feed 
denly  return  to  putrefaction.  Moses,  the  great  on  herbs,  salads,  and  plenty  of  fish;  of  which 
law  giver,  and  chief  philosopher,  skilled  in  all  35  it  is  observed  in  story,  that  the  greatest  part 
the  learning  of  the  Egyptians,  who  was  called  of  the  world  now  do.  And  it  may  be  fit  to  re- 
the  friend  of  God,  and  knew  the  mind  of  the  member  that  Moses  (Lev.  xi.  9,  Deut.  xiv.  9) 
Almighty,  names  this  element  the  first  in  the  appointed  fish  to  be  the  chief  diet  for  the  best 
creation;  this  is  the  element  upon  which  the  commonwealth  that  ever  yet  was. 
Spirit  of  God  did  first  move,  and  is  the  chief  40  And  it  is  observable,  not  only  that  there  are 
ingredient  in  the  creation:  many  philosophers  fish,  as  namely,  the  whale,  three  times  as  big 
have  made  it  to  comprehend  all  the  other  ele-  as  the  mighty  elephant,  that  is  so  fierce  in 
ments,  and  most  allow  it  the  chief  est  in  the  battle;  but  that  the  mightiest  feasts  have  been 
mixtion^2  of  ^U  living  creatures.  of  fish.     The  Romans  in  the  height  of  their 

There  be  that  profess  to  believe  that  all  45  glory  have  made  fish  the  mistress  of  all  their 
bodies  are  made  of  water,  and  may  be  reduced  entertainments;  they  have  had  music  to  usher 
back  again  to  water  only;  they  endeavour  to  in  their  sturgeons,  lampreys, ^^  and  mullets, 
demonstrate  it  thus: —  which  they  would  purchase  at  rates  rather  to 

Take  a  willow,  or  any  like  speedy-growing  be  wondered  at  than  believed.  He  that  shall 
plant,  newly  rooted  in  a  box  or  barrel  full  of  50  view  the  writings  of  Macrobius,^^  or  Varro,^^ 
earth,  weigh  them  all  together  exactly  when  may  be  confirmed  and  informed  of  this,  and  of 
the  trees  begin  to  grow,  and  then  weigh  all         ,,rpu    ,  u      ^^  „  ,,  , 

,         .,  i-j         ii        .  •      •  1    p  -i  "The  lamprey,  when  full  grown,   resembles  an  eel, 

together  after  the  tree  is  mcreased  from  its      and  is  considered  a  delicacy. 

first  rooting  to  weigh  an  hundred  pound  weight        „  "  ^  Latin  writer  of  the  fifth  century.     In  his  Convivia 

,,         ",         .J  „     ,  .11         -11  baturnalia,  he  speaks  oi  a  certam  Roman  villa  which, 

more  than  when  it  was  first  rooted  and  weighed;  55  although  not  large,  was  put  up  for  sale  at  four  million 

and  you  shall  find  this  augment  of  the  tree  to      sesterces,  because  of  its  fish  ponds         ,,,^  ^^  ^  ^  , 

,          •^..,        .      ,1         J-      •       .•             e                 11  ^^  Marcus  Terentius  Varro  Reatinus  (llG-28  B.  C),  a 

be    without    the    diminution    OI     one    drachm  voluminous    writer,    called    "the    most    learned    of    the 

weight    of   the    earth.       Hence    they   infer    this  Romans."    in  his  treatise  on  husbandry  he  speaks  of  the 

•^^                                                                  *'  fresh  and  salt  water  fish  p>onds  of  the  Romans.     {De  Re 

"  Mixture.  Rustica,  III.  17,  2). 


IZAAK  WALTON  231 

the  incredible  value  of  their  fish  and  fish-  saved;  but  his  second  will  was,  that  those  onl^ 
POiids.  should  be  saved  that  did  live  answerable  U 

that  degree  of  grace  which  he  had  offered  o 

afforded  them." 
SELECTION  FROM   THE  LIFE  OF        5     But  the  justifying  of  this  doctrine  did  no 
HOOKER  prove  of  so  bad  consequence,  as  the  kindnes 

of  Mrs.  Churchman's  curing  him  of  his  lati 
(From  Walton's  Lives,  1665)  distemper  and  cold;  for  that  was  so  gratefulb 

apprehended  by  Mr.  Hooker,  that  he  though" 
I  return  to  Mr.  Hooker  in  his  college, i  where  lo  himself  bound  in  conscience  to  believe  al 
he  continued  his  studies  with  all  quietness,  for  that  she  said:  so  the  good  man  came  to  b( 
the  space  of  three  years;  about  which  time  he  persuaded  by  her,  "that  he  was  a  man  o 
entered  into  sacred  orders,  being  then  made  tender  constitution;  and  that  it  was  best  fo] 
deacon  and  priest,  and,  not  long  after,  was  him  to  have  a  wife,  that  might  prove  a  nurs( 
appointed  to  preach  at  St.  Paul's  Cross.  15  to  him;  such  a  one  as  might  both  prolong  hi; 

In  order  to  which  Sermon,  to  London  he  life,  and  make  it  more  comfortable;  and  sucl 
came,  and  immediately  to  the  Shunamite's  a  one  she  could  and  would  provide  for  him 
house ;2  which  is  a  house  so  called,  for  that,  if  he  thought  fit  to  marry."  And  he,  not  con- 
besides  the  stipend  paid  the  preacher,  there  is  sidering  that  "the  children  of  this  world  ar( 
provision  made  also  for  his  lodging  and  diet  20  wiser  in  their  generation  than  the  children  oJ 
for  two  days  before,  and  one  day  after  his  light;"  but,  like  a  true  Nathanael,  fearing  nc 
sermon.  This  house  was  then  kept  by  John  guile,  because  he  meant  none,  did  give  hei 
Churchman,  sometime  a  draper  of  good  note  such  a  power  as  Eleazar  was  trusted  with,— 
in  Watling  Street,  upon  whom  poverty  had  you  may  read  it  in  the  book  of  Genesis, — when 
at  last  come  like  an  armed  man,  and  brought  25  he  was  sent  to  choose  a  wife  for  Isaac;  for  even 
him  into  a  necessitous  condition;  which,  though  so  he  trusted  her  to  choose  for  him,  promising 
it  be  a  punishment,  is  not  always  an  argument  upon  a  fair  summons  to  return  to  London,  and 
of  God's  disfavor;  for  he  was  a  virtuous  man.  accept  her  choice;  and  he  did  so  in  that,  oi 
I  shall  not  yet  give  the  like  testimony  of  his  about  the  year  following.  Now,  the  wife 
wife,  but  leave  the  reader  to  judge  by  what  30  provided  for  him  was  her  daughter  Joan,  who 
follows.  But  to  this  house  Mr.  Hooker  came  brought  him  neither  beauty  nor  portion:  and 
so  wet,  so  weary,  and  weatherbeaten,  that  he  for  her  conditions,  they  were  too  like  that  wife's, 
was  never  known  to  express  more  passion,  which  is  by  Solomon  compared  to  a  dripping 
than  against  a  friend  that  dissuaded  him  from  house;  so  that  the  good  man  had  no  reason  to 
footing  it  to  London,  and  for  finding  him  no  35  "rejoice  in  the  wife  of  his  youth;"  but  too  just 
easier  a  horse, — supposing  the  horse  trotted  cause  to  say  with  the  holy  prophet,  "Woe  is 
when  he  did  not; — and  at  this  time  also,  such  me,  that  I  am  constrained  to  have  my  habita- 
a  faintness  and  fear  possessed  him,  that  he  tion  in  the  tents  of  Kedar." 
would  not  be  persuaded  two  days'  rest  and  This  choice  of  Mr.  Hooker's — if  it  were  his 

quietness,  or  any  other  means  could  be  used  40  choice — may  be  wondered  at;  but  let  us  con- 
to  make  him  preach  his  Sunday 's  sermon :  but  a  sider  that  the  Prophet  Ezekiel  says,  "There 
warm  bed,  and  rest,  and  drink  proper  for  a  is  a  wheel  within  a  wheel;"  a  secret  sacred 
cold,  given  him  by  Mrs.  Churchman,  and  her  wheel  of  Providence, — most  visible  in  mar- 
diligent  attendance  added  unto  it,  enabled  him  riages, — guided  by  His  hand  that  "allows  not 
to  perform  the  ojQBce  of  the  day,  which  was  in  45  the  race  to  the  swift"  nor  "bread  to  the  wise," 
or  about  the  year  1581.  nor  good  wives  to  good  men:  and  he  that  can 

And  in  this  first  public  appearance  to  the  bring  good  out  of  evil — for  mortals  are  blind 
world,  he  was  not  so  happy  as  to  be  free  from  to  this  reason — only  knows  why  this  blessing 
exceptions  against  a  point  of  doctrine  delivered  was  denied  to  patient  Job,  to  meek  Moses, 
in  his  sermon;  which  was,  "That  in  God  there  50  and  to  our  as  meek  and  patient  Mr.  Hooker, 
were  two  wills;  an  antecedent  and  a  consequent  But  so  it  was;  and  let  the  reader  cease  to  won- 
will;  his  first  will  that  all  mankind  should  be      der,  for  affliction  is  a  divine  diet;  which  though 

it  be  not  pleasing  to  mankind,  yet  Almighty 

1  i.  e.,  Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford.  Hooker  was  sent      Qod  hath  often,  very  often,  imposed  it  as  good, 

to  Oxford  in  1567,  when  he  was  in  his  fifteenth  year.    He       ^,  ,     ,  ., ,         ',       .''     ,       .i      J^    ,.,,  ", 

graduated  M.  A.  in  1577,  and  obtained  his  Fellowship  in  55  though  bitter  phySlC   tO   tnose  cnildren  WhOSe 
the  same  year.     About  three  years  later  (having  taken       gouls  are  dearest  to  him. 
holy  orders  in  1581)    he  received  the  appointment  to  a     j    i        .i  •  •      ^    xu«  j 

preach  in  London  to  which  Walton  here  refers.  And  by  this  marriage  the  good  man  was 

2  A  reference  to  the  woman  of  Shunem  (Shunamite)  who      drawn  from  the  tranquility  of  his  College;  from 

entertained  the  prophet  Elisha,  and     constrained  him  to        ^,  ,  r      •   j.  r      i  r  i 

-?at  bread."  u  Kings,  iv,  8:11.  the  garden  of  piety,  of  pleasure,  of  peace,-  and 


240  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

a  sweet  conversation,  into  the  thorny  wilder-  iflOllU    C^fltk  3^ 

ness  of  a  busy  world;  into  those  corroding  cares  1 9  1  aac    ^ 

that  attend  a  married  priest,  and  a  country  1601.-1665 

parsonage;  which  was  Drayton-beauchamp  in  PRTTTri 

Buckinghamshire,  not  far  from  Aylesbury,  and  5 

in  the  diocese  of  Lincoln;  to  which  he  was  (From  Microcosmographie,  1628)  \ 

presented  by  John  Cheney  Esq  , -then  patron  ^  ^^.^.^  .^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^       „^^  ^^^^  ^         .^ 

of  it-the  9th  of  December,  1584,  where  he  ^^  ^^^^      ^^^  ^.^  observation  is  the 

behaved  himself  so  as  to  give  no  occasion  o  ^^thography.  He  is  the  surgeon  of  old  authors, 
evil  but  as  St  Pau  adviseth  a  minister  of  10^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ignorance. 
God-''m  much  patience,  m  afflictions  in  jj^  converses  much  in  fragments  and  Desunt 
anguishes,  in  necessities,  m  poverty  and  no  ^^i^^,  ,  ^^^  -^  ^^  .^^^  .^  ^^.^^  ^^^^  ^• 
doubt  .'in  long  suffering;  'yet  troubhng  no  ^^  -^  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^^^ 
man  with  his  discontents  and  wants.  jj^  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^jl  ^^.^^^^^  ^^     ^^^^^  ^^^-^ 

And  m  this  condition  he  continued  about  a  15  ^^^  ^^.^^^  ^jj  j^^^^.       ^^        ^3^^  in 

year;  m  which  time  his  two  pupils,  Edwin  ^^^^^  Latin.  He  tastes  styles,  as  some 
bandys3  and  George  Cranmer,  took  a  journey  ^escreeter  palates  do  wine;  and  tells  you  which 
to  see  their  tutor;  where  they  found  him  with      -^  j^      ^^.^^   sophi^ated    and    bastard, 

a  book  m  his  hand -It  was  the  Odes  of  Horace  jj-^  ^^  ^^^^^  .^  ^  miscellany  of  old  words, 
-he  being  then  like  humble  and  innocent  Abel,  20  ^^^^^^^^  {  ^^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^J  ^^^  entombed 
tendmg   his  small   allotment   of   sheep   m   a      ^     ^  ^^^  ^^^  modernest  man  he  follows 

common  field,  which  he  told  his  pupils  he  was  -^  piautus.3  He  writes  omneis  at  length,  and 
forced  to  do  then,  for  his  servant  was  gone  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^^^^^^  .^  ^^^^  incomform- 
home  to  dine,  and  assist  his  wife  to  do  some  ^^^j^  ^  He  is  a  troublesome  vexer  of  the  dead, 
necessary  household  business      But  when  his25^j^.^j^  ^^^^^  ^^  ^  .      ^^^^  ^.^^        ^^  ^^^ 

servant  returned  and  released  him,  then  his      judgment  of  his  castigations.    He  is  one  that 

two  pupils  attended  him  unto  his  house  where      ^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^  ^^jj  ^  ^^^^  ^^  ^^^jj^ 

their  best  entertainment  was  his  quiet  com-      ^^^^  .^^^  ^^j.^^  ^.^^  ^^  comments. 

pany,  which  was  presently  denied  them;  for 

Richard  was  called  to  rock  the  cradle;  and  the  30 

rest  of  their  welcome  was  so  like  this,  that  ^{x    tKJ^OlttaS?    llBrOtDltt 

they  stayed  but  till  next  morning,  which  was 

time  enough  to  discover  and  pity  their  tutor's  1605-1682 

condition;  and  they  having  in  that  time  re-  T^T:.Ari.TT    aatta   TA/nv/r^-nrnAXTrnTr 

joiced  in  the  remembrance,  and  then  para- 35  DEATH   AND   IMMORTALITY 

phrased*  on  the  many  innocent  recreations  of  (From  Hydriotaphia:  Urn  Burial,  1658) 

their  younger  days,  and  other  like  diversions,  ^-^         .         ,,         j     ■,  i         ,7  11 

J  xil      u       •        u-  ^     u ^^^^4.  ^ Now  since  these  dead  bones^  have  already 

and  thereby  given  him  as  much  present  com-  4.  1    i.  j  +u    r   •  f  tvt  ^u      ^  u        j 

J.    .         .1  ui^    4.u^        Z^^  ( ^^A  +^      out-lasted  the  living  ones  of  Methuselah,  and 

fort  as  they  were  able,  they  were  forced  to.  ,        ,  ^  ,         ,,,.         nrri 

leave  him  to  the  company  of  his  wife  Joan,  40'°  f  ^^'^  underground,  and  thm  walls  of  clay, 
and  seek  themselves  a  quieter  lodging  for  next  ""'"""'F"  ''"*'>«  ?';:°°g  and  specious  buildmgs 
night.     But  at  their  parting  from  him,  Mr.      ^l^"'*  '*;  ^""^  "J^-^^y  ^^^  ""'^'^■^  *!>«  <'™'"« 

Cranmer  said,  "Good  tutor,  I  am  sorry  your  i  John  Earle,  a  learned  and  witty  man  and  a  successful 

Ir^f   i"a   fallpn    in    nn   hptfpr   ornimH     nti  in  vmir  writer,  was  Chaplain  to  Charles  II  in  exile,  and  after  tho 

lot  IS  tallen  m  no  Detter  grouna,  as  lO  your  Restoration  became  successively  Bishop  of  Worcester  and 
parsonage;    and    more    sorry    that    your    wife  45  of  Salisbury.     The  nature  of  the   Microsmogmphie,   his 

T^rr.i7Pa    nrvf    Q     mr.rP    Pnmfnr+nhlp    nnTnnnnmn  ^^^^^  work,  is  suggested  in  its  sub-title— .4  Piece  of  the 

proves    not    a    more    COmioriaOie    companion,  world  Discoverefiin  Essays  and  Characters.    The  numerous 

after  you  have  wearied  yourself  in  your  restless  character  studies  of  the  seventeenth  century  "form  a  link 

,^<-.,ri;oa  "       Tr,    -arhr^rr,    fViP    crnnrl    mon    rpnli'prl  between  the  'humors'  of   the   old   comedy  on    the   one 

fetudies.          lO    Whom    tne    gOOa    man    replied,  hand  and  the  familiar  essay  and  novel  of  the  eighteenth 

"My    dear    George,    if    saints    have    usually    a  century    on    the    other."      Among    these    "character- 

double  share  in  the  miseries  of  this  life,  I,  that  so  '"l'S:y''t;lu^°'^'\tSS':!!!!Tike  text  of  the  ,„rk 

am  none,  ought  not  to  repine  at  what  my  wise      he  is  editmg. 

Creator  hath  appointed  for  me;  but  labour-as      ,«',  ^B'°a^HTn'ce°he' te'Sto';;"  .°!„e  be°oreX''LS 

indeed     I    do    daily — to    submit     mine    to    his       scholar  and  writer  Varro,  who  died  about  28  B.  C.  and 
:il      ^^A    ■^^c^r.r^^^    ^^,T    o^„l    ;«     r^ailanf^a    ot^^I        before  tlic  Augustau  Age  of  Latin  literature, — the  age  of 

Will,    and    possess    my    soul    in    patience    and        Vergil,  Horace:,  and  their  groat  contemporaries. 

peace."  55      *  These  are  instances  of   the  obsolete  or  antiquated 

Latin  usage  followed  by  the  pedantic  critic. 
'Sir  Edwin  Sandys  (c.  1561-1629),  who  assisted  the  i  This  essay  was  suggested  by  the  discovery  of  "be- 

Pilgrimsin  chartering  the  Mayflower.  tween  forty  and  fifty  urns"  in  a  field  of  Old  Walsingham, 

*  i.  e.,  repeated  their  "innocent  recreations,"  with  such        Norfolk,  containing  human  bones,  with  boxes,  combs,  and 

amplification  or  difference  as  there  is  between  a  paraphrase       other  articles.    In  a  preceding  chapter,  Browne  contends 


npi 
idl 


the  original  text.  that  "these  were  the  urns  of  Romans.' 


SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE  241 

and    tramplings    of    three    conquests  :2    what  mal-con tent  of  Job,  who  cursed  not  the  day  oi 

l)rince  can  promise  such  diuturnity  unto  his  his  Hfe,  but  his  nativity;  content  to  have  so 

rehcks,  or  might  not  gladly  say,  far  been,  as  to  have  a  title  to  future  being, 

Sic  ego  componi  versus  in  ossa  veUmP  ,  ^J^^^^f^./^^  ^f  ^^^f^^  ^^'^  but  in  an  hidden 
_  5  state  01  hte,  and  as  it  were,  an  abortion. 
Time  which  antiquates  antiquities,  and  hath  What  song  the  Syrens  sang,  or  what  name 
an  art  to  make  dust  of  all  things,  hath  yet  Achilles  assumed  when  he  hid  himself  among 
spared  these  minor  monuments.  In  vain  we  women,  though  puzzling  questions,  are  not 
hope  to  be  known  by  open  and  visible  conserva-  beyond  all  conjecture.  What  time  the  per- 
tories,^  when  to  be  unknown  was  the  means  of  10  sons  of  these  ossuaries^  entered  the  famous 
their  continuation,  and  obscurity  their  protec-  nations  of  the  dead,  and  slept  with  princes  and 
1  ion.  If  they  died  by  violent  hands,  and  were  counsellors,  might  admit  a  wide  solution.  But 
thrust  into  their  urns,  these  bones  become  who  were  the  proprietaries  of  these  bones,  or 
considerable,  and  some  old  philosophers  would  what  bodies  these  ashes  made  up,  were  a  ques- 
honour  them,  whose  souls  they  conceived  most  istion  above  antiquarism;  not  to  be  resolved  by 
pure,  which  were  thus  snatched  from  their  man,  nor  easily  perhaps  by  spirits,  except  we 
bodies,  and  to  retain  a  stronger  propension  consult  the  provincial  guardians,  i°  or  tutelary 
unto  them;^  whereas  they  weariedly  left  a  observators.  Had  they  made  as  good  provision 
languishing  corpse,  and  with  faint  desires  of  for  their  names,  as  they  have  done  for  their 
re-union.  If  they  fell  by  long  and  aged  decay,  20  relicks,  they  had  not  so  grossly  erred  in  the 
yet  wrapt  up  in  the  bundle  of  time,  they  fall  art  of  perpetuation.  But  to  subsist  in  bones, 
into  indistinction,  and  make  but  one  blot  with  and  be  but  pyramidally  extant,  is  a  fallacy  in 
infants.  If  we  begin  to  die  when  we  live,  and  duration.  Vain  ashes  which  in  the  oblivion  of 
long  life  be  but  a  prolongation  of  death,  our  names,  persons,  times,  and  sexes,  have  found 
life  is  a  sad  composition;  we  live  with  death,  25  unto  themselves  a  fruitless  continuation,  and 
and  die  not  in  a  moment.  How  many  pulses  only  arise  unto  late  posterity,  as  emblems  of 
made  up  the  life  of  Methuselah,  were  work  mortal  vanities,  antidotes  against  pride,  vain- 
for  Archimedes:  common  counters  sum  up  the  glory,  and  madding  vices.  Pagan  vain-glories 
life  of  Moses  his  man.^  Our  days  become  con-  which  thought  the  world  might  last  forever, 
siderable,  like  petty  sums,  by  minute  accumu-3ohad  encouragement  for  ambition;  and  finding 
lations;  where  numerous  fractions  make  up  no  atropos^^  unto  the  immortality  of  their 
but  small  round  numbers;  and  our  days  of  a  names,  were  never  dampt  with  the  necessity 
span  long,  make  not  one  little  finger.^  of  oblivion.  Even  old  ambitions  had  the  ad- 
If  the  nearness  of  our  last  necessity  brought  vantage  of  ours,  in  the  attempts  of  their  vain- 
a  nearer  conformity  into  it,  there  was  a  happi-  35  glories,  who  acting  early,  and  before  the  prob- 
ness  in  hoary  hairs,  and  no  calamity  in  half  able  meridian  of  time,  have  by  this  time  found 
senses.  But  the  long  habit  of  living  indis-  great  accomplishment  of  their  designs,  whereby 
poseth  us  for  dying;  when  avarice  makes  us  the  ancient  heroes  have  already  out-lasted  their 
the  sport  of  death,  when  even  David  grew  monuments,  and  mechanical  preservations, 
politickly  cruel,  and  Solomon  could  hardly  be  40  But  in  this  latter  scene  of  time,  we  cannot  ex- 
said  to  be  the  wisest  of  men.  But  many  are  pect  such  mummies  unto  our  memories,  when 
too  early  old,  and  before  the  date  of  age.  Ad-  ambition  may  fear  the  prophecy  of  Ehas,^^ 
versity  stretcheth  our  days,  misery  makes  and  Charles  the  Fifth  can  never  hope  to  live 
Alcmena's  nights,^  and  time  hath  no  wings  within  two  Methuselahs  of  Hector, 
unto  it.  But  the  most  tedious  being  is  that  45 
which  can  unwish  itself,  content  to  be  nothing  (^ J  j^g^^'o^J'eT  "^^"^^  ^°°^^  ^^^^  deposited  in  these  urns 

or  never  to  have  been,  which  was  beyond  the  lo  The  guardian  spirits  of  a  particular  place;  tutelary 

observators,  guardian  angels  of  the  persons  buried  there. 

2  English,  Danish,  and  Roman.  ^^  The  Fate  who  cuts  the  thread  of  life. 

3  Thus  I  wish  to  be  buried  when  I  am  turned  into  "  i.  e.,  of  the  prophet  Elijah,  called  Elias  in  the  Neio 
bones.  Testament.    The  prophecy  was,  that  the  world  was  to  last 

*  Means  of  preservation.  but  six  thousand  years.    The  world  would  thus  come  to 
8  Inclination  towards  them.  an  end  in  2000  a.  d.     Should  this  prophecy  be  fulfilled, 
6  i.  e.,  Moses's  man.    The  average  length  of  man's  life  as  Charles  V.,  who  died  in  1558,  could  not  possibly  be  re- 
estimated  by  Moses   (Pslm.  xc.   10)   is  but  seventy  or  membered  more  than  442  years,  while  Hector  (assuming 
eighty  years,  hence  while  it  would  take  a  great  mathema-  his  death  to  have  taken  place  about  1100  or  1200  B.  C.) 
tician  {an  Archimedes)  to  calculate  the  number  of  prxlses,  had  been  already  remembered  some  2700  or  2800  years 
or  heart-beats  in  the  life  of  Methuselah,  ordinary  reckon-  when  Browne  wrote.      Therefore  in   1658,  the  date  of 
ers  can  readily  sum  up  the  short  span    of    man's    life  Browne's  essay.  Hector's  fame  had  already  exceeded  the 
according  to  Moses'  computation.  greatest  possible  duration  of  that  of  Charles  V.  by  over 
'  i.  e.,  not  one  hundred  years.    According  to  an  ancient  two  thousand  years,  or  by  more  than  double  the  length  of 
method  of  counting  on  the  fingers,  the  crooking  of  the  Methuselah's   life    (tivo   Methuselahs),   which   would   be 
little  finger  of  the  right  hand  signified  a  hundred.  only  1938  years.    According  to  a  passage  m  the  Talmud, 
8  In  the  story  of  Alcmena,  Jupiter  delays  the  rising  of  the  tradition  of  this  prophecy  was  handed  down  "by  the 
Phoebus,  and  makea  one  night  as  long  as  three.  house  "  (i.  e.  the  disciples  or  school)  of  Elijah. 


242  THE  AGE  OF   MILTON 

And  therefore,  restless  inqjietude  for  the  tion  and  judgment  of  himself.    Who  cares  to 

diuturnity  of  our  memories  unto  present  con-  subsist  like  Hippocrates's  patients,  or  Achilles's 

siderations  seems  a  vanity  almost  out  of  date,  horses  in  Homer,  under  naked  nominations, 

and  superannuated  piece  of  folly.    We  cannot  without  deserts  and  noble  acts,  which  are  the 

hope  to  live  so  long  in  our  names,  as  some  have  5  balsam  of  our  memories,  the  entelechia^"^  and 

done  in  their  persons.   One  face  of  Janus  ^^  holds  soul  of  our  subsistences?    To  be  nameless  in 

no  proportion  unto  the  other.     'Tis  too  late  worthy  deeds,  exceeds  an  infamous  history, 

to  be  ambitious.    The  great  mutations  of  the  The  Canaanitish  woman  lives  more  happily 

world  are  acted,  or  time  may  be  too  short  for  without  a  name,  than  Herodias  with  one. 
our  designs.    To  extend  our  memories  by  monu-  10  And  who  had  not  rather  have  been  the  good 

ments,  whose  death  we  daily  pray  for,  and  thief,  than  Pilate? 

whose  duration  we  cannot  hope,  without  injury  But  the  iniquity  of  oblivion  blindly  seat- 
to  our  expectations  in  the  advent  of  the  last  tereth  her  poppy,  and  deals  with  the  memory 
day,  were  a  contradiction  to  our  beliefs.  We  of  men  without  distinction  to  merit  of  perpe*- 
whose  generations  are  ordained  in  this  setting  15  tuity.  Who  can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the 
part  of  time,  are  providentially  taken  off  from  pyramids?  Herostratus  lives  that  burnt  the 
such  imaginations;  and,  being  necessitated  to  temple  of  Diana,  he  is  almost  lost  that  built  it. 
eye  the  remaining  particle  of  futurity,  are  nat-  Time  hath  spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's 
urally  constituted  unto  thoughts  of  the  next  horse,  ^^  confounded  that  of  himself.  In  vain 
world,  and  cannot  excusably  decline  the  con-  20  we  compute  our  felicities  by  the  advantage  of 
sideration  of  that  duration,  which  maketh  our  good  names,  since  bad  have  equal  durations, 
pyramids  pillars  of  snow,  and  aU  that's  past  a  and  Thersites  is  like  to  live  as  long  as  Agamem- 
moment.  non.    Who  knows  whether  the  best  of  men  be 

Circles  and  right  lines  limit  and  close  all  known,  or  whether  there  be  not  more  remark- 
bodies,  and  the  mortal  right  lined  circle^*  must  25  able  persons  forgot,  than  any  that  stand  re- 
conclude  and  shut  up  all.  There  is  no  antidote  membered  in  the  known  account  of  time? 
against  the  opium  of  time,  which  temporally  Without  the  favour  of  the  everlasting  register, 
considereth  all  things:  our  fathers  find  their  the  first  man  had  been  as  unknown  as  the  last, 
graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  and  Methusaleh's  long  life  had  been  his  only 
us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors.  30  chronicle. 

Grave-stones  tell    truth    scarce    forty  years.  Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.    The  greater  part 

Generations  pass  while  some  trees  stand,  and  must  be  content  to  be  as  though  they  had  not 

old  famiUes  last  not  three  oaks.    To  be  read  been,  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God,  not 

by  bare  inscriptions  like  many  in  Gruter,^^  to  in  the  record  of  man.  Twenty-seven  names 
hope  for  eternity  by  enigmatical  epithets  or  35  make  up  the  first  story  before  the  flood,  and 

first  letters  of  our  names,  to  be  studied  by  the  recorded  names  ever  since  contain  not  one 

antiquaries,  who  we  were,  and  have  new  names  Hving  century.    The  number  of  the  dead  long 

given  us  like  many  of  the  mummies,  are  cold  exceedeth  all  that  shall  live.     The  night  of 

consolations  unto  the  students  of  perpetuity,  time  far  surpasseth  the  day,  and  who  knows 
even  by  everlasting  languages.                             40  when  was  the  equinox?    Every  hour  adds  unto 

To  be  content  that  times  to  come  should  only  that  current  arithmetick,  which  scarce  stands 

know  there  was  such  a  man,  not  caring  whether  one  moment.     And  since  death  must  be  the 

they  know  more  of  him,  was  a  frigid  ambition  in  Lucina^^  of  life,  and  even  Pagans  could  doubt, 

Cardan  ;i®  disparaging  his  horoscopal  inclina-  ^i.    ,«.,       ^         m,      *          •  *           .        •    i.- 

'            ^        °     °                           ^  the  16th  century.    The  reference  is  to  a  sentence  m  his 

18  Janus,  the  Roman  god  of  beginnings,  and  hence  autobiography,    which    may    be    translated   as   follows: 

especially  associated  with  gates  and  other  places  of  en-  "  I  wish  to  be  known  because  I  am,  I  do  not  require  that 

trance.     He  was  represented  with  two  faces,  looking  in  ^  should  be  known  as  I  am." 

different  directions,  possibly  because  at  the  moment  of  "  Entelechy,  the  complete  realization,  or  full  expres- 

beginning  we  naturally  look  backward  to  what  is  ended  sioii  of  a  thing.    Here,  our  noble  acts  are  regarded  as  the 

and  forward  to  what  is  to  come.    Browne  (adopting  this  entelechia,  the  perfect,  or  essential,  part  of  our  subsistence, 

interpretation)   declares  that  the  face  of  Janus  which  or  remembrance  upon  earth. 

ooks  forward  to  the  future,  is  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  '^  The  historian  Dion  Cassius,  after  commenting  on 

face  which  looks  towards  the  past;  i.  e.  that  the  world's  tbe  delight  which  the  Emperor  Hadrian  (Adrian)  took  in 

past  will  greatly  exceed  its  future,  the  larger  part  of  the  hunting,  adds:  "What  he  [Hadrian]  did  for  a  horse  called 

six  thousand  years  being  already  spent.  Baristhenes,  which  he  commonly  used  for  hunting,  may 

»'Le.,  the  Greek  letter  theta,  6,  the  symbol  of  death.  ^9^  "^  ^t^  ^2^  /■^'^l^®  excess  of  this  passion  carried  him. 

Among  the  Greeks,  when  a  man's  fate  was  decided  by  T""^  m?^""  ^^  "^'K^iV^'^^*^  him  a  monument  in  the  form 

vote,  those  in  favor  of  his  death  marked  their  ballots  with  ?^^t  P  If  ^  T  T^  ^L^^j^Efr^'l  ^''  epitaph       Hadnan 

+v.^  i^f,^,.  a    t^o*  K^;.,™  +u„  c-o*   i„t-+«,     t    tu            J  was  buried  in  a  splendid  mausoleum  on  the  bank  of  the 

the  letter  9,   that  being  the  first  letter   of    the   word  Tiber.    There  is  an  inscription  to  him  in  the  interior  of  the   V 

Wdmros.  or  death.    The  fatal   letter  thus  came  to  be  tomb,  which  was  not  explored  until  1825,  so  that  hia     ) 

a  sign  ot  death,  and  as  such  is  found  on  Roman  grave-  epitaph  was  not  eventually  confounded  by  time,  as  waa     'll 

stones.  the  case  when  Browne  wrote. 

15  Jan  Gruter,  a  Dutch  scholar,  whose  principal  work  "  The  Roman  goddess  of  birth.     Death  is  the  Ludna 

was  a  book  of  Roman  inscriptions.  (Lat.    lux,    light,    lucina,    light-bringing),    or    heaveak 

^A  famous   Italian   mathematician   and  scientist  of  power  that  presides  over  our  birth  into  a  true  life. 


SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE  24^ 

whether  thus  to  live  were  to  die;  since  our  below  the  moon :  men  have  been  deceived  ever 

longest   sun   sets  at  right  descensions,2o  and  in  their  flatteries,  above  the  sun,  and  studiec 

makes  but  winter  arches,  and  therefore  it  can-  conceits  to  perpetuate  their  names  in  heaven 

not  be  long  before  we  lie  down  in  darkness,  The  various  cosmography  of  that  part  hath 

and  have  our  light  in  ashes ;2i  since  the  brother  5  already  varied  the  names  of  contrived  constel- 

of  death  daily  haunts  us  with  dying  mementos,  lations;  Nimrod  is  lost  in  Orion,  and  Osyris  ir 

and  time  that  grows  old  in  itseK,  bids  us  hope  the  dog-star.    While  we  look  for  incorruptior 

no  long  duration;— diuturnity  is  a  dream  and  in  the  heavens,  we  find  they  are  but  hke  th^ 

folly  of  expectation.  earth;— durable  in  their  main  bodies,  alterable 

Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course  of  time,  lo  in  their  parts;  whereof,  beside  comets  and  new 

and  oblivion  shares  with  memory  a  great  part  stars,  perspectives^*  begin  to  tell  tales,  and  the 

even  of  our  Hving  beings;  we  slightly  remember  spots  that  wander  about  the  sun,  with  Phae- 

our  fehcities,  and  the  smartest  strokes  of  afflic-  ton's  favour  would  make  clear  conviction, 

tion  leave  but  short  smart  upon  us.    Sense  en-  There  is  nothing  strictly  immortal,  but  im- 

dureth  no  extremities,  and  sorrows  destroy  us  15  mortality.    Whatever  hath  no  beginning,  may 

or  themselves.    To  weep  into  stones  are  fables,  be  confident  of  no  end; — which  is  the  peculiar 

AflSictions    induce     callosities;     miseries    are  of  that  necessary  essence  that  cannot  destroy 

shppery,  or  fall  Uke  snow  upon  us,  which  not-  itself; — and  the  highest  strain  of  omnipotency 

withstanding  is  no  unhappy  stupidity.    To  be  to  be  so  powerfully  constituted  as  not  to  suffer 

ignorant  of  evils  to  come,   and  forgetful  of  20  even  from  the  power  of  itself:  all  others  have  a 

evils  past,  is  a  merciful  provision  in  nature,  dependent  being  and  within  the  reach  of  de- 

whereby  we  digest  the  mixture  of  our  few  struction.     But   the   suflSciency   of    Christian 

and  evil  days,  and,  our  delivered  senses  not  immortality  frustrates  all  earthly  glory,  and 

relapsing  into  cutting  remembrances,  our  sor-  the  quahty  of  either  state  after  death,  makes 

rows  are  not  kept  raw  by  the  edge  of  repetitions.  25  a  folly  of  posthumous  memory.    God  who  can 

A  great  part  of  antiquity  contented  their  hopes  only  destroy  our  souls,  and  hath  assured  our 

of  subsistency  with  a  transmigration  of  their  resurrection,  either  of  our  bodies  or  names  hath 

souls, — a  good  way  to  continue  their  memories,  directly  promised  no  duration.    Wherein  there 

while,  having  the  advantage  of  plural  succes-  is  so  much  of  chance,  that  the  boldest  expect- 
sions,  they  could  not  but  act  something  re- 30 ants  have  found  unhappy  frustration;  and  to 

markable  in  such  variety  of  beings,  and  enjoy-  hold  long  subsistence,  seems  but  a  scape  in 

ing   the   fame   of   their   passed  selves,   make  oblivion.    But  man  is  a  noble  animal,  splendid 

accumulation  of  glory  unto  their  last  durations,  in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave,  solemnis- 

Others,   rather  than   be  lost   in   the   uncom-  ing  nativities  and  deaths  with  equal  lustre,  nor 

for  table  night  of  nothing,  were  content  to  re-  35  omitting  ceremonies  of  bravery  in  the  infamy  ^^ 

cede  into  the  common  being,  and  make  one  of  his  nature. 

particle  of  the  public  soul  of  all  things,  which  Life  is  a  pure  flame,  and  we  live  by  an  in- 

was  no  more  than  to  return  into  their  unknown  visible  sun  within  us.     A  small  fire  sufficeth 

and  divine  original  again.    Egyptian  ingenuity  for  life,  great  flames  seemed  too  little  after 

was  more  unsatisfied,  contriving  their  bodies  40  death,    while    men    vainly    affected    precious 

in  sweet  consistencies, ^^  to  attend  the  return  pyres,  and  to  burn  like  Sardanapalus;  but  the 

of  their  souls.    But  all  was  vanity,  feeding  the  wisdom   of  funeral  laws  found   the  folly  of 

wind,    and   folly.     The   Egyptian   mummies,  prodigal    blazes,    and   reduced    undoing   fires 

.which  Cambyses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice  unto  the  rule  of  sober  obsequies,  wherein  few 

now  consumeth.    Mummy  is  become  merchan-  45  could  be  so  mean  as  not  to  provide  wood,  pitch, 

dise,23  Mizraim  cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  a  mourner,  and  an  urn. 

sold  for  balsams.  Five  languages  secured  not  the  epitaph  of 

In  vain  do  individuals  hope  for  immortality,  Gordianus.^^    The  man  of  God^^  lives  longer 

'>r  any  patent  from  oblivion,  in  preservations  without  a  tomb  than  any  by  one,  invisibly 

,,  ,,    ^.    ,,       .    ,^     ,^     ,             .   ,.    ,.     ^,  50  interred  by  angels,  and  adjudged  to  obscurity, 

^- A  technical  term  in  the  old  astronomy,  indicating  the  ^,          ,         *',         •,,        i.         J!^         „«u«     ^;^^«+;»,„ 

^■uiv  setting  of  the  sun,  which,  during  these  short  days,  though    not    Without    some    marks    du-ecting 

uiakes  but  wmter  arches,  that  is  does  not  pass  through  the  human  disCOVery.      EnOch  and  EliaS,   without 

Zenith  at  noon,  but  describes  an  arc,  or  arch,  nearer  to  the 

liorizon.    The  sense  is:  since  our  day  of  life,  even  when  it  is  24  Telescopes. 

longest,  is  but  as  a  short  day  in  winter.  25  gouthey  suggests  that  Browne  wrote  infimy  (1.  e., 

21  An  allusion  to  the  Jewish  custom  of  placing  a  lighted  lowliness,  inferiority)  not  infamy,  which  has  a  moro 
candle  in  a  pot  of  ashes  by  the  corpse.  opprobrious  meaning.                               ,  •  j    r    1     t, 

22  The  sense  appears  to  be  "planning  [to  preserve]  their  26  Marcus  Antonius  Gordianus,  the  third  of  the  Roman 
bodies  in  sweet  consistencies,"  1.  e.  in  gums  or  spices  Emperors  of  that  name.  He  was  murdered  while  con- 
which  enable  them  to  resist  decay.  ducting  an  expedition  against  the  Persians  (244  A.  D.) 

2a  Mummy,  or  Mummia,  a  substance  made  (or  sup-  and  a  monument  erected  to  his  memory  bore  an  inscnp- 

posed  to  be  made)  from  mummies,  was  regularly  used  in  tion  in  Greek,  Latin.  Hebrew,  Egyptaan,  and  Arable 

mediciJQe  as  late  as  the  early  18th  century.  ^  Moses. 


244 


THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 


either  tomb  or  burial,  in  an  anomalous  state 
of  being,  are  the  great  examples  of  perpetuity, 
in  their  long  and  living  memory,  in  strict  ac- 
count being  still  on  this  side  death,  and  having 
a  late  part  yet  to  act  upon  this  stage  of  earth. 
If  in  the  decretory  term  of  the  world  we  shall 
not  all  die  but  be  changed,  according  to  received 
translation,  the  last  day  will  make  but  few 
graves;  at  least  quick  resurrections  will  antici- 
pate lasting  sepultures.  Some  graves  will  be 
opened  before  they  be  quite  closed,  and  Laza- 
rus be  no  wonder.  When  many  that  fear  to 
die,  shall  groan  that  they  can  die  but  once,  the 
dismal  state  is  the  second  and  living  death, 
when  life  puts  despair  on  the  damned;  when 
men  shall  wish  the  coverings  of  mountains,  not 
of  monuments,  and  annihilation  shall  be 
courted. 

While  some  have  studied  monuments,  others 
have  studiously  declined  them,  and  some  have 
been  so  vainly  boisterous,  that  they  durst  not 
acknowledge  their  graves;  wherein  Alaricus^ 
seems  most  subtle,  who  had  a  river  turned  to 
hide  his  bones  at  the  bottom.  Even  Sylla  that 
thought  himself  safe  in  his  urn,  could  not  pre- 
vent revenging  tongues,  and  stones  thrown  at 
his  monument.  Happy  are  they  whom  privacy 
makes  innocent,  who  deal  so  with  men  in  this 
world,  that  they  are  not  afraid  to  meet  them 
in  the  next;  who,  when  they  die,  make  no  com- 
motion among  the  dead,  and  are  not  touched 
with  that  poetical  taunt  of  Isaiah. ^^  Pyramids, 
arches,  obelisks,  were  but  the  irregularities  of 
vain-glory,  and  wild  enormities  of  ancient 
magnanimity.  But  the  most  magnanimous 
resolution  rests  in  the  Christian  religion,  which 
trampleth  upon  pride,  and  sits  on  the  neck  of 
ambition,  humbly  pursuing  that  infallible  per- 
petuity, unto  which  all  others  must  diminish 
their  diameters,  and  be  poorly  seen  in  angles  of 
contingency. ^° 

Pious  spirits  who  passed  their  days  in  rap- 
tures of  futurity,  made  little  more  of  this  world, 
than  the  world  that  was  before  it,  while  they 
lay  obscure  in  the  chaos  of  pre-ordination, 
and  night  of  their  fore-beings.  And  if  any  have 
been  so  happy  as  truly  to  understand  Christian 
annihilation,  ecstasies,  exolution,^^  liquefaction, 

*  Alaric,  the  Goth,  who,  according  to  legend,  was 
buried  with  great  treasure  in  the  bed  of  the  river  Busento 
to  protect  his  body  from  the  Romans. 

»  Isa.  xiv.,  16,  etc. 

^°The  angle  of  contingence  is  the  smallest  of  angles. 

3'  Exolution  (Lat.  ex-solvo.  to  unloose,  liberate,  etc.) 
seems  to  suggest  a  state  in  which  the  soul  is  released,  or 
[)urified;  the  gross  and  earthly  elements  which  clog  it 
being  melted  or  dissolved.  The  word  liquefaction  follows 
up  this  thought.  The  word  transformation  apparently  in- 
dicates that  the  preliminary  stages  of  aspiration  and 
[nirification  have  done  their  work,  as  it  is  followed  by 
f'xpressions  depicting  the  active  joys  of  the  liberated  soul. 
The  order  of  all  the  words  in  the  series  is  not  fortuitous, but 
mdicates  a  spiritual  progress.  _ 


transformation,  the  kiss  of  the  spouse,  gustation 
of  God,  and  ingression  into  the  divine  shadow, 
they  have  already  had  an  handsome  anticipa- 
tion of  heaven;  the  glory  of  the  world  is 
5  surely  over,  and  the  earth  in  ashes  unto 
them. 

To  subsist  in  lasting  monuments,  to  live  in 
their  productions,  to  exist  in  their  names^^ 
and  predicament  of  chimaeras,  was  large  satis- 

10  faction  unto  old  expectations,  and  made  one 
part  of  their  Elysiums.  But  all  this  is  nothing 
in  the  metaphysicks  of  true  belief.  To  live 
indeed,  is  to  be  again  ourselves,  which  being 
not  only  an  hope,  but  an  evidence  in  noble 

15  believers,  'tis  all  one  to  lie  in  St.  Innocent's 
churchyard,^'  as  in  the  sands  of  Egypt.  Ready 
to  be  any  thing,  in  the  ecstasy  of  being  ever, 
and  as  content  with  six  foot  as  the  moles  of 
Adrianus.'* 


20 


25 


.    .    .  iabesne  cadavera  solvat, 

An  rogusj  hand  refert.^^  Lucan. 


FAITH 

(From  Religio  Medici,  1642) 

30  As  for  those  wingy  mysteries  in  divinity,  and 
airy  subtleties  in  religion,  which  have  un- 
hinged the  brains  of  better  heads,  they  never 
stretched  the  pia  mater  of  mine.  Methinks 
there  be  not  impossibilities  enough  in  religion 

35  for  an  active  faith:  the  deepest  mysteries  ours 
contains  have  not  only  been  illustrated,  but 
maintained,  by  syllogism  and  the  rule  of  rea- 
son. I  love  to  lose  myself  in  a  mystery;  to 
pursue  my  reason  to  an  O  altiludo!^    'Tis  my 

40  solitary  recreation  to  pose  my  apprehension 
with  those  involved  enigmas  and  riddles  of  the 
Trinity — incarnation  and  resurrection.  I  can 
answer  all  the  objections  of  Satan  and  my 
rebellious  reason  with  that  odd  resolution  I 

45  learned  of  Tertullian,  Cerium  est  quia  impos- 
sible est.^  I  desire  to  exercise  my  faith  in 
the  difficultest  point;  for,  to  credit  ordinary 
and  visible   objects,   is   not   faith,   but  per- 


82  i.  e.,  to  live  in  the  mere  memory  of  their  names  on 
earth  (whether  on  monuments,  or  kept  alive  through 
their  productions),  to  Hve,  if  only  in  the  predicament,  or 
state,  of  those  impossible  monsters  (chimceras)  who  exist 
but  as  fables,  this  was  a  large  satisfaction,  etc. 

'3  "  In  Paris,  where  bodies  soon  consume."  , 

34  The  tomb  of  Hadrian.  \ 

35  "It  matters  not  at  all  whether  corruption  dissolves 
dead  bodies,  or  the  funeral  pile."  ' 

1 0  altitude  divitiarum  sapientiae  et  scientiae  Dei. 
(Vulg.  Rom.,  11,  33) ;— "O  the  depth  of  the  riches  both  of 
the  wisdom  and  knowledge  of  God! " 

2  It  is  certain  because  it  is  impossible. 


SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE  24; 

GOD'S  WISDOM   AND   ETERNITY  mon  ears  like  a  fable.    For  the  world,  I  coun 

,-p,  ,  .  it  not  an  inn,  but  an  hospital;  and  a  place  no 

(i^rom  tne  same;  ^^  j.^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^.^  .^     r^.^^  ^^^j^  ^^^^  j  ^^^^^^ 

In  my  solitary  and  retired  imagination  {neque  is  myself;  it  is  the  microcosm  of  my  own  fram 
enim  cum  porticus  aid  me  lectulus  accepit,  desum  5  that  I  cast  mine  eye  on :  for  the  other,  I  use  i 
mihiy  I  remember  I  am  not  alone;  and  there-  but  like  my  globe,  and  turn  it  round  sometime 
fore  forget  not  to  contemplate  him  and  his  for  my  recreation.  Men  that  look  upon  m; 
attributes,  who  is  ever  with  me,  especially  outside,  perusing  only  my  condition  and  for 
those  two  mighty  ones,  his  wisdom  and  eter-  tunes,  do  err  in  my  altitude;  for  I  am  abov' 
nity.  With  the  one  I  recreate,  with  the  other  10  Atlas's  shoulders.  That  mass  of  flesh  tha 
I  confound,  my  understanding:  for  who  can  circumscribes  me  limits  not  my  mind.  Tha 
speak  of  eternity  without  a  solecism,  or  think  surface  that  tells  the  heavens  it  hath  an  en( 
thereof  without  an  ecstasy?  cannot  persuade  me  I  have  any.     I  take  nr 

Time  we  may  comprehend;  'tis  but  five  days  circle  to  be  above  three  hundred  and  sixty 
older  than  ourselves,  and  hath  the  same  horo-  15  Though  the  number  of  the  ark  do  measure  m] 
scope  wuth  the  world;  but  to  retire  so  far  back  body,  it  comprehendeth  not  my  mind.  Whils 
as  to  apprehend  a  beginning, — to  give  such  an  I  study  to  find  how  I  am  a  microcosm,  or  littl 
infinite  start  forwards  as  to  conceive  an  end, —  world,  I  find  myself  something  more  than  tb 
in  an  essence  that  we  aflSrm  hath  neither  the  great.  There  is  surely  a  piece  of  divinity  ii 
one  nor  the  other,  it  puts  my  reason  to  St.  20  us;  something  that  was  before  the  elements 
Paul's  sanctuary;  my  philosophy  dares  not  and  owes  no  homage  unto  the  sun.  Natur 
say  the  angels  can  do  it.  God  hath  not  made  a  tells  me  I  am  the  image  of  God,  as  well  a 
creature  that  can  comprehend  him;  'tis  a  scripture.  He  that  understands  not  thus  mucl 
privilege  of  his  nature:  "I  am  that  I  am"  was  hath  not  his  introduction  or  first  lesson,  am 
his  own  definition  unto  Moses;'^  and  'twas  a  25 is  yet  to  begin  the  alphabet  of  man.  Let  tn 
short  one  to  confound  mortality,  that  durst  not  injure  the  felicity  of  others,  if  I  say  I  an 
question  God,  or  ask  him  what  he  was.  In-  as  happy  as  any.  Ruat  caelum,  fiat  volunta 
deed,  he  only  is;  all  others  have  and  shall  be;  iua,^  salveth  all;  so  that,  whatsoever  happens 
but,  in  eternity,  there  is  no  distinction  of  it  is  but  what  our  daily  prayers  desire.  Ii 
tenses;  and  therefore  that  terrible  term,  pre- 30  brief,  I  am  content;  and  what  should  provi 
destination,  which  hath  troubled  so  many  dence  add  more?  Surely  this  is  it  we  call  hap 
weak  heads  to  conceive,  and  the  wisest  to  piness,  and  this  do  I  enjoy;  with  this  I  am 
explain,  is  in  respect  to  God  no  prescious  de-  happy  in  a  dream,  and  as  content  to  enjoy  a  hap 
termination  of  our  estates  to  come,  but  a  de-  piness  in  a  fancy,  as  others  in  a  more  appar 
finitive  blast  of  his  will  already  fulfilled,  and  35  ent  truth  and  reality.  There  is  surely  a  neare 
at  the  instant  that  he  first  decreed  it;  for,  to  apprehension  of  anything  that  delights  us,  ii 
his  eternity,  which  is  indivisible,  and  alto-  our  dreams,  than  in  our  waked  senses.  Withou 
gether,  the  last  trump  is  already  sounded,  the  this  I  were  unhappy;  for  my  awaked  judgmen 
reprobates  in  the  flame,  and  the  blessed  in  discontents  me,  ever  whispering  unto  me  tha 
Abraham's  bosom.  St.  Peter  speaks  modestly  40 1  am  from  my  friend,  but  my  friendly  dreami 
when  he  saith,  "A  thousand  years  to  God  are  in  the  night  requite  me,  and  make  me  think  : 
but  as  one  day:"^  for,  to  speak  like  a  philos-  am  within  his  arms.  I  thank  God  for  my  happ: 
opher,  those  continued  instances  of  time,  dreams,  as  I  do  for  my  good  rest;  for  there  i; 
which  flow  into  a  thousand  years,  make  not  to  a  satisfaction  in  them  unto  reasonable  desires 
him  one  moment.  What  to  us  is  to  come,  to  45  and  such  as  can  be  content  with  a  fit  of  happi 
his  eternity  is  present;  his  whole  duration  ness.  And  surely  it  is  not  a  melancholy  con 
being  but  one  permanent  point,  without  sue-  ceit  to  think  we  are  all  asleep  in  this  world 
cession,  parts,  flux,  or  division.  and  that  the  conceits  of  this  life  are  as  mer( 

dreams,  to  those  of  the  next,  as  the  phantasmi 

50  of  the  night,  to  the  conceit  of  the  day.    Ther< 

THE  DIVINITY  IN   MAN  jg  ^n  equal  delusion  in  both;  and  the  one  dotl 

,^         ^,  ^.  TTx  but  seem  to  be  the  emblem  or  picture  of  th« 

(From  the  same,  Part  II)  ^^^^^     ^^  ^^^  somewhat  more  than  ourselvei 

Now  for  my  life,  it  is  a  miracle  for  thirty  in  our  sleeps;  and  the  slumber  of  the  bod> 
years,  which  to  relate,  were  not  a  history,  but  55  seems  to  be  but  the  wakmg  of  the  soul.  It  ii 
a  piece  of  poetry,  and  would  sound  to  com-      the  ligation  of  sense,  but  the  liberty  of  reason 

and  our  waking  conceptions  do  not  match  th< 

1  For  when  neither  the  portico  nor  the  bed  has  accepted       fancies  of  OUr  sleeps. 
'"'4jo'3.'iirS?''''*^°'""'''''^'  3jiPe^iii.8.  1  Let  the  heavens  perish.  30  thy  will  be  done. 


246  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

tE/i^Otn90    ifttUnr  presages  much  good  unto  him.     To  such  a 

lad  a  frown  may  be  a  whipping,  and  a  whip- 

1508-1561  ping  a  death;  yea,  where  their  master  whips 

rrm7   r^r\r,r\   o/^xrrkrkT  Ayr  a  oT'T^^rj  them  once,  shame  whips  them  all  the  week 

THE  GOOD  SCHOOLMASTER  5  after.    Such  natures  he  useth  with  all  gentle- 

(From  The  Holy  State,  1642)  "^J^-  ^,         ,  .         .  ,  . ,,      ^, 

2.  1  hose  that  are  mgemous^  and  idle.    These 

There  is  scarce  any  profession  in  the  com-  think,  with  the  hare  in  the  fable,  that  running 
monwealth  more  necessary,  which  is  so  sHghtly  with  snails  (so  they  count  the  rest  of  their 
performed.  The  reasons  whereof  I  conceive  10  schoolfellows)  they  shall  come  soon  enough 
to  be  these:  First,  young  scholars  make  this  to  the  post,  though  sleeping  a  good  while  be- 
calling  their  refuge,  yea,  perchance  before  they  fore  their  starting.  Oh,  a  good  rod  would  finely 
have  taken  any  degree  in  the  university,  com-      take  them  napping. 

mence  schoolmasters  in  the  country,  as  if  3.  Those  that  are  dull  and  diligent.  Wines, 
nothing  else  were  required  to  set  up  this  pro-  15  the  stronger  they  be,  the  more  lees  they  have 
fession  but  only  a  rod  and  a  ferula.  Secondly,  when  they  are  new.  Many  boys  are  muddy- 
others,  who  are  able,  use  it  only  as  a  passage  headed  till  they  be  clarified  with  age,  and  such 
to  better  preferment,  to  patch  the  rents  in  afterwards  prove  the  best.  Bristol  diamonds* 
their  present  fortune  till  they  can  provide  a  are  both  bright  and  squared  and  pointed  by 
new  one,  and  betake  themselves  to  some  more  20  nature,  and  yet  are  soft  and  worthless;  whereas, 
gainful  caUing.  Thirdly,  they  are  disheartened  Orient  ones  in  India  are  rough  and  rugged,  nat- 
from  doing  their  best  with  the  miserable  reward  urally.  Hard,  and  dull  natures  of  youth  acquit 
which  in  some  places  they  receive,  being  mas-  themselves  afterwards  the  jewels  of  the  coun- 
ters to  the  children  and  slaves  to  their  parents,  try,  and  therefore  their  dulness  at  first  is  to  be 
Fourthly,  being  grown  rich,  they  grow  negli-  25  borne  with,  if  they  be  diligent.  That  school- 
gent,  and  scorn  to  touch  the  school  by  the  master  deserves  to  be  beaten  himself  who 
proxy  of  an  usher. ^  But,  see  how  well  our  beats  nature  in  a  boy  for  a  fault.  And  I  ques- 
schoolmaster  behaves  himself.  tion  whether  all  the  whipping  in  the  world  can 

His  genius  inclines  him  with  delight  to  his  make  their  parts,  which  are  naturally  sluggish, 
profession.  Some  men  had  as  Uef  be  schoolboys  30  rise  one  minute  before  the  hour  nature  hath 
as  schoolmasters,  to  be  tied  to  the  school,  as      appointed. 

Cooper's  "Dictionary"  and  Scapula's  "Lexi-  4.  Those  that  are  invincibly  dull,  and  negli- 
con"  are  chained  to  the  desks  therein;  and  gent  also.  Correction  may  reform  the  latter, 
though  great  scholars,  and  skilful  in  other  arts,  not  amend  the  former.  All  the  whetting  in  the 
are  bunglers  in  this:  but  God  of  His  goodness  35  world  can  never  set  a  razor's  edge  on  that 
hath  fitted  several  men  for  several  callings,  which  hath  no  steel  in  it.  Such  boys  he  con- 
that  the  necessity  of  Church  and  State  in  all  signeth  over  to  other  professions.  Shipwrights 
conditions  may  be  provided  for.  So  that  he  and  boatmakers  will  choose  those  crooked  pieces 
who  beholds  the  fabric  thereof  may  say,  "God  of  timber  which  other  carpenters  refuse.  Those 
hewed  out  this  stone,  and  appointed  it  to  lie  40  may  make  excellent  merchants  and  mechanics 
in  this  very  place,  for  it  would  fit  none  other  which  will  not  serve  for  scholars, 
so  well,  and  here  it  doth  most  excellent."    And  He  is  able,  dihgent,  and  methodical  in  his. 

thus  God  mouldeth  some  for  a  schoolmaster's  teaching;  not  leading  them  rather  in  a  circle 
life,  undertaking  it  with  desire  and  delight,  than  forwards.  He  miiices  his  precepts  for 
and  discharging  it  with  dexterity  and  happy  45  children  to  swallow,  hanging  i^logs  on  the 
success.  nimbleness  of  his  own  soul,  that  his  scholars 

He  studieth  his  scholars'  natures  as  care-  may  go  along  with  him.  He  is,  and  will  be 
fully  as  they  their  books,  and  ranks  their  dis-  known  to  be,  an  absolute  monarch  in  his  school, 
positions  into  several  forms. '^  And  though  it  If  cockering  mothers  profi'er  him  money  to 
may  seem  difficult  for  him  in  a  great  school  to  50  purchase  their  sons  an  exemption  from  his 
descend  to  all  particulars,  yet  experienced  rod  (to  live  as  it  were  in  a  peculiar,  out  of  their 
schoolmasters  may  quickly  make  a  grammar  of  master's  jurisdiction),  with  disdain  he  refuseth 
boys'  natures,  and  reduce  them  all,  saving  some  it,  and  scorns  the  late  custom  in  some  places 
few  exceptions  to,  these  general  rules:  of  commuting  whipping  into  money,  and  ran- 

1.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  industrious.  55  soming  boys  from  the  rod  at  a  set  price.  If  he 
The  conjunction  of  two  such  planets  in  a  youth      hath  a  stubborn  youth,   correction-proof,  he 

1  They  made  it  possible  for  themselves  to  neglect  the     debaseth  not  his  authority  by  contesting  with 

school  by  employing  an  usher  as  their  proxy. 

*  Groups,  or  classes,  as  those  given  in  the  succeeding  *  Naturally  bright  or  clever, 

passage.  ,  *  Small  quartz  crystals  found  near  the  city  of  Bristol. 


THOMAS   FULLER  247 

him,  but  fairly,  if  he  can,  puts  him  away  be-     scholars,  after  their  studying  in  the  university, 
fore  his  obstinacy  hath  infected  others.  preferred  to  beggary. 

He  is  moderate  in  inflicting  deserved  correc-  He  spoils  not  a  good  school  to  make  thereof 

tion.  Many  a  schoolmaster  better  answereth  a  bad  college,  therein  to  teach  his  scholars 
the  name  iraidoTpiptjs^  than  7rat5a7w76s,^  rather  5  logic.  For,  besides  that  logic  may  have  an 
tearing  his  scholars'  flesh  with  whipping  than  action  of  trespass  against  grammar  for  en- 
giving  them  good  education.  No  wonder  if  his  croaching  on  her  liberties,  syllogisms  are  sole- 
scholars  hate  the  Muses,  being  presented  unto  cisms  taught  in  the  school,  and  oftentimes  they 
them  in  the  shapes  of  fiends  and  furies.  Junius  are  forced  afterwards  in  the  university  to  un- 
complains  de  insolento  carnifidnd'  of  his  school-  10  learn  the  fumbling  skill  they  had  before, 
master,  by  whom  conscindehatur  flagris  sepiies  Out  of  his  school  he  is  no  whit  pedantical  in 
aut  octies  in  dies  singulos.^  Yea,  hear  the  la-  carriage  or  discourse;  contenting  himself  to  be 
mentable  verses  of  poor  Tusser^  in  his  own  life:      rich  in  Latin,  though  he  doth  not  jingle  with  it 

in  every  company  wherein  he  comes. 

"From  Paul's  I  went,  to  Eton  sent,  15     To  conclude,  let  this  amongst  other  motives 

To  learn  straightways  the  Latin  phrase,  make    schoolmasters    careful   in    their   place, 

Where  fifty-three  stripes,  given  to  me  that  the  eminencies  of  their  scholars  have  com- 

At  once  I  had.      mended  the  memories  of  their  schoolmasters 

to  posterity,  who  otherwise  in  obscurity  had 

"For  fault  but  small,  or  none  at  all,  20  altogether   been   forgotten.^   Who   had   ever 

It  came  to  pass  thus  beat  I  was;  heard  of  R.  Bond,  in  Lancashire,  but  for  the 

See  Udall,^°  see,  the  mercy  of  thee,  breeding  of  Ifearned  Ascham,^^  j^jg  scholar?  or 

To  me,  poor  lad."      of  Hartgrave,  in  Brundly  school,  in  the  same 

county,  but  because  he  was  the  first  did  teach 

Such  an  Orbilius"  mars  more  scholars  than  25  worthy  Dr.  Whitaker?^'    Nor  do  I  honour  the 

he  makes:  their  tyranny  hath  caused  many      memory  of  Mulcaster  for  anything  so  much 

tongues  to  stammer,   which   spake  plain  by      as  for  his  scholar,  that  gulf  of  learning.  Bishop 

nature,  and  whose  stuttering  at  first  was  noth-      Andrews. ^^     This   made    the   Athenians,    the 

ing  else  but  fears  quavering  on  their  speech      day  before  the  great  feast  of  Theseus,  their 

at  their  master's  presence;  and  whose  mauling  30  founder,  to  sacrifice  a  ram  to  the  memory  of 

them  about  their  heads  hath  dulled  those  who,      Conidas,  his  schoolmaster  that  first  instructed 

in  quickness,  exceeded  their  master.  him. 

He  makes  his  school  free  to  him  who  sues  a-im?  Ta-DATQixm 

to  him  in  forma  pauperis.    And  surely  learning  ^^    bJil.1^ -l-KAltoliN  Lr 

is  the  greatest  alms  that  can  be  given.    But  he  35  (From  the  same) 

is  a  beast  who,  because  the  poor  scholar  cannot 

pay  him  his  wages,  pays  the  scholar  in  his  He  whose  own  worth  doth  speak,  need  not 
whipping.  Rather  are  diligent  lads  to  be  en-  speak  his  own  worth.  Such  boasting  sounds 
couraged  with  all  excitements  to  learning,  proceed  from  emptiness  of  desert:  whereas  the 
This  minds  me  of  what  I  have  heard  concern-  40  conquerors  in  the  Olympian  games  did  not  put 
ing  Mr.  Bust,  that  worthy  late  schoolmaster  on  the  laurels  on  their  own  heads,  but  waited 
of  Eton,  who  would  never  suffer  any  wander-  till  some  other  did  it.  Only  anchorets^  that 
ing  begging  scholar  (such  as  justly  the  statute  want  company  may  crown  themselves  with 
hath  ranked  in  the  forefront  of  rogues)  to  their  own  commendations, 
come  into  his  school,  but  would  thrust  him  out  45  It  showeth  more  wit  but  no  less  vanity  to 
with  earnestness  (however  privately  charit-  commend  one's  self  not  in  a  straight  line  but 
able  unto  him),  lest  his  schoolboys  should  be  by  reflection.  Some  sail  to  the  port  of  their 
disheartened  from  their  books  by  seeing  some  own  praise  by  a  side-wind;  as  when  they  dis- 
praise themselves,  stripping  themselves  naked 
^  Paidotribes,  one  who  teaches  boys  wrestling,  or  ^q  of  what  is  their  due,  that  the  modesty  of  the 
^eTSdagogue,  a  teacher.  beholders  may  clothe  them  with  it  again;  or 

7  About  the  excessive  chastisement.  .        .  when  they  flatter  another  to  his  face,  tossing 

daily.'  ^^" '"'"'"  '"^ ""'""""  ^"^  ''°"'^''  '''^''' ""'  "      *'"""'      the  ball  to  him  that  he  may  throw  it  back  again 

»  Thomas  Tusser  (15247-1580) ,  chiefly  remembered  by  ^q  them;  or  when  they  COmmend  that  quafity, 

his  rugged  but  shrewd  and  entertaining  rhymes  the  Five  ^^             Ascham  v  p  133 

^^"o't'-l^/l'tM^/fnli.^'^'lS'^Ap.idmaster  of  Eton  in  ''  WUliam  Whitdk^(\M7-\mS),  a  learned  theologian, 

l£tl^'l^^^'^i'^;''X'  comedT  la^'^  ""S^  g-^-or^f  ^'^^  -^  --^-  ^'  ^''  ^^^^'^  -"«««' 

^''^OrhUius  Pupillus,  a  Roman  schoolmaster  noted  for  ^^^  Lancelot  ^"f^«  (1555-1626).  succesaively  Bishop  of 

his  severi  ty!   Horace,  one  of  his  pupils,  calls  him  plagosus  Chichester  and  of  Winchester. 

Orbilius,  Orbilius  fond  of  flogging.  ^  Anchorites. 


248  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

wherein  themselves  excel,  in  another  man  Once  a  dunce,  void  of  learning  but  full  of  books, 
(though  absent)  whom  all  know  far  their  in-  flouted  a  library-less  scholar  with  these  words, 
ferior  in  that  faculty;  or,  lastly,  (to  omit  other  — Salve,  doctor  sine  libris:^  but  the  next  day 
ambushes  men  set  to  surprise  praise),  when  they  the  scholar  coming  into  this  jeerer's  study 
send  the  children  of  their  own  brain  to  be  5  crowded  with  books, — Salvete,  libri,  saith  he, 
nursed  by  another  man,  and  commend  their      sine  doctored 

own  works  in  a  third  person,  but  if  challenged  2.  Few  books  well  selected  are  best.     Yet,  as 

by  the  company  that  they  were  authors  of  it  a  certain  fool  bought  all  the  pictures  that 
themselves,  with  their  tongues  they  faintly  came  out,  because  he  might  have  his  choice; 
deny  it,  and  with  their  faces  strongly  af-  lO  such  is  the  vain  humour  of  many  men  in  gather- 
firm  it.  '  ing  of  books:  yet  when  they  have  done  all, 

Self-praising  comes  most  naturally  from  a  they  miss  their  end,  it  being  in  the  editions  of 
man  when  it  comes  most  violently  from  him  in  authors  as  in  the  fashions  of  clothes,  when 
his  own  defence.  For  though  modesty  binds  a  man  thinks  he  hath  gotten  the  latest 
a  man's  tongue  to  the  peace  in  this  point,  yet,  15  and  newest,  presently  another  newer  comes  out. 
being  assaulted  in  his  credit,  he  may  stand  3.  Some  books  are  only  cursorily  to  be  tasted 

upon  his  guard,  and  then  he  doth  not  so  much  of.  Namely,  first  voluminous  books,  the  task 
praise  as  purge  himself.  One  braved  a  gentle-  of  a  man's  life  to  read  them  over;  secondly, 
man  to  his  face  that  in  skill  and  valour  he  came  auxiUary  books,  only  to  be  repaired  to  on 
far  behind  him.  ,"'Tis  true,"  said  the  other,  20  occasions;  thirdly,  such  as  are  mere  pieces  of 
"for  when  I  fought  with  you,  you  ran  away  formality,  so  that  if  you  look  on  them  you  look 
before  me."  In  such  a  case  it  was  well  returned,  through  them;  and  he  that  peeps  through  the 
and  without  any  just  aspersion  of  pride.  He  casement  of  the  index  sees  as  much  as  if  he 
that  falls  into  sin  is  a  man;  that  grieves  at  it,  were  in  the  house.  But  the  laziness  of  those 
is  a  saint;  that  boasteth  of  it,  is  a  devil.  Yet  25  cannot  be  excused  who  perfunctorily  pass 
some  glory  in  their  shame,  counting  the  stains  over  authors  of  consequence,  and  only  trade 
of  sin  the  best  complexion  for  their  souls.  in  their  tables  of  contents.  These,  like  city- 
These  men  make  me  believe  it  may  be  true  cheaters,*  having  gotten  the  names  of  all  coun- 
what  Mandeville  writes  of  the  Isle  of  Soma-  try  gentlemen,  make  silly  people  believe  they 
barre,  in  the  East  Indies,  that  all  the  nobility  30  have  long  lived  in  those  places  where  they 
thereof  brand  their  faces  with  a  hot  iron  in  never  were,  and  flourish  with  skill  in  those  au- 
token  of  honour.  thors  they  never  seriously  studied. 

He  that  boasts  of  sins  never  committed  is  a  4.  The  genius  of  the  author  is  commonly  dism 

double  devil.  .  .  .  Some,  who  would  sooner  covered  in  the  dedicatory  epistle.  Many  place 
creep  into  a  scabbard  than  draw  a  sword,  35  the  purest  grain  in  the  mouth  of  the  sack  for 
boast  of  their  robberies,  to  usurp  the  esteem  chapmen  to  handle  or  buy;  and  from  the  dedi- 
of  valour;  whereas,  first  let  them  be  well  cation  one  may  probably  guess  at  the  work, 
whipped  for  their  lying,  and  as  they  like  that  saving  some  rare  and  peculiar  exceptions, 
let  them  come  afterward  and  entitle  themselves  Thus,  when  once  a  gentleman  admired  how 
to  the  gallows.  40  so  pithy,  learned,  and  witty  a  dedication  was 

matched  to   a  flat,  dull,   foolish   book:   "In 
truth,"    said    another,    "they    may    be    well 
OF  BUOKb  matched    together,    for    I    profess    they    are 

(From  the  same)  nothing  akin." 

45     5.  Proportion   an   hour  s   meditation    to   an 

Solomon  saith  truly,  "Of  making  many  hour's  reading  of  a  staple  author.  This  makes  a 
books  there  is  no  end;"^  so  insatiable  is  the  man  master  of  his  learning,  and  dispirits^  the 
thirst  of  men  therein:  as  also  endless  is  the  de-  book  into  the  scholar.  The  King  of  Sweden 
sire  of  many  in  buying  and  reading  them.  But  never  filed  his  men  above  six  deep  in  one  com- 
we  come  to  our  rules.  50  pany,  because  he  would  not  have  them  He  in 

1.  It  is  a  vanity  to  persuade  the  world  one  useless  clusters  in  his  army,  but  so  that  every 
hath  m,uch  learning  by  getting  a  large  library,  particular  soldier  might  be  drawn  out  into 
As  soon  shall  I  believe  every  one  is  valiant  service.  Books  that  stand  thin  on  the  shelves, 
that  hath  a  well  furnished  armory.  I  guess  yet  so  as  the  owner  of  them  can  bring  forth 
good  housekeeping  by  the  smoking,  not  the  55  every  one  of  them  into  use,  are  better  than  far 
number  of  the  tunnels,  as  knowing  that  many  better  libraries, 
of  them  (built  merely  for  uniformity)  are  2  Good-day,  doctor  without  books. 
without   chimneys,    and   more   without   fires  3  Greeting  to  you.  books,  without  a  scholar. 

•^    '  <  Swindlers,     confidence  men. 

1  Ecc.  xii.,  12.  *  Breathes  the  soul  of  the  book  from  it  into  the  scholar. 


EDWARD  HYDE,  EARL  OF  CLARENDON  249 

6.  Learning  hath  gained  most  by  those  books  (Il;DtDarD     i^|?tlC^     (tWCl    Of    ClatHlDOtl 

bywhich  the  printer  hath  lost.    Arias  Montanus,^ 

in    printing    the    Hebrew    Bible,    (commonly  lbU«-lb74 

called  the  Bible  of  the  King  of  Spain)  much 

wasted  himself,  and  was  accused  in  the  court  5  CHARLES  I.  SETS  UP  HIS  STANDARD 

of  Rome  for  his  good  deed,  and  being  cited  AT   NOTTINGHAM 

thither,    pro    tantorum    laborum    proemio,    vix 

veniam     impetravit.       Likewise,     Christopher  (From  The  History  of  the  Rebellion,  1704-7) 

Plantin,'  by  printing  of  his  curious  interlineary 

Bible  in  Antwerp,  through  the  unreasonable  10      (His  Majesty)  forthwith  published  a  declar- 

actions  of  the  king's  officers,  sunk  and  almost  ation,  that  had  been  long  ready,  in  which  he 

ruined  his  estate.     And  our  worthy  English  recapitulated   all  the  insolent  and  rebellious 

knight,    who    set    forth    the    golden-mouthed  actions  which  the  two  houses  had  committed 

Father^  in  a  silver  print,  was  a  loser  by  it.  against  him:  and  declared  them  "to  be  guilty; 

7.  Whereas  foolish  pamphlets  prove  most  15  and  forbad  all  his  subjects  to  yield  any  obedi- 
heneftcial  to  the  printers.  When  a  French  ence  to  them:"  and,  at  the  same  time,  pub- 
printer  complained  that  he  was  utterly  undone  lished  his  proclamation;  by  which  "he  required 
by  printing  a  solid  serious  book  of  Rabelais  all  men  who  could  bear  arms,  to  repair  to  him 
concerning  physic,  Rabelais,  to  make  him  at  Nottingham,  by  the  twenty-fifth  of  August^ 
recompense,  made  that  his  jesting,  scurrilous  20  following;  on  which  day  he  would  set  up  his 
work,  which  repaired  the  printer's  loss  with  royal  standard  there,  which  all  good  sub- 
advantage.  Such  books  the  world  swarms  jects  were  obliged  to  attend."  .  .  . 
too  much  with.  When  one  had  set  out  a  wit-  The  king  came  to  Nottingham  two  or  three 
less  pamphlet,  writing  Finis  at  the  end  thereof,  days  before  the  day  he  had  appointed  to  set 
another  wittily  wrote  beneath  it,  25 up  the  standard;  having  taken  Lincoln  in  his 

a>T       xu       ^u      y    4.  ^    f  ■r.^A  way,   and  drawn  some  arms  from   the  train 

.  .  "Nay,  there  thou  hest  my  friend  J'^  ^^  ^^^^  ^          ^;^^  j^;^  ^^  Nottingham; 

In  writmg  f  oohsh  books  there  .s  no  end.  ^^^^  ^,^^_^^^_  ^^^  J^^  ^^^^  j^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^^j^^  ^ 

And  surely  such  scurrilous,  scandalous  papers  yjg^  of  his  horse;  whereof  there  were  several 
do  more  than  conceivable  mischief.  First,  3Q  troops  well  armed,  and  under  good  officers,  to 
their  lusciousness  puts  many  palates  out  of  ^he  number  of  seven  or  eight  hundred  men; 
taste,  that  they  can  never  after  relish  any  solid  ^j^h  which,  being  informed,  "that  there  were 
and  wholesome  writers;  secondly,  they  cast  gome  regiments  of  foot  marching  towards 
dirt  on  the  faces  of  many  innocent  persons,  Coventry,  by  the  Earl  of  Essex's  orders,"  he 
which,  dried  on  by  continuance  of  time,  c^^s5mside  haste  thither;  making  fittle  doubt  but 
never  after  be  washed  off;  thirdly,  the  pam-  ^hat  he  should  be  able  to  get  thither  before 
phlets  of  this  age  may  pass  for  records  with  them,  and  so  to  possess  himself  of  that  city; 
the  next  (because  pubficly  uncontrolled),  and  andhedidget  thither  the  day  before  they  came; 
what  we  laugh  at,  our  children  may  beheve;  ^ut  found  not  only  the  gates  shut  against  him, 
fourthly,  grant  the  things  true  they  jeer  at,  ^^^ut  some  of  his  servants  shot  and  wounded 
yet  this  music  is  unlawful  in  any  Christian  fj.^^  the  walls:  nor  could  all  his  messages  and 
church,  to  play  upon  the  sins  and  miseries  of  summons  prevail  with  the  mayor  and  magis- 
others,  the  fitter  object  of  the  elegies  and  the  trates,  before  there  was  any  garrison  there, 
satires  of  all  truly  religious.  to  suffer  the  king  to  enter  into  the  city.     So 

But  what  do  I  speaking  against  multiplicity  45  g^eat  an  interest  and  reputation  the  parliament 
of  books  in  this  age,  who  trespass  in  this  na-      j^^d  gotten  over  the  affections  of  the  people, 
ture  myself?    What  was  a  learned  man's  com-      whose  hearts  were  alienated  from  any  rever- 
^_  pliment,  may  serve  for  my  confession  and  con-      ^^^^  to  the  government. 

^  elusion  '.-Multi  mei  similes  hoc  morbo  laborant,  ^he  king  could  not  remedy  the  affront,  but 
ut  cum  scribere  nesciant,  tamen  a  scribendo  tern-  ^^  ^gjjt  that  night  to  Stonely,  the  house  then 
perare  non  possint.^  of  Sir  Thomas  Lee;  where  he  was  well  received; 

6  A  Spanish  oriental  scholar  of  the  iGth  century.  and,  the  next  day,  his  body  of  horse,  having  a 

aJdtlMtet^L':;^".^'?^'"^"^^^^^^^  e'ear  view  upon  an  open  Campania  for  five  or 

Here  he  published  a  polyglot  Bible  in  1569-72.  SIX  miles  together,  of  the  enemy  s  small  body 

s.S7.Jo/.n.afatheroftheGjeekCWch   caled^^^  ^  ^^^^   consisted   not   of   above   twelvC 

oxtom,    or    "golden-mouthed,      on    account   or    nis   eio   ujkj  ,  u*   i 

quence.   A  magnificent  and  costlv  edition  of  Chrysostom  s       hundred  men,   With  One  trOOp  Ot   hOrse,  WlllCn 

vyorks  was  ^^sued^by  ^hej^oft  English  scholar  Sir  Henry      ^^^^^.^hed  with  them  over  that  plain,  retired 
'^•"Many  like^myself^struggie  with  this  complaint,  that      before  them,  without  giving  them  one  charge; 

while  they  do  not  know  how  to  write,  they  are  yet  unable  ^  ^^  ^^^  ^^^ 

to  refrain  from  writing. 


250  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

which  was  imputed  to  the  lashty  of  Wilmot,  answer,  he  had  only  the  Lord  Wentworth  and 
who  commanded;  and  had  a  colder  courage  Mr.  Thomas  Weston,  who  came  to  enjoy  the 
than  many  who  were  under  him,  and  who  were  delight  of  his  company,  which  was  very  attrac- 
of  opinion,  that  they  might  have  easily  de-  tive,  and  for  whom  he  had  promised  to  raise 
featedthatbodyof  foot;  which  would  have  been  5  troops  of  horse,  and  three  or  four  country 
a  very  seasonable  victory;  would  have  put  gentlemen,  who  repaired  thither  upon  the  first 
Coventry  unquestionably  into  the  King's  news  of  his  declaring  with  so  small  a  number  of 
hands,  and  sent  him  with  a  good  omen  to  the  men,  as  was  fitter  for  their  equipage  and  ret- 
setting  up  of  his  standard.  Whereas,  that  inue  than  for  the  defence  of  the  place,  and  an 
unhappy  retreat,  which  looked  like  a  defeat,  lo  addition  of  twenty  or  thirty  common  men  to 
and  the  rebellious  behaviour  of  Coventry,  his  garrison,  which  the  kindness  of  some  friends 
made  his  majesty's  return  to  Nottingham  very  had  suppUed  with:  and  in  this  state  Sir  Will, 
melancholy;  and  he  returned  thither  the  very  Waller  found  him  and  the  place,  when  he  came 
day  the  standard  was  appointed  to  be  set  up.      before  it,  and  when  he  was  deprived  of  all  com- 

According  to  the  proclamation,  upon  the  15  munication  by  land  or  sea.  He  continued  in 
twenty-fifth  day  of  August,  the  standard  was  the  same  jollity  from  the  time  he  was  besieged, 
erected,  about  six  of  the  clock  in  the  evening  and  suffered  the  enemy  to  approach  as  he 
of  a  very  stormy  and  tempestuous  day.  The  pleased,  without  disturbing  him  by  any  brisk 
king  himself,  with  a  small  train,  rode  to  the  sally  or  soldierly  action,  which  all  men  expected 
top  of  the  castle-hill,  Varney  the  knight- 20  from  him,  who  were  best  acquainted  with  his 
marshal,  who  was  standard  bearer,  carrying  other  infirmities;  and  after  about  the  end  of 
the  standard,  which  was  then  erected  in  that  three  weeks,  he  delivered  the  town,  upon  no 
place,  with  little  other  ceremony  than  the  other  conditions  than  the  liberty  for  all  who  had 
sound  of  drums  and  trumpets:  melancholy  a  mind  to  go  away,  and  his  own  transportation 
men  observed  many  ill  presages  about  that  25  into  Holland.  When  he  recovered,  and  re- 
time. There  was  not  one  regiment  of  foot  yet  stored  himseK  to  the  king  and  queen's  favour 
levied  and  brought  thither;  so  that  the  trained  and  trust,  after  his  foul  tergiversation,  he  had 
bands,  which  the  sheriff  had  drawn  together,  great  thoughts  in  his  heat  of  power  and  au- 
was  all  the  strength  the  king  had  for  his  person,  thority;  for  his  ambition  was  always  the  first 
and  the  guard  of  the  standard.  There  appeared  30  deity  he  sacrificed  to;  and  it  was  proposed  by 
no  conflux  of  men  in  obedience  to  the  proclama-  him,  and  consented  to,  that  when  the  king 
tion;  the  arms  and  ammunition  were  not  yet  should  find  it  necessary  to  put  himself  into  the 
come  from  York,  and  a  general  sadness  covered  field,  (which  was  thought  would  be  fit  for  him 
the  whole  town.  And  the  king  himseK  ap-  to  do  much  sooner),  the  Queen  should  retire 
peared  more  melanchoHc  than  he  used  to  be.  35  to  Portsmouth:  and  that  was  the  reason  why 
The  standard  itself  was  blown  down,  the  same  the  queen  was  so  solicitous  that  it  might  be 
night  it  had  been  set  up,  by  a  very  strong  and  put  into  a  good  condition;  and  by  this  means 
unruly  wind,  and  could  not  be  fixed  again  in  a  he  should  be  sure  never  to  be  reduced  into  any 
day  or  two,  till  the  tempest  was  allayed.  And  straits  without  a  powerful  relief,  and  should 
within  three  or  four  days  the  news  arrived  that  40  always  have  it  in  his  power  to  make  good  condi- 
Portsmouth  was  given  up ;  which  almost  struck  tions  for  himself,  in  all  events.  But  when 
the  king  to  the  heart.  Goring, ^  who  had  re-  the  parliament's  power  was  so  much  increased 
ceived  so  much  money  from  the  parliament,  to  and  the  king's  abated,  that  the  queen  resolved 
mend  the  fortifications,  and  so  much  from  the  to  transport  herseK  beyond  the  seas,  the  edge 
queen,  to  provide  men  and  victual  and  am-  45  of  his.  zeal  was  taken  off,  and  he  thought  Ports- 
munition,  that  he  might  be  able  to  defend  him-  mouth  too  low  a  sphere  for  him  to  move  in; 
self  when  he  should  be  forced  to  declare,  which  and  the  keeping  a  town  (which  must  follow 
he  expected  to  be  much  sooner,  and  could  not  the  fate  of  the  kingdom)  was  not  a  fit  portion 
expect  to  be  suddenly  reUeved,  had  neither  for  him;  and  so  he  cared  not  to  lose  what  he 
mended  the  fortifications,  or  provided  any-  50  did  not  care  to  keep.  And  it  were  to  be  wished 
thing  for  his  defence,  but  had  spent  all  the  that  there  might  be  no  more  occasion  to  men- 
money  in  good  fellow-ship,  or  lost  it  at  play;  tion  him  after  this  repeated  treachery,  and  that 
the  temptation  of  either  of  which  vices,  he  his  incomparable  dexterity  and  sagacity  had 
never  could  resist.  So  that  when  he  could  no  not  prevailed  so  far  over  those  whom  he  had 
longer  defer  giving  the  parliament  a  direct  55  so  often  deceived,  as  to  make  it  absolutely 

^  Col.  Goring,  the  Governor  of  Portsmouth.  According     ^ecessary  to  speak  at  large  of  him,  more  than 

to  Clarendon  he  received  £3000.  from  the  Queen  to  fortify       once,    before   this   discourse   COmeS   tO   an   end. 

'°aVod"4p°/?ror.he  SruSr  AayTe^lS  ^nd  this  was  the  melancholy  state  of  the  king's 
of  the  garnsou.  affairs,  when  the  standard  was  set  up. 


EDWARD   HYDE,   EARL  OF  CLARENDON  251 

LORD  FALKLAND  not  to  see  London,  which  he  loved  above  all 

fjj,         .,  >.  places,  till  he  had  perfectly  learned  the  Greek 

(From  the  same)  f  ,  4.  4.    i.-  1,  -^u 

^  tongue,  he  went  to  his  own  house  m  the  coun- 

In  this  unhappy  battle^  was  slain  the  lord  try,  and   pursued  it  with  that  indefatigable 

viscount  Falkland  ;2  a  person  of  such  prodigious  5  industry,  that  it  will  not  be  believed  in  how 

parts  of  learning  and  knowledge,  of  that  inim-  short  a  time  he  was  master  of  it,  and  accurately 

itable  sweetness  and  delight  in  conversation,  read  all  the  Greek  historians. 

of  so  flowing  and  obliging  a  humanity  and  good-  In  this  time,   his  house  being  within '  ten 

ness  to  mankind,  and  of  that  primitive  sim-  miles    of    Oxford,    he    contracted    familiarity 

plicity  and  integrity  of  hfe,  that  if  there  were  10  and  friendship  with  the  most  polite  and  ac- 

no  other  brand  upon  this  odious  and  accursed  curate  men  of  that  university;  who  found  such 

civil  war,  than  that  single  loss,  it  must  be  most  an  immenseness  of  wit,  and  such  a  solidity  of 

infamous  and  execrable  to  all  posterity.  judgment  in  him,  so  infinite  a  fancy,  bound 

rr  •         t  4        1  J  7       1  in  by  a  most  logical  ratiocination,  such  a  vast 

Turve  mori,  post  te,  solo  non  posse  dolore.^      ,ri„i^        +ufu  ^-  ^• 

^  '  ^         '  ^  15  knowledge,  that  he  was  not  ignorant  in  any- 

Before  this  parliament,  his  condition  of  life  thing,  yet  such  an  excessive  humility,  as  if  he 
was  so  happy  that  it  was  hardly  capable  of  had  known  nothing,  that  they  frequently  re- 
improvement.  Before  he  came  to  twenty  years  sorted,  and  dwelt  with  him,  as  in  a  college  situ- 
of  age,  he  was  master  of  a  noble  fortune,  which  ated  in  a  purer  air;  so  that  his  house  was  a  uni- 
descended  to  him  by  the  gift  of  a  grandfather,  20  versity  in  a  less  volume;  whither  they  came 
without  passing  through  his  father  or  mother,  not  so  much  for  repose  as  study;  and  to  ex- 
who  were  then  both  alive,  and  not  well  enough  amine  and  refine  those  grosser  propositions, 
contented  to  find  themselves  passed  by  in  the  which  laziness  and  consent  made  current 
descent.     His  education  for  some  years  had      in  vulgar  conversation. 

been  in  Ireland,  where  his  father  was  lord  25  Many  attempts  were  made  upon  him,  by  the 
deputy;  so  that,  when  he  returned  into  Eng-  instigation  of  his  mother  (who  was  a  lady  of 
land,  to  the  possession  of  his  fortune,  he  was  another  persuasion  in  religion,  and  of  a  most 
unentangled  with  any  acquaintance  or  friends,  masculine  understanding,  allayed  with  the 
which  usually  grow  up  by  the  custom  of  con-  passions  and  infirmities  of  her  own  sex)  to 
versation;  and  therefore  was  to  make  a  pure  30  pervert  him  in  his  piety  to  the  church  of  Eng- 
election  of  his  company;  which  he  chose  by  land,  and  to  reconcile  him  to  that  of  Rome; 
other  rules  than  were  prescribed  to  the  young  which  they  prosecuted  with  the  more  confi- 
nobility  of  that  time.  And  it  cannot  be  de-  dence,  because  he  declined  no  opportunity  or 
nied,  though  he  admitted  some  few  to  his  occasion  of  conference  with  those  of  that  re- 
friendship  for  the  agreeableness  of  their  na-ssligion,  whether  priests  or  laics;  having  dili- 
tures,  and  their  undoubted  affection  to  him,  gently  studied  the  controversies,  and  exactly 
tliat  his  familiarity  and  friendship,  for  the  most  read  all,  or  the  choicest  of  the  Greek  and  Latin 
part,  was  with  men  of  the  most  eminent  and  fathers,  and  having  a  memory  so  stupendous, 
sublime  parts,  and  of  untouched  reputation  that  he  remembered,  on  all  occasions,  whatso- 
in  point  of  integrity;  and  such  men  had  a  40  ever  he  read.  And  he  was  so  great  an  enemy 
title  to  his  bosom.  to  that  passion  and  uncharitableness,  which  he 

He  was  a  great  cherisher  of  wit,  and  fancy,  saw  produced,  by  difference  of  opinion,  in 
and  good  parts  in  any  man;  and,  if  he  found  matters  of  religion,  that  in  all  those  disputa- 
them  clouded  with  poverty  or  want,  a  most  tions  with  priests,  and  others  of  the  Roman 
liberal  and  bountiful  patron  towards  them,  45  church,  he  affected  to  manifest  all  possible 
even  above  his  fortune;  of  which,  in  those  ad-  civility  to  their  persons,  and  estimation  of 
ministrations,  he  was  such  a  dispenser,  as,  their  parts;  which  made  them  retain  still  some 
if  he  had  been  trusted  with  it  to  such  uses,  and  hope  of  his  reduction,  even  when  they  had 
if  there  had  been  the  least  of  vice  in  his  ex-  given  over  offering  further  reasons  to  him  to 
pense,  he  might  have  been  thought  too  prodi-  50  that  purpose. 

gal.      He   was   constant   and   pertinacious   in  He  had  a  courage  of  the  most  clear  and  keen 

whatsoever  he  resolved  to  do,  and  not  to  be  temper,  and  so  far  from  fear,  that  he  was  not 
wearied  by  any  pains  that  were  necessary  to  without  appetite  of  danger;  and  therefore, 
that  end.    And  therefore  having  once  resolved      upon  any  occasion  of  action,  he  always  engaged 

1  The  first  battle  of  Newbury,  Sept.  20th.  1643.  55  his  person  in  those  troops,  which  he  thought, 

2  Lucius  Gary,  Viscount  Falkland  (1610-1643).    While      |3y  i\^q  forwardness  of  the  commanders,  to  be 

he  took  the  side  of  the  king,  he  did  not  share  in  the  bhndly  .    n       .       i       e     4.u   „4. .^^^A ^    ;^    oil 

partisan  spirit  of  his  timl  V.  Matthew  Arnold's  essay  most  like  to  be  furthest  engaged,  and  in  aU 
on  him  in  Discourses  in  America.  sucli  encounters  he  had  about  him  a  strange 

afteiVheel'^ "''''  ^"  ^'"''^  ^  "^""''""' "'  "'^"  ^   ^"^'^""  '°  cheerfulness  and  companionableness,  without 


252  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

at  all  affecting  the  execution  which  was  then  exceedingly  affected  with  the  spleen.  In  his 
principally  to  be  attended,  in  which  he  took  clothes  and  habit,  which  he  had  minded  before 
no  dehght,  but  took  pains  to  prevent  it,  where  always  with  more  neatness,  and  industry,  and 
it  was  not,  by  resistance,  necessary;  insomuch  expense,  than  is  usual  to  so  great  a  mind,  he  was 
that  at  Edge-hill,*  when  the  enemy  was  routed,  5  not  now  only  incurious,  but  too  negligent;  and  in 
he  was  like  to  have  incurred  great  peril,  by  his  reception  of  suitors,  and  the  necessary  or  cas- 
interposing  to  save  those  who  had  thrown  away  ual  addresses  to  his  place,  so  quick,  and  sharp, 
their  arms,  and  against  whom,  it  may  be,  others  and  severe,  that  there  wanted  not  some  men 
were  more  fierce  for  their  having  thrown  them  (who  were  strangers  to  his  nature  and  disposi- 
away:  insomuch  as  a  man  might  think,  he  10  tion),^  who  believed  him  proud  and  imperious, 
came  into  the  field  only  out  of  curiosity  to  see  from  which  no  mortal  man  was  ever  more  free, 
the  face  of  danger,  and  charity  to  prevent  the  The  truth  is,  as  he  was  of  a  most  incompara- 
shedding  of  blood.  Yet  in  his  natural  inchna-  ble  gentleness,  application,  and  even  a  demiss- 
tion  he  acknowledged  he  was  addicted  to  the  ness,^  and  submission  to  good,  and  worthy,  and 
profession  of  a  soldier;  and  shortly  after  he  15  entire  men,  so  he  was  naturally  (which  could 
came  to  his  fortune,  and  before  he  came  to  not  but  be  more  evident  in  his  place,  which 
age,  he  went  into  the  Low  Countries,  with  a  objected  him  to  another  conversation  and 
resolution  of  procuring  command,  and  to  give  intermixture,  than  his  own  election  had  done) 
himself  up  to  it,  from  which  he  was  converted  adversus  malos  injucundus^  and  was  so  ill  a 
by  the  complete  inactivity  of  that  summer:  20  dissembler  of  his  disHke  and  disinclination  to 
and  so  he  returned  into  England,  and  shortly  ill  men,  that  it  was  not  possible  for  such  not  to 
after  entered  upon  that  vehement  course  of  discern  it.  There  was  once,  in  the  house  of 
study  we  mentioned  before,  till  the  first  alarum  Commons,  such  a  declared  acceptation  of  the 
from  the  north;  and  then  again  he  made  ready  good  service  an  eminent  member  had  done  to 
for  the  field,  and  though  he  received  some  re-  25  them,  and,  as  they  said,  to  the  whole  kingdom, 
pulse  in  the  command  of  a  troop  of  horse,  of  that  it  was  moved,  he  being  present,  "that  the 
which  he  had  a  promise,  he  went  a  volunteer  speaker  might,  in  the  name  of  the  whole  house, 
with  the  earl  of  Essex.  give  him  thanks;  and  then,  that  every  member 

From  the  entrance  into  this  unnatural  war,  might,  as  a  testimony  of  his  particular  ac- 
his  natural  cheerfulness  and  vivacity  grew  30  knowledgement,  stir  or  move  his  hat  towards 
clouded,  and  a  kind  of  sadness  and  dejection  him;"  the  which  (though  not  ordered)  when 
of  spirit  stole  upon  him,  which  he  had  never  very  many  did,  the  lord  Falkland  (who  believed 
been  used  to;  yet  being  one  of  those  who  be-  the  service  itself  not  to  be  of  that  moment,  and 
lieved  that  one  battle  would  end  all  differences,  that  an  honourable  and  generous  person  could 
and  that  there  would  be  so  great  a  victory  on  35  not  have  stooped  to  it  for  any  recompense), 
one  side,  that  the  other  would  be  compelled  instead  of  moving  his  hat,  stretched  both  his 
to  submit  to  any  conditions  from  the  victor  arms  out,  and  clasped  his  hands  together  upon 
(which  supposition  and  conclusion  generally  the  crown  of  his  hat,  and  held  it  close  down  to 
sunk  into  the  minds  of  most  men,  and  pre-  hishead;  that  all  men  might  see,  how  odious  that 
vented  the  looking  after  of  many  advantages,  40  flattery  was  to  him,  and  the  very  approbation 
that  might  have  been  laid  hold  of),  he  resisted  of  the  person,  though  at  that  time  most  popular, 
those  indispositions,  et  in  luciu,  helium  inter  When  there  was  any  overture  or  hope  of 
remedia  eralJ'  But  after  the  king's  return  from  peace,  he  would  be  more  erect  and  vigorous, 
Brentford,  and  the  furious  resolution  of  the  and  exceedingly  solicitous  to  press  any  thing 
two  houses  not  to  admit  any  treaty  for  peace,  45  which  he  thought  might  promote  it;  and  sitting 
those  indispositions,  which  had  before  touched  among  his  friends,  often,  after  a  deep  silence 
him,  grew  into  a  perfect  habit  of  uncheerful-  and  frequent  sighs,  would,  with  a  shrill  and  sad 
ness;  and  he,  who  had  been  so  exactly  unre-  accent,  ingeminate  the  word  Peace,  Peace;  and 
served  and  affable  to  all  men,  that  his  face  and  would  passionately  profess,  "that  the  very 
countenance  was  always  present,  and  vacant^  50  agony  of  the  war,  and  the  view  of  the  calami- 
to  his  company,  and  held  any  cloudiness,  and  ties  and  desolation  the  kingdom  did  and  must 
less  pleasantness  of  the  visage,  a  kind  of  rude-  endure,  took  his  sleep  from  him,  and  would 
ness  or  incivility,  became,  on  a  sudden,  less  shortly  break  his  heart."  This  made  some 
communicable;  and  thence,  very  sad,  pale,  and      think,  or  pretend  to  think,  "that  he  was  so 

55  much  enamoured  on  peace,  that  he  would  have  \ 
6^^ittf^:At^fA.^itS^fr^l^'t■J^L^T..  St     been  glad  the  king  should  have  bought  it  at  any   ,' 

the  advantage  was,  on  the  whole,  with  the  Royalists. 

6  In  misery,  war  was  among  the  means  of   healing.  ">  Pliancy,  adaptability. 

"Disengaged,  not  preoccupied  with  his  own  sad  fore-  »  Humility,  entire  submjssiveness. 

bodings.  •  Unfriendly  towards  bad  men. 


JEREMY  TAYLOR  253 

price:"  which  was  a  most  unreasonable  cal-  governs  all  the  world,  and  hath  so  ordered  us 
umny.  As  if  a  man,  that  was  himself  the  most  in  the  administration  of  his  great  family.  He 
punctual  and  precise  in  every  circumstance  that  were  a  strange  fool,  that  should  be  angry, 
might  reflect  upon  conscience  or  honour,  could  because  dogs  and  sheep  need  no  shoes,  and  yet 
have  wished  the  king  to  have  committed  a  5  himself  is  full  of  care  to  get  some.  God  hath 
trespass  against  either.  And  yet  this  senseless  supplied  those  needs  to  them  by  natural 
scandal  made  some  impression  upon  him,  or  at  provisions,  and  to  thee  by  an  artificial:  for  he 
least  he  used  it  for  an  excuse  of  the  daringness  hath  given  thee  reason  to  learn  a  trade,  or  some 
of  his  spirit;  for  at  the  leaguer ^°  before  Glou-  means  to  make  or  buy  them,  so  that  it  only 
cester,  when  his  friends  passionately  repre- 10  differs  in  the  manner  of  our  provision:  and 
hended  him  for  exposing  his  person  unneces-  which  had  you  rather  want,  shoes  or  reason? 
sarily  to  danger  (as  he  dehghted  to  visit  the  And  my  patron  that  hath  given  me  a  farm,  is 
trenches,  and  nearest  approaches,  and  to  dis-  freer  to  me  than  if  he  gives  a  loaf  ready  baked, 
cover  what  the  enemy  did),  as  being  so  much  But,  however,  all  these  gifts  come  from  him, 
beside  the  duty  of  his  place,  that  it  might  be  15  and  therefore  it  is  fit  he  should  dispense  them  as 
understood  against  it,  he  would  say  merrily,  he  pleases;  and  if  we  murmur  here,  we  naay,  at 
"that  his  office  could  not  take  away  the  privi-  the  next  melancholy,  be  troubled  that  God  did 
leges  of  his  age;  and  that  a  secretary  in  war  not  make  us  to  be  angels  or  stars.  For  if  that, 
might  be  present  at  the  greatest  secret  of  dan-  which  we  are  or  have,  do  not  content  us,  we 
ger;"  but  withal  alleged  seriously,  "  that  it  con- 20  may  be  troubled  for  everything  in  the  world, 
cerned  him  to  be  more  active  in  enterprizes  of  which  is  besides  our  being  or  our  possessions, 
hazard,  than  other  men;  that  all  might  see,  that  God  is  the  master  of  the  scenes;  we  must  not 
his  impatiency  for  peace  proceeded  not  from  pu-  choose  which  part  we  shall  act;  it  concerns  us 
sillanimity,  or  fear  to  adventure  his  own  person."  only  to  be  careful  that  we  do  it  well,  always 
In  the  morning  before  the  battle,  as  always 25 saying,  "If  this  please  God,  let  it  be  as  it  is:" 
upon  action,  he  was  very  cheerful,  and  put  and  we  who  pray,  that  God's  will  may  be  done 
himself  into  the  first  rank  of  the  lord  Byron's"  in  earth,  as  it  is  in  heaven,  must  remember,  that 
regiment,  who  was  then  advancing  upon  the  the  angels  do  whatsoever  is  commanded  them, 
enemy,  who  had  lined  the  hedges  upon  both  and  go  wherever  they  are  sent,  and  refuse  no 
sides  with  musketeers;  from  whence  he  was  30  circumstances:  and  if  their  employment  be 
shot  with  a  musket  in  the  lower  part  of  the  crossed  by  a  higher  degree,  they  sit  down  in 
belly;  and  in  the  instant  falling  from  his  horse,  peace  and  rejoice  in  the  event;  and  when  the 
his  body  was  not  found  till  the  next  morning;  angel  of  Judea^  could  not  prevail  in  behalf  of 
till  when,  there  was  some  hope  he  might  have  the  people  committed  to  his  charge,  because 
been  a  prisoner;  though  his  nearest  friends,  who  35  the  angel  of  Persia  opposed  it,  he  only  told  the 
knew  his  temper,  received  small  comfort  from  story  at  the  command  of  God,  and  was  as 
that  imagination.  Thus  fell  that  incomparable  content,  and  worshipped  with  as  great  an 
young  man,  in  the  four  and  thirtieth  year  of  ecstasy  in  his  proportion,  as  the  prevailing 
his  age,  having  so  much  despatched  the  busi-  spirit.  Do  thou  so  fikewise:  keep  the  station, 
ness  of  life,  that  the  oldest  rarely  attain  to  that  40  where  God  hath  placed  you  and  you  shall  never 
immense  knowledge,  and  the  youngest  enter  long  for  things  without,  but  sit  at  home  feasting 
not  into  the  world  with  more  innocence:  upon  the  Divine  providence  and  thy  own 
whosoever  leads  such  a  life,  need  not  care  upon  reason  by  which  we  are  taught,  that  it  is 
how  short  warning  it  be  taken  from  him.  necessary  and  reasonable  to  submit  to  God. 

45     For  is  not  all  the  world  God's  family?    Are 

-^ovintrvi     fffavtlrtf  ^°*  ^®  ^^^  creatures?    Are  we  not  as  clay  in  the 

Jl^rnn^     ill/a^Wi:  j^^^^^  ^^  ^j^^  potter?^    Do  we  not  live  upon  his 

1613-1667  meat,  and  move  by  his  strength,  and  do  our 

m^  nnxn^TrxTT^TTT^MTrac!  tm  at  t  F^TATFcj      ^^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^g^*^    ^^®  ^^  anything,  but  what 
OF  CONTENTEDNESS  IN  ALL  ESTATES  ^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^.^^    ^^^  ^j^^^  ^j^^^e  be  a  mutiny 

AMD  ACClDJi^iNlb  among  the  flocks   and   herds,   because   their 

(From  Holy  Living,  1650)  Lord  or  their  shepherd  chooses  their  pastures, 

1.  Contentedness  in  all  estates  is  a  duty  of      and  suffers  them  not  to  wander  into  deserts  and 

religion:  it  is  the  great  reasonableness  of  com-      unknown  ways?     If  we  choose,  we  do  it  so 

plying    with    the    Divine    Providence,    which  55  foofishly,  that  we  cannot  like  it  long,  and  most 

commonly  not  at  all:  but  God,  who  can  do  what 

"lirTohn  Byron,  an  ancestor  of  the  poet.    He  was  not  he    pleases,    is    wise    tO  choOSe    safely    for    US, 

"Lord  Byron"  at  that  time,  however,  but  was  made  affectionate    to    COmply  with    OUr    needs,    and 

Baron  of  Rochdale  about  a  month  later,  so  becommg  ^  •'                       ,  r       i  •      o 

the  first  peer  of  the  family.  i  £>an..  x.,  13.                                            *  Jso.,  lxiv.,8. 


254  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

powerful  to  execute  all  his  wise  decrees.  Here  times."  This,  in  Gentile  philosophy,  is  the 
therefore  is  the  wisdom  of  the  contented  man,  same  with  the  discourse  of  St.  Paul,  "I  have 
to  let  God  choose  for  him:  for  when  we  have  learned  in  whatsoever  state  1  am,  therewith  to 
given  up  our  wills  to  him,  and  stand  in  that  be  content.  I  know  both  how  to  be  abased,  and 
station  of  the  battle,  where  our  great  general  5  I  know  how  to  abound:  everywhere  and  in  all 
hath  placed  us,  our  spirits  must  needs  rest,  things  I  am  instructed  both  how  to  be  full  and 
while  our  conditions  have,  for  their  security,  to  be  hungry;  both  to  abound  and  to  suffer 
the  power,  the  wisdom,  and  the  charity  of  God.      need."^ 

2.  Contentedness,  in  all  accidents,  brings  We  are  in  the  world,  like  men  playing  at 
great  peace  of  spirit,  and  is  the  great  and  only  lo  tables ;5  the  chance  is  not  in  our  power,  but  to 
instrument  of  temporal  felicity.  It  removes  the  play  it  is;  and  when  it  is  fallen,  we  must  manage 
sting  from  the  accident,  and  makes  a  man  not  it  as  we  can;  and  let  nothing  trouble  us,  but 
to  depend  upon  chance,  and  the  uncertain  when  we  do  a  base  action,  or  speak  hke  a  fool,  or 
dispositions  of  men  for  his  well-being,  but  only  think  wickedly:  these  things  God  hath  put  into 
on  God  and  his  own  spirit.  We  ourselves  make  15  our  powers;  but  concerning  those  things,  which 
our  fortunes  good  or  bad;  and  when  God  lets  are  wholly  in  the  choice  of  another,  they 
loose  a  tyrant  upon  us,  or  a  sickness,  or  scorn,  cannot  fall  under  our  deliberation,  and  there- 
or  a  lessened  fortune,  if  we  fear  to  die,  or  know  fore  neither  are  they  fit  for  our  passions.  My 
not  to  be  patient,  or  are  proud,  or  covetous,  then  fear  may  make  me  miserable,  but  it  cannot 
the  calamity  sits  heavy  on  us.  But  if  we  know  20  prevent  what  another  hath  in  his  power  and 
how  to  manage  a  noble  principle,  and  fear  not  purpose:  and  prosperities  can  only  be  enjoyed 
death  so  much  as  a  dishonest  action,  and  think  by  them,  who  fear  not  at  all  to  lose  them;  since 
impatience  a  worse  evil  than  a  fever,  and  pride  the  amazement  and  passion  concerning  the 
to  be  the  biggest  disgrace,  and  poverty  to  be  future  takes  off  all  the  pleasure  of  the  present 
infinitely  desirable  before  the  torments  of  25  possession.  Therefore,  if  thou  hast  lost  thy 
covetousness;  then  we,  who  now  think  vice  to  land,  do  not  also  lose  thy  constancy:  and  if 
be  so  easy,  and  make  it  so  famihar,  and  think  thou  must  die  a  little  sooner,  yet  do  not  die 
the  cure  so  impossible,  shall  quickly  be  of  impatiently.  For  no  chance  is  evil  to  him  that 
another  mind,  and  reckon  these  accidents  is  content,  and  to  a  man  nothing  is  miserable, 
amongst  things  eligible.  30  unless  it  be  unreasonable.    No  man  can  make 

But  no  man  can  be  happy  that  hath  great  another  man  to  be  his  slave,  unless  he  hath 
hopes  and  great  fears  of  things  without,  and  first  enslaved  himself  to  life  and  death,  to 
events  depending  upon  other  men,  or  upon  the  pleasure  or  pain,  to  hope  or  fear:  command 
chances  of  fortune.  The  rewards  of  virtue  are  these  passions,  and  you  are  freer  than  the 
certain,  and  our  provisions  for  our  natural  35  Parthian  kings.^ 
support  are  certain;  or  if  we  want  meat  till  we 

die,  then  we  die  of  that  disease,  and  there  are  ^^,^^^___  .  r„^^^^  ^^  rr.-r^^  ,r .  -.^^r^^-r  »  ^x-rx 
many  worse  than  to  die  with  an  atrophy  or  CONSIDERATION  OF  THE  VANITY  AND 
consumption,  or  unapt  and  coarser  nourish-  SHORTNESS  OF  MAN'S  LIFE 

ment.    But  he  that  suffers  a  transporting  pas-  40  (jr^om  Holy  Dying,  1651) 

sion   concernmg  thmgs  withm  the  power  of 

others,  is  free  from  sorrow  and  amazement  no  A  man  is  a  bubble  (said  the  Greek  proverb), 
longer  than  his  enemy  shall  give  him  leave;  and  which  Lucian^  represents  with  advantages  and 
it  is  ten  to  one  but  he  shall  be  smitten  then  and  its  proper  circumstances  to  this  purpose: 
there,  where  it  shall  most  trouble  him:  for  so  45  saying.  All  the  world  is  a  storm,  and  men  rise 
the  adder  teaches  us  where  to  strike,  by  her  up  in  their  several  generations,  like  bubbles 
curious  and  fearful  defending  of  her  head.  The  descending  d  Jove  pluvio,  from  God  and  the 
old  stoics,^  when  you  told  them  of  a  sad  story  dew  of  heaven,  from  a  tear  and  drop  of  rain, 
would  8t\lla,iiswer,  "What  is  that  to  me? — Yes,  from  nature  and  Providence;  and  some  of 
for  the  tyrant  hath  sentenced  you  also  to  50  these  instantly  sink  into  the  deluge  of  their 
prison, — Well,  what  is  that?  He  will  put  a  first  parent,  and  are  hidden  in  a  sheet  of  water, 
chain  upon  my  leg;  but  he  cannot  bind  my  having  had  no  other  business  in  the  world,  but 
soul. — No:  but  he  will  kill  you. — Then  I  will         *Epis.  Phil  iv.,  ll,  12. 

Hip       Tf  nrp«5PTifli7-    ] pf  TY10  trr^    fViof  T  rrmxr  nrca  B  Backgammon.  TAc  c/iance.  here,  =  the  number  throwii 

1      t  P^f  ^^^^^y*  ^^^  ^^  gO'  ^'^^^  A  ^^y  P'^^S-       in  a  cast  of  the  dice.     When  it  has  fallen,  i.  e..  when  the 

ently  be  freer  than  himself:  but  if  not  till  55  cast  is  made. 

anon  or  t^-mnrrnw    T  will  HinP  firqt     nr  sslppn  *  Apparently  taken  as  examples  of  the  oriental  despot, 

anon  or  to-morrow,  l  wm  mne  nrst,  or  sleep,  persian  kings  would  seem  to  he  an  exacter  illustration. 
or  do  what  reason  or  nature  calls  for,  as  at  other  i  a  Greek  satirist  and  humorist  of  the  second  century. 

His  amplification  of  the  Greek  proverb  referred  to,  ocours 
•Taylor  seems   to  have  had  Epictetus,   the   Roman       mYAs  Charon,  or  the  Spectator  of  the  World.    The  passage 
stoical  philosopher  especially  in  mind.  in  Taylor  is  a  paraphrase  of  that  in  Lucian. 


JEREMY  TAYLOR  255 

to  be  born,  that  they  might  be  able  to  die:  smoke,  or  the  lighter  parts  of  water,  tossed 
others  float  up  and  down  two  or  three  turns,  with  every  wind,  moved  by  the  motion  of  a 
and  suddenly  disappear,  and  give  their  place  superior  body,  without  virtue  in  itself,  hfted 
to  others:  and  they  that  live  longest  upon  the  upon  high,  or  left  below,  according  as  it  pleases 
face  of  the  waters,  are  in  perpetual  motion,  5  the  sun,  its  foster-father.  But  it  is  lighter  yet. 
restless  and  uneasy;  and,  being  crushed  with  It  is  but  appearing;  a  fantastic  vapour,  an 
the  great  drop  of  a  cloud,  sink  into  flatness  and  apparition,  nothing  real:  it  is  not  so  much  as  a 
a  froth;  the  change  not  being  great,  it  being  mist,  not  the  matter  of  a  shower,  nor  substan- 
jhardly  possible  it  should  be  more  a  nothing  tial  enough  to  make  a  cloud;  but  it  is  like 
than  it  was  before.  So  is  every  man:  he  is  born  lo  Cassiopeia's  chair,  or  Pelops'  shoulder,^  or  the 
in  vanity  and  sin;  he  comes  into  the  world  like  circles  of  heaven,  (paivd/xeva,^  for  which  you 
morning  mushrooms,  soon  thrusting  up  their  cannot  have  a  word  that  can  signify  a  verier 
heads  into  the  air,  and  conversing  with  their  nothing.  And  yet  the  expression  is  one  degree 
kindred  of  the  same  production,  and  as  soon  more  made  diminutive:  a  vapour,  and  fanlasti- 
they  turn  into  dust  and  f orgetf ulness :  some  of  15  cal,  or  a  mere  appearance,  and  this  but  for  a 
them 2  without  any  other  interest  in  the  affairs  little  while  neither;  the  very  dream,  the  fantasm 
of  the  world,  but  that  they  made  their  parents  disappears  in  a  small  time,  "like  the  shadow 
a  httle  glad,  and  very  sorrowful;  others  ride  that  departeth;  or  like  a  tale  that  is  told;  or  as  a 
longer  in  the  storm;  it  may  be  until  seven  dream  when  one  waketh."  A  man  is  so  vain,  so 
years  of  vanity  be  expired,  and  then  peradven-  20  unfixed,  so  perishing  a  creature,  that  he  cannot 
ture  the  sun  shines  hot  upon  their  heads,  and  long  last  in  the  scene  of  fancy:  a  man  goes  off 
they  fall  into  the  shades  below,  into  the  cover  and  is  forgotten,  like  the  dream  of  a  distracted 
of  death  and  darkness  of  the  grave  to  hide  them,  person.  The  sum  of  all  is  this:  that  thou  art  a 
But  if  the  bubble  stands  the  shock  of  a  bigger  man,  than  whom  there  is  not  in  the  world  any 
drop,  and  outlives  the  chances  of  a  child,  of  a  25  greater  instance  of  heights  and  declensions,  of 
careless  nurse,  of  drowning  in  a  pail  of  water,  of  Hghts  and  shadows,  of  misery  and  folly,  of 
being  overlaid  by  a  sleepy  servant,  or  such  Httle  laughter  and  tears,  of  groans  and  death, 
accidents,  then  the  young  man  dances  like  a  And  because  this  consideration  is  of  great 
bubble,  empty  and  gay,  and  shines  like  a  dove's  usefulness  and  great  necessity  to  many  pur- 
neck,  or  the  image  of  a  rainbow,  which  hath  no  30  poses  of  wisdom  and  the  spirit;  all  the  succes- 
substance,  and  whose  very  imagery  and  colours  sion  of  time,  all  the  changes  in  nature,  all  the 
are  fantastical;  and  so  he  dances  out  the  varieties  of  light  and  darkness,  the  thousand 
gaiety  of  his  youth,  and  is  all  the  while  in  a  thousands  of  accidents  in  the  world,  and  every 
storm,  and  endures,  only  because  he  is  not  contingency  to  every  man,  and  to  every 
knocked  on  the  head  by  a  drop  of  bigger  rain,  or  35  creature,  doth  preach  our  funeral  sermon,  and 
crushed  by  the  pressure  of  a  load  of  indigested  calls  us  to  look  and  see,  how  the  old  sexton 
meat,  or  quenched  by  the  disorder  of  an  ill-  Time  throws  up  the  earth,  and  digs  a  grave, 
placed  humour:'  and  to  preserve  a  man  alive  in  where  we  must  lay  our  sins  or  our  sorrows,  and 
the  midst  of  so  many  chances  and  hostilities,  is  sow  our  bodies,  till  they  rise  again  in  a  fair 
as  great  a  miracle  as  to  create  him;  to  preserve  40  or  an  intolerable  eternity.  Every  revolution 
him  from  rushing  into  nothing,  and  at  first  to  which  the  sun  makes  about  the  world,  divides 
draw  him  up  from  nothing,  were  equally  the  between  life  and  death;  and  death  possesses 
issues  of  an  almighty  power.  And  therefore  the  both  those  portions  by  the  next  morrow;  and 
wise  men  of  the  world  have  contended,  who  we  are  dead  to  all  those  months  which  we  have 
shall  best  fit  man's  condition  with  words  45  already  lived,  and  we  shall  never  live  them  over 
signifying  his  vanity  and  short  abode.  Homer  again:  and  still  God  makes  little  periods  of  our 
calls  a  man  "a  leaf,"^  the  smallest,  the  weakest  age.  First  we  change  our  world,  when  we  come 
piece  of  a  short-lived,  unsteady  plant.  Pindar  from  the  womb  to  feel  the  warmth  of  the  sun. 
calls  him  "the  dream  of  a  shadow:"  Another,  Then  we  sleep,  and  enter  into  the  image  of 
"the  dream  of  the  shadow  of  smoke."^  But  50  death,  in  which  state  we  are  unconcerned  in  all 
St.  James  spake  by  a  more  excellent  Spirit,  the  changes  of  the  world:  and  if  our  mothers 
saying,  "Our  life  is  but  a  vapour,"^  viz.  drawn  or  our  nurses  die,  or  a  wild  boar  destroy  our 
from  the  earth  by  a  celestial  influence;  made  of      vineyards,  or  our  king  be  sick,  we  regard  it 


e.,  of  the  children  of  men.     The  analogy,  between 


not,  but  during  that  state,  are  as  disinterested, 

man"  and^the" momtV?^  mrs/iTo"oms,  Is  not  sustained,  and  ^  The  shoulder  of  ivory  supplied  by  Demeter  in  the 

the  result  is  an  unfortunate  confusion.  place  of  the  one  she  had  thoughtlessly  eaten  (v.  i^ef ops  in 

» In  the  old  system  of  medicine  there  were  four  cardinal  Class.  Did.)  exists  only  in  fable,  and  is  indeed  the  shadow 

humours  (or  animal  fluids);  the  blood,  choler  (yellow  bile),  of  a  shade,  since  this  is  not  even  the  real  shoulder  ot 

phlegm,  and  melancholy  (hlac]<:hUe).  Pelops,  and  Pelops  himself  is  a  myth. 

*  Iliad,  vi,  U6  and  ci.  Iliad,  xxi,  462.  »  Phenomena,  i.  e.,  the  appearance  of  things,  as  dis- 

6  iEscbylus.                                «  Epis.  St.  James,  iv,  14.  tinguished  from  the  reality,  the  things  themselves. 


256  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

as  if  our  eyes  were  closed  with  the  clay  that  flowers  to  strew  our  hearse,  and  the  summei 
weeps  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  At  the  end  of  gives  green  turf  and  brambles  to  bind  upon  our 
seven  years  our  teeth  fall  and  die  before  us,  graves.  Calentures^"  and  surfeit,"  cold  and 
representing  a  formal  prologue  to  the  tragedy;  agues,  are  the  four  quarters  of  the  year,  and 
and  still  every  seven  years,  it  is  odds,  but  we  5  all  minister  to  death;  and  you  can  go  no 
shall  finish  the  last  scene:  and  when  nature,  or  whither  but  you  tread  upon  a  dead  man's 
chance,    or   vice,    takes  our  body   in   pieces,      bones. 

weakening  some  parts  and  loosing  others,  we  The  wild  fellow  in  Petronius,^^  tj^at  escaped 
taste  the  grave  and  the  solemnities  of  our  own  upon  a  broken  table  from  the  furies  of  a  ship- 
funerals,  first,  in  those  parts  that  ministered  to  10  wreck,  as  he  was  sunning  himself  upon  the 
vice;  and  next,  in  them  that  served  for  orna-  rocky  shore,  espied  a  man  rolled  upon  his 
ment;  and  in  a  short  time,  even  they  that  served  floating  bed  of  waves,  ballasted  with  sand  in 
for  necessity  become  useless  and  entangled  like  the  folds  of  his  garment,  and  carried  by  his 
the  wheels  of  a  broken  clock.  Baldness  is  but  a  civil  enemy,  the  sea,  towards  the  shore  to  find  a 
dressing  to  our  funerals,  the  proper  ornament  15  grave:  and  it  cast  him  into  some  sad  thoughts: 
of  mourning,  and  of  a  person  entered  very  far  that  peradventure  this  man's  wife,  in  some 
into  the  regions  and  possession  of  death:  and  part  of  the  continent,  safe  and  warm,  looks  next 
we  have  many  more  of  the  same  signification:  month  for  the  good  man's  return;  or,  it  may  be, 
gray  hairs,  rotten  teeth,  dim  eyes,  trembling  his  son  know^s  nothing  of  the  tempest;  or  his 
joints,  short  breath,  stiff  limbs,  wrinkled  skin,  20  father  thinks  of  that  affectionate  kiss,  which 
short  memory,  decayed  appetite.  Every  day's  still  is  warm  upon  the  good  old  man's  cheek, 
necessity  calls  for  a  reparation  of  that  portion,  ever  since  he  took  a  kind  farewell;  and  he  weeps 
which  death  fed  on  all  night,  when  we  lay  in  his  with  joy  to  think,  how  blessed  he  shall  be,  when 
lap,  and  slept  in  his  outer  chambers.  The  very  his  beloved  boy  returns  into  the  circle  of  his 
spirits  of  a  man  prey  upon  the  daily  portion  of  25  father's  arms.  These  are  the  thoughts  of 
bread  and  flesh,  and  every  meal  is  a  rescue  mortals,  this  is  the  end  and  sum  of  all  their 
from  one  death,  and  lays  up  for  another;  and  designs:  a  dark  night  and  an  ill  guide,  a  bois- 
while  we  think  a  thought,  we  die;  and  the  terous  sea  and  a  broken  cable,  a  hard  rock  and  a 
clock  strikes  and  reckons  on  our  portion  of  rough  wind,  dashed  in  pieces  the  fortune  of  a 
eternity;  we  form  our  words  with  the  breath  of  30  whole  family,  and  they  that  shall  weep  loudest 
our  nostrils,  we  have  the  less  to  live  upon  for  the  accident,  are  not  yet  entered  into  the 
for  every  word  we  speak.  storm,  and  yet  have  suffered  shipwreck.    Then 

Thus  nature  calls  us  to  meditate  of  death  by  looking  upon  the  carcass,  he  knew  it,  and  found 
those  things  which  are  the  instruments  of  it  to  be  the  master  of  the  ship,  who,  the  day 
acting  it:  and  God,  by  all  the  variety  of  his  35  before,  cast  up  the  accounts  of  his  patrimony 
providence,  makes  us  see  death  everywhere,  in  and  his  trade,  and  named  the  day  when  he 
all  variety  of  circumstances,  and  dressed  up  for  thought  to  be  at  home.  See  how  the  man 
all  the  fancies,  and  the  expectation  of  every  swims,  who  was  so  angry  two  days  since;  his 
single  person.  Nature  hath  given  us  one  passions  are  becalmed  with  the  storm,  his 
harvest  every  year,  but  death  hath  two:  and  the  40  accounts  cast  up,  his  cares  at  an  end,  his 
spring  and  the  autumn  send  throngs  of  men  and  voyage  done,  and  his  gains  are  the  strange 
women  to  charnel-houses;  and  all  the  summer  events  of  death,  which  whether  they  be  good 
long,  men  are  recovering  from  their  evils  of  the  or  evil,  the  men,  that  are  alive,  seldom  trouble 
spring,  till  the  dog-days  come,  and  then  the  themselves  concerning  the  interest  of  the 
Sirian  star^  makes  the  summer  deadly;  and  the  45  dead. 

fruits  of  autumn  are  laid  up  for  all  the  year's  But  seas  alone  do  not  break  our  vessel  in 

provision,  and  the  man  that  gathers  them,  eats  pieces;  everywhere  we  may  be  shipwrecked, 
and  surfeits,  and  dies,  and  needs  them  not,  and  A  valiant  general,  when  he  is  to  reap  the 
himself  is  laid  up  for  eternity;  and  he  that  harvest  of  his  crowns  and  triumphs,  fights 
escapes  till  winter,  only  stays  for  another  50  unprosperously,  or  falls  into  a  fever  with  joy 
opportunity,  which  the  distempers  of  that  and  wine,  and  changes  his  laurel  into  cypress, 
quarter  minister  to  him  with  great  variety,  his  triumphal  chariot  to  a  hearse;  dying  the 
Thus  death  reigns  in  all  the  portions  of  our 

time.  The  autumn  with  its  fruits  provides  .  '"  Calmtures,  the  name  given  to  delirious  fevers  occa- 
j.        J  -.  ,.,  •.»  ij.  sioned  bv  excessive  heat,  but  here  used  generally  to  m- 

aisorders  tor  us,   and   the  winters   cold   turns  55  elude  aifmaladies  resulting  from  heat,  as  sun  stroke,  etc. 

them  into  sharp  diseases,  and  the  spring  brings         "  Surfeit,  sicknesses  produced  by  overeating.  \  ^ 

^  I         o  o  12  petronius  Arbiter,  a  Roman  writer  of  the  1st  cen- 

9  The  appearance  of  Sirius.  or  the  dog-star,  occurring  in  tury.     The  wild  fellow,  is  Encolpius,  a  character  in  a 

the  hottest  time  of  the  vear,  or.  during  July  or  August.  work  of  Petronius  known  as  "The  Banquet  of  Trimal- 

was  supposed  to  be  the  cause  of  diseases  prevalent  in  that  chio."    Taylor  here  paraphrases  in  part,  the  story  told  by 

sultry  and  often  unhealthy  season,  Encolpius. 


JOHN  BUNYAN  267 

night  before  he  was  appointed  to  perish,  in     ANGER  A  HINDERENCE  TO  PRAYER 

the  drunkenness  of  his  festival  joys.    It  was  a  /-r?         o 

sad  arrest  of  the  loosnesses  and  wilder  feasts  of  ^^  ^^^  bermons,  1655) 

the  French  court,  when  their  king  (Henry  II.)  Anger  is  a  perfect  alienation  of  the  mind 

was  killed  really  by  the  sportive  image  of  a  5  from  prayer,  and  therefore  is  contrary  to  that 

fight.  .  .  .  attention,  which  presents  our  prayers  in  a  right 

There  is  no  state,  no  accident,  no  circum-  hne  to  God.  For  so  have  I  seen  a  lark  rising 
stance  of  our  hfe,  but  it  hath  been  soured  by  from  his  bed  of  grass,  and  soaring  upwards, 
some  sad  instance  of  a  dying  friend:  a  friendly  singing  as  he  rises,  and  hopes  to  get  to  heaven, 
meeting  of  ten  ends  in  some  sad  mischance,  and  10  and  climb  above  the  clouds;  but  the  poor 
makes  an  eternal  parting:  and  when  the  poet  bird  was  beaten  back  with  the  loud  sighings  of 
^schylus  was  sitting  under  the  walls  of  his  an  eastern  wind,  and  his  motion  made  irregular 
house,  an  eagle  hovering  over  his  bald  head,  and  inconstant,  descending  more  at  every 
mistook  it  for  a  stone,  and  let  fall  his  oyster,  breath  of  the  tempest,  than  it  could  recover  by 
hoping  there  to  break  the  shell,  but  pierocd  the  15  the  libration  and  frequent  weighing  of  his 
poor  man's  skull.  wings;  till  the  little  creature  was  forced  to  sit 

Death  meets  us  everywhere,  and  is  procured  down  and  pant,  and  stay  till  the  storm  was 
by  every  instrument  and  in  all  chances,  and  over;  and  then  it  made  a  prosperous  flight,  and 
enters  in  at  many  doors;  by  violence  and  secret  did  rise  and  sing,  as  if  it  had  learned  music  and 
influence,  by  the  aspect  of  a  star  and  the  stink  20  motion  from  an  angel,  as  he  passed  sometimes 
of  a  mist,  by  the  emissions  of  a  cloud  arid  the  through  the  air,  about  his  ministries  here  below: 
meeting  of  a  vapour,  by  the  fall  of  a  chariot  and  so  is  the  prayer  of  a  good  man;  when  his  affairs 
the  stumbling  at  a  stone,  by  a  full  meal  or  an  have  required  business,  and  his  business  was 
empty  stomach,  by  watching  at  the  wine  or  by  matter  of  discipline,  and  his  discipline  was  to 
watching  at  prayers,  by  the  sun  or  the  moon;  25  pass  upon  a  sinning  person,  or  had  a  design  of 
by  a  heat  or  a  cold,  by  sleepless  nights  or  charity,  his  duty  met  with  infirmities  of  a 
sleeping  days;  by  water  frozen  into  the  hard-  man,  and  anger  was  its  instrument,  and  the 
ness  and  sharpness  of  a  dagger;  or  water  instrument  became  stronger  than  the  prime 
thawed  into  the  floods  of  a  river;  by  a  hair  or  a  agent,  and  raised  a  tempest,  and  overruled  the 
raisin;i3  ^^y  violent  motion  or  sitting  still;  by  30  man;  and  then  his  prayer  was  broken,  and  his 
severity  or  dissolution;  by  God's  mercy  or  thoughts  were  troubled,  and  his  words  went  up 
God's  anger;  by  every  thing  in  providence  and  towards  a  cloud,  and  his  thoughts  pulled  them 
every  thing  in  manners;  by  every  thing  in  back  again,  and  made  them  without  intention; 
nature  and  every  thing  in  chance.  Eripitur  and  the  good  man  sighs  for  his  infirmity,  but 
persona,  manet  res,'^*  we  take  pains  to  heap  up  35  must  be  content  to  lose  the  prayer,  and  he  must 
things  useful  to  our  hfe,  and  get  our  death  in  recover  it  when  his  anger  is  removed,  and  his 
the  purchase;  and  the  person  is  snatched  away,  spirit  is  becalmed,  made  even  as  the  brow  of 
and  the  goods  remain.  And  all  this  is  the  law  Jesus,  and  smooth  Uke  the  heart  of  God;  and 
and  constitution  of  nature;  it  is  a  punishment  then  it  ascends  to  heaven  upon  the  wings  of  the 
to  our  sins,  the  unalterable  event  of  Providence,  40  holy  dove,  and  dwells  with  God,  till  it  returns, 
and  the  decree  of  Heaven.  The  chains  that  Uke  the  useful  bee,  loaden  with  a  blessing  and 
confine  us  to  this  condition  are  strong  as  the  dew  of  heaven, 
destiny  and  immutable  as  the  eternal  laws  of 
God. 

I  have  conversed  with  some  men  who  re- 45  3l0l^n    115X111^3111 

joiced  in  the  death  or  calamity  of  others,  and  ifi9S_lfis« 

accounted  it  as  a  judgment  upon  them  for  loJe-lbss 

being  on  the  other  side,  and  against  them  in  h^ttt?  t^tpttt  WTTTT  A  POTT  YON 

the  contention;  but  within  the  revolution  of  a  ^HE  FIGHT  WITH  APULLYOJN 

few  months,  the  same  men  met  with  a  more  50      (From  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  1678-1684) 
uneasy  and  unhandsome  death:  which  when  I 

saw,  I  wept,  and  was  afraid;  for  I  knew  that  (In  the  course  of  his  pilgrimage  from  the 

it  must  be  so  with  all  men;  for  we  also  shall  die.  City  of  Destruction  to  Mount  Zion,  Christian 
and  end  our  quarrels  and  contentions  by  pass-  comes  to  the  House  Beautiful.  Here  Watchful, 
ing  to  a  final  sentence.  55  the  Porter,  summons  Discretion,  "a  grave  and 

„^,  ,  .      ..  .    t.  .u.,.uu  beautiful  damsel,"  who  in  turn  calls  Prudence, 

"  The  poet  Anacreon  IS  said  to  have  met  his  death  by  „  ,    „,       .  .,,  .-l.^^-    nf+c.  o«r««  Aic 

swallowing  the  stone  of  a  raisin.  Piety,  and  Chanty.    All  these,  after  some  dis- 

1*  The  person  is  snatched  away,  and  the  goods  remain,  course  with  Christian,  receive  him  kindly  and 

These  words  however  are  employed  in  a  diflferent  sense       ,  u*      i.  /^u«;^4-;««  <>1<^^r^a  +V10+  m'n-Kf  in  a 

by  Lucretius  from  whom  the  passage  is  taken.  hear  his  story.    Christian  Sleeps  that  mght  m  a 


258  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

''large  upper  chamber;  whose  window  opened  Apollyon.^  Then  did  Christian  begin  to  be 
toward  the  sun-rising;"  its  name  was  Peace,  afraid,  and  to  cast  in  his  mind  whether  to  go 
In  the  morning  Christian's  entertainers  take  back,  or  stand  his  ground.  But  he  considered 
him  to  the  armoury,  and  show  him  the  armour  again,  that  he  had  no  armour  for  his  back,  and 
provided  for  pilgrims.  Christian  abides  there  5  therefore  thought  that  to  turn  the  back  to  - 
three  days,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  third  him  might  give  him  greater  advantage  with 
day,  they  take  him  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  ease  to  pierce  him  with  his  darts;  therefore  he 
show  him  afar  off  EmmanueVs  Land  and  the  resolved  to  venture  and  stand  his  ground:  for, 
Delectable  Mountains,  telling  him  that  from  thought  he,  had  I  no  more  in  mine  eye  than  the 
thence  he  can  see  the  gate  of  the  Celestial  City,  lo  saving  of  my  life,  it  would  be  the  best  way  to 
Christian  then  determines  to  leave  the  House  stand. 
Beautiful  and  continue  on  his  pilgrimage.)  So  he  went  on,  and  ApoUyon  met  him.    Now ' 

Now  Christian  bethought  himself  of  setting  the  monster  was  hideous  to  behold:  he  was 
foward,  and  they  were  willing  he  should.  But  clothed  with  scales  like  a  fish  (and  they  are  his 
first,  said  they,  let  us  go  again  into  the  armoury.  15  pride) ;  he  had  wings  like  a  dragon,  and  feet 
So  they  did;  and  when  he  came  there,  they  like  a  bear,  and  out  of  his  belly  came  fire  and 
harnessed  him  from  head  to  foot  with  what  was  smoke;  and  his  mouth  was  as  the  mouth  of  a 
of  proof,  lest  perhaps  he  should  meet  with  lion.  When  he  was  come  up  to  Christian,  he 
assaults  in  the  way.  He,  being  therefore  thus  beheld  him  with  a  disdainful  countenance,  and 
accoutred,  walked  out  with  his  friends  to  the  20  thus  began  to  question  with  him. 
gate;  and  there  he  asked  the  Porter  if  he  saw  Apol.  Whence  come  you?  and  whither  are 
any  pilgrim  pass  by.  Then  the  Porter  an-  you  bound? 
Bwered,  Yes.  Chr.  I  am  come  from  the  City  of  Destruc- 

Chr.  Pray  did  you  know  him?  tion,  which  is  the  place  of  all  evil,  and  am 

Port.  I  asked  his  name  and  he  told  me  it  was  25  going  to  the  City  of  Zion. 
Faithful.  Apol.  By  this  I  perceive  that  thou  art  one 

O,  said  Christian,  I  know  him:  he  is  my  of  my  subjects;  for  all  that  country  is  mine,  and 
townsman,  my  near  neighbour;  he  comes  from  I  am  the  prince  and  god  of  it.  How  is  it  then 
the  place  where  I  was  bom:  how  far  do  you  that  thou  hast  run  away  from  thy  king?  Were 
think  he  may  be  before?  30  it  not  for  that  I  hope  thou  mayest  do  me  more 

Port.  He  is  got  by  this  time  below  the  service,  I  would  strike  thee  now  at  one  blow  to 
hill.  the  ground. 

Well,  said  Christian,  good  Porter,  the  Lord  Chr.  I  was  indeed  born  in  your  dominions; 

be  with  thee,  and  add  to  all  thy  blessings  much  but  your  service  was  hard,  and  your  wages 
increase,  for  the  kindness  that  thou  hast  showed  35  such  as  a  man  could  not  Uve  on;  "for  the  wages 
to  me.  of  sin  is  death;"  therefore  when  I  was  come 

Then  he  began  to  go  forward;  but  Discretion,  ,  to  years,  I  did  as  other  considerate  persons  do, 
Piety,  Charity,  and  Prudence,  would  accom-  look  out,  if  perhaps  I  might  mend  myself . 
pany  him  down  to  the  foot  of  the  hill.  So  they  Apol.  There  is  no  prince  that  will  thus 
went  on  together,  reiterating  their  former  40  lightly  lose  his  subjects,  neither  will  I  as  yet 
discourses,  till  they  came  to  go  down  the  hill,  lose  thee;  but,  since  thou  complainest  of  thy 
Then  said  Christian,  As  it  was  difficult  coming  service  and  wages,  be  content  to  go  back; 
up,  so,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  it  is  dangerous  going  what  our  country  will  afford,  I  do  here  promise 
dowTi.    Yes,  said  Prudence,  so  it  is;  for  it  is  an      to  give  thee. 

hard  matter  for  a  man  to  go  down  into  the  45  Chr.  But  I  have  let  myself  to  another,  even 
valley  of  Humiliation,  as  thou  art  now,  and  to  to  the  King  of  princes;  and  how  can  I  with 
catch  no  slip  by  the  way;  therefore,  said  they,  fairness  go  back  with  thee? 
are  we  come  out  to  accompany  thee  down  the  Apol.  Thou  hast  done  in  this  according  to 
hill.  So  he  began  to  go  down,  but  very  warily;  the  proverb,  "  Changed  a  had  for  a  worse;"  but  it 
yet  he  caught  a  slip  or  two.  50  is  ordinary  for  those  that  have  professed  them- 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream,  that  these  good  selves  his  servants,  after  a  while  to  give  him  the  ; 
companions,  when  Christian  was  gone  down  to  slip,  and  return  again  to  me.  Do  thou  so  too,  I 
the  bottom  of  the  hill,  gave  him  a  loaf  of      and  all  shall  be  well.  l 

bread,  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  a  cluster  of  raisins;  Chr.  I  have  given  him  my  faith,  and  sworn  J 

and  then  he  went  his  way.  55  my  allegiance  to  him:  how  then  can  I  go  back  V 

But  now,  in  this  valley  of  Humiliation,  poor      from  this,  and  not  be  hanged  as  a  traitor? 
Christian  was  hard  put  to  it;  for  he  had  gone         Apol.  Thou  didst  the  same  to  me;  and  yet  I 
but  a  little  way,  before  he  espied  a  foul  fiend         ,  rru    ..  a      .    r  ^u    u  ..     1        •...        ^-      j  • 

ii      /-   I  1  .  ,  1  •        1  •  •  'The      Angel  of  the  bottomless  pit      mentioned  in 

COmmg  over  the  held  to  meet  him:  his  name  is       Rev.  ix.,  11.  the  name  means,  "the  Destroyer." 


JOHN  BUNYAN  259 

am  willing  to  pass  by  all,  if  now  thou  wilt  yet  for  them,  and  have  obtained  pardon  of  my 
turn  again  and  go  back.  Prince. 

Chr.  What   I   promised   thee   was   in   my  Then  Apollyon  broke  out  into  a  grievous 

nonage;  and  besides,  I  count  that  the  Prince  rage,  saying,  I  am  an  enemy  to  this  Prince;  I 
under  whose  banner  I  now  stand,  is  able  to  5  hate  his  person,  his  laws,  and  people:  I  am  come 
absolve  me;  yea,  and  to  pardon  also  what  I  out  on  purpose  to  withstand  thee, 
did  as  to  my  compliance  with  thee:  and,  be-  Chr.  Apollyon,  beware  what  you  do;  for  I 
sides,  O  thou  destroying  Apollyon,  to  speak  am  in  the  King's  high-way,  the  way  of  holiness; 
truth,  I  hke  his  service,  his  wages,  his  servants,  therefore  take  heed  to  yourself, 
his  government,  his  company,  and  country,  lo  Then  Apollyon  straddled  quite  over  the 
better  than  thine;  therefore  leave  off  to  per-  whole  breadth  of  the  way,  and  said,  I  am  void 
suade  me  further;  I  am  his  servant,  and  I  will  of  fear  in  this  matter;  prepare  thyself  to  die;  for 
follow  him.  I  swear  by  my  infernal  den,  that  thou  shalt  go 

Apol.  Consider  again  when  thou  art  in  cool      no  f anther;  here  will  I  spill  thy  soul, 
blood,  what  thou  art  likely  to  meet  with  in  the  15     And  with  that  he  threw  a  flaming  dart  at  his 
way  that  thou  goest.    Thou  knowest  that,  for     breast;  but  Christian  had  a  shield  in  his  hand, 
the  most  part,  his  servants  come  to  an  ill  end,      with  which  he  caught  it,  and  so  prevented  the 
because  they  are  transgressors  against  me  and      danger  of  that. 

my  ways.    How  many  of  them  have  been  put  Then  did  Christian  draw;  for  he  saw  it  was 

to  shameful  deaths!  And  besides,  thou  count- 20 time  to  bestir  him;  and  Apollyon  as  fast  made 
est  his  service  better  than  mine;  whereas  he  at  him,  throwing  darts  as  thick  as  hail;  by  the 
never  came  yet  from  the  place  where  he  is,  to  which,  notwithstanding  all  that  Christian 
deliver  any  that  served  him  out  of  their  hands:  could  do  to  avoid  it,  Apollyon  wounded  him  in 
but,  as  for  me,  how  many  times,  as  all  the  his  head,  his  hand,  and  foot.  This  made 
world  very  well  knows,  have  I  delivered,  either  25  Christian  give  a  little  back:  Apollyon,  there- 
by power  or  fraud,  those  that  have  faithfully  fore,  followed  his  work  amain,  and  Christian 
served  me,  from  him  and  his,  though  taken  by  again  took  courage  and  resisted  as  manfully  as 
them!   And  so  I  will  deUver  thee.  he  could.    This  sore  combat  lasted  for  above 

Chr.  His  forbearing  at  present  to  deliver  half  a  day,  even  till  Christian  was  almost  quite 
them  is  on  purpose  to  try  their  love,  whether  so  spent;  for  you  must  know  that  Christian,  by 
they  will  cleave  to  him  to  the  end:  and,  as  for  reason  of  his  wounds,  must  needs  grow  weaker 
the  ill  end  thou  sayest  they  come  to,  that  is      and  weaker. 

most  glorious  in  their  account;  for,  for  present  Then    Apollyon,    espying   his   opportunity, 

deliverance,  they  do  not  much  expect  it;  for  began  to  gather  up  close  to  Christian,  and 
they  stay  for  their  glory,  and  then  they  shall  35  wrestling  with  him,  gave  him  a  dreadful  fall; 
have  it,  when  their  Prince  comes  in  his  and  the  and  with  that  Christian's  sword  flew  out  of  his 
glory  of  the  angels.  hand.    Then  said  Apollyon,  I  am  sure  of  thee 

Al'OL.  Thou  hast  already  been  unfaithful  in  now:  and  with  that  he  had  almost  pressed  him 
thy  service  to  him;  and  how  dost  thou  think  to  death;  so  that  Christian  began  to  despair  of 
to  receive  wages  of  him?  40  life.    But,  as  God  would  have  it,  while  Apollyon 

Chr.  Wherein,  O  Apollyon,  have  I  been  was  fetching  his  last  blow,  thereby  to  make  a 
unfaithful  to  him?  full  end  of  this  good  man.  Christian  nimbly 

Apol.  Thou  didst  faint  at  first  setting  out,  reached  out  his  hand  for  his  sword,  and  caught 
when  thou  wast  almost  choked  in  the  Gulf  of  it,  saying,  "Rejoice  not  against  me,  O  mine 
Despond;  thou  didst  attempt  wrong  ways  to  be  45  enemy,  when  I  fall,  I  shall  arise;"  and  with  that 
rid  of  thy  burden,  whereas  thou  shouldst  have  gave  him  a  deadly  thrust,  which  made  him  give 
stayed  till  thy  Prince  had  taken  it  off:  thou  back  as  one  that  had  received  his  mortal  wound, 
didst  sinfully  sleep,  and  lose  thy  choice  things:  Christian,  perceiving  that,  made  at  him  again, 
thou  wast  almost  persuaded  to  go  back  at  the  saying,  "Nay,  in  all  these  things  we  are  more 
sight  of  the  lions:  and  when  thou  talkest  50  than  conquerors,  through  Him  that  loved  us." 
of  thy  journey,  and  of  what  thou  hast  seen  and  And,  with  that,  Apollyon  spread  forth  his 
heard,  thou  art  inwardly  desirous  of  vain-glory  dragon's  wings  and  sped  him  away  that  Chris- 
in  all  that  thou  sayest  or  doest.  tian  saw  him  no  more. 

Chr.  All  this  is  true  and  much  more  which  In  this  combat  no  man  can  imagine,  unless 

thou  hast  left  out:  but  the  Prince,  whom  I  serve  55  he  had  seen  and  heard,  as  I  did,  what  yelling 
and  honour,  is  merciful  and  ready  to  forgive,  and  hideous  roaring  Apollyon  made  all  the  time 
But  besides,  these  infirmities  possessed  me  in  of  the  fight;  he  spake  like  a  dragon: — and  on  the 
thy  country:  for  there  I  sucked  them  in,  other  side,  what  sighs  and  groans  burst  from 
and  I  have  groaned  under  them,  being  sorry      Christian's  heart.    I  never  saw  him  all  the  while 


260  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

give  so  much  as  one  pleasant  look,  till  he  per-  into  the  pursuance  of  some  other  assertions, 
ceived  that  he  had  wounded  Apollyon  with  his  the  knowledge  and  the  use  of  which  cannot  but 
two-edged  sword;  then  indeed  he  did  smile  and  be  a  great  furtherance  both  to  the  enlargement 
look  upward!  But  it  was  the  dreadfullest  fight  of  truth  and  honest  living  with  much  more 
that  ever  I  saw.  5  peace.     Nor  should  the  laws  of  any  private 

So  when  the  battle  was  over,  Christian  said,  friendship  have  prevailed  with  me  to  divide 
I  will  here  give  thanks  to  Him  that  hath  de-  thus,  or  transpose  my  former  thoughts;  but 
livered  me  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  lion,  to  that  I  see  those  aims,  those  actions,  which  have 
Him  that  did  help  me  against  Apollyon.  And  won  you  with  me^  the  esteem  of  a  person  sent 
so  he  did,  saying,  10  hither  by  some  good  providence  from  a  far 

country  to  be  the  occasion  and  incitement  of 
"  Great  Beelzebub,  the  captain  of  this  fiend,  great  good  to  this  island,  and  as  I  hear  you  have 

Design'd  my  ruin :  therefore  to  this  end  obtained  the  same  repute  with  men  of  most 

He  sent  him  harness'd  out;  and  he  with  rage  approved  wisdom  and  some  of  the  highest 
Thathellishwas,  did  fiercely  me  engage:  15  authority    among    us,    not    to    mention    the 

But  blessed  Michael  helped  me;  and  I,  learned    correspondence    which    you    hold    in 

By  dint  of  sword,  did  quickly  made  him  fly:  foreign  parts,  and  the  extraordinary  pains  and 

Therefore  to  Him  let  me  give  lasting  praise  diUgence  which  you  have  used  in  this  matter 

And  thanks,  and  bless  His  holy  name  always."      both  here  and  beyond  the  seas,  either  by  the 

20  definite  will  of  God  so  ruling,  or  the  peculiar 
Then  there  came  to  him  an  hand  with  some  sway  of  nature,  which  also  is  God's  working, 
of  the  leaves  of  the  tree  of  life;  the  which  Neither  can  I  think,  that  so  reputed  and  so 
Christian  took,  and  applied  to  the  wounds  that  valued  as  you  are,  you  would,  to  the  forfeit  of 
he  had  received  in  the  battle,  and  was  healed  your  own  discerning  abihty,  impose  upon  me 
immediately.  He  also  sat  down  in  that  place  25  an  unfit  and  over-ponderous  argument;  but  that 
to  eat  bread,  and  to  drink  of  the  bottle  that  was  the  satisfaction  which  you  profess  to  have  re- 
given  to  him  a  Httle  before:  so,  being  refreshed,  ceived  from  those  incidental  discourses  which 
he  addressed  himself  to  his  journey,  with  his  we  have  wandered  into,  hath  pressed  and  al- 
sword  drawn  in  his  hand;  for,  he  said,  I  know  most  constrained  you  into  a  persuasion,  that 
not  but  some  other  enemy  may  be  at  hand.  30  what  you  require  from  me  in  this  point,  I 
But  he  met  with  no  other  affront  from  Apollyon  neither  ought  nor  can  in  conscience  defer  be- 
quite  through  this  valley.  yond  this  time  both  of  so  much  need  at  once, 

and  so  much  opportunity  to  try  what  God  hath 

determined. 
3l0l)n    ^iUon  ^     -"•  ^^^  ^^*  resist,  therefore,  whatever  it  is 

either  of  divine  or  human  obligement  that  you 
1608-1674  lay  upon  me;  but  will  forthwith  set  down  in 

writing,  as  you  request  me,  that  voluntary  idea, 

TRACTATE  ON  EDUCATION.    LETTER     which  hath  long  in  silence  presented  itself  to 

TO  HARTLIB  ^q  me,  of  a  better  education,  in  extent  and  com- 

Q644')  prehension  far  more  large,  and  yet  of  time  far 

shorter  and  of  attainment  far  more  certain, 

Master  Hartlib,*  than  hath  been  yet  in  practice.    Brief  I  shall 

I  am  long  since  persuaded  that  to  say  and  do      endeavour  to  be;  for  that  which  I  have  to  say, 

aught  worth  memory  and  imitation,  no  purpose  45  assuredly  this  nation  hath  extreme  need  should 

or  respect  should  sooner  move  us  than  simply      be  done  sooner  than  spoken.     To  tell  you, 

the  love  of  God  and  of  mankind.    Nevertheless,      therefore,  that  I  have  benefited  herein  among 

to    write    now    the    reforming    of    education,      old  renowned  authors  I  shall  spare;  and  to 

though  it  be  one  of  the  greatest  and  noblest      search  what  many  modern  Januas  and  Didac- 

designs  that  can  be  thought  on,  and  for  the  50  tics,3more  than  ever  I  shall  read,  have  projected, 

want  whereof  this  nation  perishes,  I  had  not      my  inchnation  leads  me  not.    But  if  you  can 

yet  at  this  time  been  induced  but  by  your      accept  of  these  few  observations  which  have 

earnest  entreaties  and  serious  conjurements;  as      flowered  off,  and  are,  as  it  were,  the  burnishing 

having  my  mind  for  the  present  half  diverted      of   many   studious   and   contemplative   years 

1  Samuel  Hartlib  was  bom  in  Prussia  about  the  begin-  2  i.  g.,  which  have  made  you  in  my  estimation  "a  persopA , 

ning  of  the  17th  century  and  came  to  England  about  1628.  sent  hither,"  etc. 

He  beheved  in  the  new  methods  of  instruction  recently  ^  Januas  =eitheT  those  books  which  serve  as  entrances 
advanced  by  the  educational  reformer  Comenius,  and  or  introductions  to  a  subject  (Lat.  Janua,  a  door,  an  en- 
discussed  these  new  views  with  Milton.  Milton's  tract  trance)  or,  more  probably,  the  authors  of  such  books. 
on  education  was  the  outcome  of  these  discussions,  and  Didactics  =eitheT  works  of  a  didactic,  or  teaching,  char- 
was  written  in  response  to  Hartlib's  "earnest  entreaties."  acter,  or,  preferably,  the  authors  of  such  works. 


/rii 


JOHN  MILTON  261 

altogether  spent  in  the  search  of  religious  and  chosen  short  book  lessoned  thoroughly  to  them, 
civil  knowledge,  and  such  as  pleased  you  so  they  might  then  forthwith  proceed  to  learn  the 
well  in  the  relating,  I  here  give  you  them  to  dis-  substance  of  good  things  and  arts  in  due  order, 
pose  of.  which  would  bring  the  whole  language  quickly 

The  end,  then,  of  learning  is,  to  repair  the  5  into  their  power.  This  1  take  to  be  the  most 
ruins  of  our  first  parents  by  regaining  to  know  rational  and  most  profitable  way  of  learning 
God  aright,  and  out  of  that  knowledge  to  love  languages,  and  whereby  we  may  best  hope  to 
him,  to  imitate  him,  to  be  like  him,  as  we  may  give  account  to  God  of  our  youth  spent  herein, 
the  nearest  by  possessing  our  souls  of  true  vir-  And  for  the  usual  method  of  teaching  arts,  I 
tue,  which,  being  united  to  the  heavenly  grace  lo  deem  it  to  be  an  old  error  of  universities,  not 
of  faith,  makes  up  the  highest  perfection.  But  yet  well  recovered  from  the  scholastic  grossness 
because  our  understanding  cannot  in  this  body  of  barbarous  ages,  that  instead  of  beginning 
found  itself  but  on  sensible  things,  nor  arrive  so  with  arts  most  easy  (and  those  be  such  as  are 
clearly  to  the  knowledge  of  God  and  things  most  obvious  to  the  sense),  they  present  their 
invisible,  as  by  orderly  coming  over  the  visible  15  young  unmatriculated  novices,  at  first  coming, 
and  inferior  creature,  the  same  method  is  with  the  most  intellective  abstractions  of  logic 
necessarily  to  be  followed  in  all  discreet  teach-  and  metaphysics;  so  that  they  having  but 
ing.  And  seeing  every  nation  affords  not  newly  left  those  grammatic  flats  and  shallows, 
experience  and  tradition  enough  for  all  kinds  of  where  they  stuck  unreasonably,  to  learn  a  few 
learning,  therefore  we  are  chiefly  taught  the  20  words  with  lamentable  construction,  and  now 
languages  of  those  people  who  have  at  any  on  the  sudden  transported  under  another 
time  been  most  industrious  after  wisdom;  so  climate,  to  be  tossed  and  turmoiled  with  their 
that  language  is  but  the  instrument  conveying  unballasted  wits  in  fathomless  and  unquiet 
to  us  things  useful  to  be  known.  And  though  a  deeps  of  controversy,  do,  for  the  most  part, 
linguist  should  pride  himself  to  have  all  the  25  grow  into  hatred  and  contempt  of  learning, 
tongues  that  Babel  cleft  the  world  into,  yet  if  mocked  and  deluded  all  this  while  with  ragged 
he  have  not  studied  the  solid  things  in  them,  as  notions  and  babblements,  while  they  expected 
well  as  the  words  and  lexicons,  he  were  nothing  worthy  and  dehghtful  knowledge;  till  poverty 
so  much  to  be  esteemed  a  learned  man,  as  any  or  youthful  years  call  them  importunately  their 
yeoman  or  tradesman  competently  wise  in  his  30  several  ways,  and  hasten  them,  with  the  sway 
mother-dialect  only.  Hence  appear  the  many  of  friends,  either  to  an  ambitious  and  mer- 
mistakes  which  have  made  learning  generally      cenary,  or  ignorantly  zealous  divinity:  some 


so  unpleasing  and  so  unsuccessful.    First,  we  do 
amiss  to  spend  seven  or  eight  years  merely  in 


allured  to  the  trade  of  law,  grounding  their 
purposes  not  on  the  prudent  and  heavenly 


scraping  together  so  much  miserable  Latin  and  :  5  contemplation  of  justice  and  equity,  which 
Greek  as  might  be  learned  otherwise  easily  and  i  was  never  taught  them,  but  on  the  promising 
delightfully  in  one  year.  And  that  which  casts  and  pleasing  thoughts  of  htigious  terms,  fat 
oiir  proficiency  therein  so  much  behind,  is  our  contentions,  and  flowing  fees;  others  betake 
time  lost  partly  in  too  oft  idle  vacancies*  given  them  to  state  affairs,  with  souls  so  unprincipled 
both  to  schools  and  universities;  partly  in  a  40  in  virtue  and  true  generous  breeding,  that 
preposterous  exaction,  forcing  the  empty  wits  flattery  and  court-shifts,  and  tyrannous  apho- 
of  children  to  compose  themes,  verses,  and  risms  appear  to  them  the  highest  points  of 
orations,  which  are  the  acts  of  ripest  judgment,  wisdom;  instiUing  their  barren  hearts  with  a 
and  the  final  work  of  a  head  filled  by  long  conscientious  slavery;  if,  as  I  rather  think,  it 
reading  and  observing,  with  elegant  maxims  45  be  not  feigned:  others,  lastly,  of  a  more  deli- 
and  copious  invention.  These  are  not  matters  cious  and  airy  spirit,'^  retire  themselves,  know- 
to  be  wrung  from  poor  stripUngs,  Uke  blood  out  ing  no  better,  to  the  enjoyments  of  ease  and 
of  the  nose,  or  the  plucking  of  untimely  fruit;  luxury,  hving  out  their  days  in  feast  and 
besides  the  ill  habit  which  they  get  of  wretched  jollity;  which  indeed  is  the  wisest  and  safest 
barbarising  against  the  Latin  and  Greek  idiom  50  course  of  all  these,  unless  they  were  with 
with  their  untutored  Anglicisms,  odious  to  be  more  integrity  undertaken.  And  these  are 
read,  yet  not  to  be  avoided  without  a  well-  the  errors,  and  these  are  the  fruits  of  mis- 
continued  and  judicious  conversing  among  spending  our  prime  youth  at  the  schools  and 
pure  authors,  digested,  which  they  scarce  taste.  universities,  as  we  do,  either  in  learning  mere 
Whereas,  if  after  some  preparatory  grounds  of  55  words,  or  such  things  chiefly  as  were  better 
speech  by  their  certain  forms  got  into  memory,!     unlearnt. 

they  were  led  to  the  praxis^  hereof  in  some\        I  shall  detain  you  now  no  longer  in  the 

,    demonstration  of  what  we  should  not  do,  but 

*  Too  frequent  vacations.  „.  ,      .  i  i-   ui.        r     i 

6  Use,  practice:  diacipUne  for  some  specific  end.  «  Pleasure-loving  and  light,  or  Uvely. 


262  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

straight  conduct  you  to  a  hillside,  where  I  will  grammar,  either  that  now  used,  or  any  better; 
point  you  out  the  right  path  of  a  virtuous  and  and  while  this  is  doing,  their  speech  is  to  be 
noble  education;  laborious  indeed  at  the  first  fashioned  to  a  distinct  and  clear  pronunciation, 
ascent,  but  else  so  smooth,  so  green,  so  full  of  as  near  as  may  be  to  the  Italian,  especially  in 
goodly  prospect,  and  melodious  sounds  on  5  the  vowels.  For  we  EngUshmen,  being  far 
every  side,  that  the  harp  of  Orpheus  was  not  northerly,  do  not  open  our  mouths  in  the  cold 
more  charming.  I  doubt  not  but  ye  shall  have  air  wide  enough  to  grace  a  southern  tongue,  but 
more  ado  to  drive  our  dullest  and  laziest  are  observed  by  all  other  nations  to  speak 
youth,  our  stocks  and  stubs,^  from  the  infinite  exceeding  close  and  inward;  so  that  to  smatter 
desire  of  such  a  happy  nurture,  than  we  have  10  Latin  with  an  English  mouth  is  as  ill  a  hearing 
now  to  hale  and  drag  our  choicest  and  hope-  as  law  French.  Next,  to  make  them  expert  in 
fullest  wits  to  that  asinine  feast  of  sow-thistles  the  usefullest  points  of  grammar,  and  withal  to 
and  brambles,  which  is  commonly  set  before  season  them  and  win  them  early  to  the  love  of 
them  as  all  the  food  and  entertainment  of  their  virtue  and  true  labour,  ere  any  flattering 
tenderest  and  most  docible  age.  I  call,  there- 15  seducement  or  vain  principle  seize  them 
fore,  a  complete  and  generous  education,  that  wandering,  some  easy  and  delightful  book  of 
which  fits  a  man  to  perform  justly,  skilfully,  education  should  be  read  to  them,  whereof  the 
and  magnanimously  all  the  offices,  both  private  Greeks  have  store,  as  Cebes,^°  Plutarch,  and 
and  pubUc,  of  peace  and  war.  And  how  all  this  other  Socratic  discourses;  but  in  Latin  we  have 
may  be  done  between  twelve  and  one-and- 20  none  of  classic  authority  extant,  except  the 
twenty,  less  time  than  is  now  bestowed  in  two  or  three  first  books  of  QuinctiUan"  and 
pure  trifling  at  grammar  and  sophistry,  is  to  be  some  select  pieces  elsewhere, 
thus  ordered: —  But  here  the  main  skill  and  groundwork  will 

First,  to  find  out  a  spacious  house  and  be,  to  temper  them  such  lectures  and  explana- 
ground  about  it  fit  for  an  academy,  and  big  25  tions  upon  every  opportunity  as  may  lead  and 
enough  to  lodge  a  hundred  and  fifty  persons,  draw  them  in  willing  obedience,  inflamed  with 
whereof  twenty  or  thereabout  may  be  attend-  the  study  of  learning  and  the  admiration  of 
ants,  all  under  the  government  of  one,  who  virtue,  stirred  up  with  high  hopes  of  living  to 
shall  be  thought  of  desert  sufficient,  and  ability  be  brave  men  and  worthy  patriots,  dear  to 
either  to  do  all,  or  wisely  to  direct  and  oversee  it  30  God  and  famous  to  all  ages:  that  they  may 
done.  This  place  should  be  at  once  both  school  despise  and  scorn  all  their  childish  and  ill- 
and  university,  not  needing  a  remove  to  any  taught  qualities,  to  delight  in  manly  and 
other  house  of  scholarship,  except  it  be  some  hberal  exercises;  which  he  who  hath  the  art 
peculiar  college  of  law,  or  physic,  where  they  and  proper  eloquence  to  catch  them  with,  what 
mean  to  be  practitioners;  but  as  for  those  35  with  mild  and  efi"ectual  persuasions,  and  what 
general  studies  which  take  up  all  our  time  with  the  intimation  of  some  fear,  if  need  be, 
from  Lilly^  to  commencing,  as  they  term  it,  but  chiefly  by  his  own  example,  might  in  a 
master  of  art,  it  should  be  absolute.  After  short  space  gain  them  to  an  incredible  diligence 
this  pattern  as  many  edifices  may  be  converted  and  courage,  infusing  into  their  young  breasts 
to  this  use  as  shall  be  needful  in  every  city  40  such  an  ingenuous  and  noble  ardour  as  would 
throughout  this  land,  which  would  tend  much  not  fail  to  make  many  of  them  renowned  and 
to  the  increase  of  learning  and  civility  every-  matchless  men.  At  the  same  time,  some  other 
where.  This  number,^  less  or  more,  thus  col-  hour  of  the  day  might  be  taught  them  the  rules 
lected,  to  the  convenience  of  a  foot-company,  of  arithmetic,  and,  soon  after,  the  elements 
or  interchangeably  two  troops  of  cavalry,  45  of  geometry,  even  playing,  as  the  old  man- 
should  divide  their  day's  work  into  three  parts  ner  was.  After  evening  repast  till  bed-time 
as  it  lies  orderly — their  studies,  their  exercise,  their  thoughts  would  be  best  taken  up  in 
and  their  diet.  the  easy  grounds  of  religion  and  the  story  of 

For  their  studies:  first,  they  should  begin     Scripture, 
with  the  chief  and  necessary  rules  of  some  good  50     The  next  step  would  be  to  the  authors  of 

7  stocks  and  stubs  are  identical,  both  meaning  lifeless,       agriculture,  CatO,  VarTO,  and  Columella,  i"  for 

insensible  blocks  or  trunks    Cf.  stocks  and  stones  ^;j^^  matter  is  most  casy ;  and  if  the  language  be 

8i.  e.,  from  the  time  when  he  begins  his  studies  with  ,.„      ,.  ,    ,,      ■,     ,.        •,  •  ,       j-ai      ^^ 

Lilbfs  Latin  Grammar  to  commenciny  or  Commencement  alfncuit,  SO  mUCh  the  better;  it  IS  not  a  aimculty 
Day,  when  he  completes  them  as  Master  of  Arts.    "To 

commence  M.  A."  (as  Milton  tells  us)  was  the  regular,  or  "A  Greek  philosopher,  author  of  a  dialogue  called 

technical  equivalent  for  "to  take  the  degree  of  M.  A."  The  Picture,  which  aims  to  show  that  happiness  is  to  be^ 

^  i.  e.,  this  number  of  students  (150,  as  above  suggested)  found  in  virtue,  and  in  the  cultivation  of  the  mind.  \i 

having  been  thus  collected  to  about  the  convenience  of  a  "  The  Roman  rhetorician  and  teacher  of  oratory.    The  ^f 

foot-ro i-n-pany  (the  number  of  a  foot-company  when  con-  reference  is  to  his  treatise  on  Oratory  (Z)e  Institutione 

veno'l),  or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  to  the  number  of  two  Oratorio). 

troops  of  cavalry.    There  were  about  as  many  men  in  two  '2  Marcus  Porcius  Cato  wrote  De  Re  Rustica:  Varro  and 

cavalry  trodps  as  in  one  company  of  foot.  Columella  were  also  authors  of  books  on  agriculture. 


JOHN  MILTON  263 

above  their  years.  And  here  will  be  an  occasion  delight.  Then  also  those  poets  which  are  now 
of  inciting  and  enabling  them  hereafter  to  im-  counted  most  hard  will  be  both  facile  and 
prove  the  tillage  of  their  country,  to  recover  the  pleasant,  Orpheus,  Hesiod,  Theocritus,  Aratus, 
bad  soil,  and  to  remedy  the  waste  that  is  made  Nicander,  Oppian,  Dionysius;  and,  in  Latin, 
of  good ;  for  this  was  one  of  Hercules'  praises.  5  Lucretius,  Manilius,  and  the  rural  part  of 
Ere  half  these  authors  be  read  (which  will  soon      Virgil. 

be  with  plying  hard  and  daily)  they  cannot  By  this  time  years  and  good  general  precepts 

choose  but  be  masters  of  any  ordinary  prose:  will  have  furnished  them  more  distinctly  with 
so  that  it  will  be  then  seasonable  for  them  to  that  act  of  reason  which  in  ethics  is  called 
learn  in  any  modern  author  the  use  of  the  loProairesis;^^  that  they  may  with  some  judg- 
globes  and  all  the  maps,  first  with  the  old  ment  contemplate  upon  moral  good  and  evil, 
names  and  then  with  the  new;  or  they  might  Then  will  be  required  a  special  reinforcement  of 
then  be  capable  to  read  any  compendious  constant  and  sound  indoctrinating  to  set  them 
method  of  natural  philosophy;  and,  at  the  same  right  and  firm,  instructing  them  more  amply 
time,  might  be  entering  into  the  Greek  tongue,  15  in  the  knowledge  of  virtue  and  the  hatred  of 
after  the  same  manner  as  was  before  prescribed  vice;  while  their  young  and  phant  affections  are 
in  the  Latin;  whereby  the  difficulties  of  gram-  led  through  all  the  moral  works  of  Plato, 
mar  being  soon  overcome,  all  the  historical  Xenophon,  Cicero,  Plutarch,  Laertius,  and 
physiology  of  Aristotle  and  Theophrastus^'  those  Locrian  remnants  ;^^  but  still  to  be  re- 
are  open  before  them,  and,  as  I  may  say,  under  20  duced  in  their  nightward  studies  wherewith 
contribution.  The  hke  access  will  be  to  they  close  the  day's  work  under  the  deter- 
Vitruvius,  to  Seneca's  "Natural  Questions,"  minate  sentence  of  David  or  Solomon,  or  the 
to  Mela,  Celsus,  Phny,  or  Solinus.^*  And  evangelists  and  apostolic  scriptures.  Being 
having  thus  past  the  principles  of  arithmetic,  perfect  in  the  knowledge  of  personal  duty,  they 
geometry,  astronomy,  and  geography,  with  a  25  may  then  begin  the  study  of  economics.  And 
general  compact  of  physics,  they  may  descend  either  now  or  before  this,  they  may  have  easily 
in  mathematics  to  the  instrumental  science  of  learned,  at  any  odd  hour,  the  Itahan  tongue, 
trigonometry,  and  from  thence  to  fortification.  And  soon  after,  but  with  wariness  and  good 
architecture,  enginery,  or  navigation.  And  in  antidote,  it  would  be  wholesome  enough  to  let 
natural  philosophy  they  may  proceed  leisurely  30  them  taste  some  choice  comedies,  Greek,  Latin, 
from  the  history  of  meteors,  minerals,  plants,  or  Italian;  those  tragedies  also  that  treat  of 
and  hving  creatures,  as  far  as  anatomy.  Then  household  matters,  as  Trachiniae,^^  Alcestis,^' 
also  in  course  might  be  read  to  them  out  of      and  the  hke. 

some   not   tedious  writer,   the  institution   of  The  next  removal  must  be  to  the  study  of 

physic;  that  they  may  know  the  tempers,  the  35  politics;  to  know  the  beginning,  end,  and  rea- 
humours,  the  seasons,  and  how  to  manage  a  sons  of  pohtical  societies,  that  they  may  not, 
crudity,  ^5  which  he  who  can  wisely  and  timely  in  a  dangerous  fit  of  the  commonwealth,  be 
do  is  not  only  a  great  physician  to  himself  and  such  poor  shaken  uncertain  reeds,  of  such  a 
to  his  friends,  but  also  may  at  some  time  or  tottering  conscience  as  many  of  our  great 
other  save  an  army  by  this  frugal  and  expense-  40  councillors  have  lately  shown  themselves,  but 
less  means  only,  and  not  let  the  healthy  and  steadfast  pillars  of  the  State.  After  this  they 
stout  bodies  of  young  men  rot  away  under  him  are  to  dive  into  the  grounds  of  law  and  legal 
for  want  of  this  discipline,  which  is  a  great  pity,  justice,  delivered  first  and  with  best  warrant 
and  no  less  a  shame  to  the  commander.  To  set  by  Moses,  and,  as  far  as  human  prudence  can 
forward  all  these  proceedings  in  nature  and  45  be  trusted,  in  those  extolled  remains  of  Grecian 
mathematics,  what  hinders  but  that  they  may  lawgivers,  Lycurgus,  Solon,  Zaleucus,  Charon- 
procure,  as  oft  as  shall  be  needful,  the  helpful  das;  and  thence  to  all  the  Roman  edicts  and 
experience  of  hunters,  fowlers,  fishermen,  tables,  with  their  Justinian;  and  so  down  to  the 
shepherds,  gardeners,  apothecaries;  and  in  the  Saxon  and  common  laws  of  England  and  the 
other  sciences,  architects,  engineers,  mariners,  50  statutes. 

anatomists,  who,  doubtless,  would  be  ready,  Sundays  also  and  every  evening  may  be  now 

some  for  reward  and  some  to  favour  such  a         ,,  ^^.^^^^,^  ^^^^  ^^.^  ^^^^  .^  ^.^  ^^^  .^^  ,^  ^^p^^^3  ^ 

hopeful  semmary.  And  this  would  give  them  deliberate  preference  for  one  thing  over  another,  a?  dis- 
a^^oh  n  rpnl  tinpfnrp  nf  nnfiiral  knowlpde-p  n«?  tinguished  from  a  sudden  or  unpremeditated  action,  and 
SUCn  a  real  tincture  Ot  natural  Knowieage  as  ^jg^i^^es  that  the  exercise  of  this  deliberate  preference  is 
they  shall  never  forget,  but  daily  augment  with  55  "most  intimately  connected  with  virtue." 

"  Probably,  as  much  of  the  work  of  ths  philosopher 

J3  A  Greek  philosopher  and  scientist  (b.  c.  371  B.  C.)        Timaeus  of  Locri,  as  has  come  down  to  us.     A  work  On 
who  has  been  called  the  founder  of  botany.  the  Soul  of  the  World  and  of  Nature  was  formerly  attributed 

1^  Writers  of  works  on  architecture,  biography,  natural       to  him.  but  his  authorship  of  it  is  disputed, 
history,  etc.  ^^  Or,  The  Women  of  Trachis,  a  tragedy  of  Sopbooles. 

»*  An  attack  of  indigestion.  ^'  A  tragedy  by  Euripides. 


I 


264  THE  AGE   OF  MILTON 

understandingly  spent  in  the  highest  matters  of  gestures,  and  stuff  otherwise  wrought,  than 
theology  and  church  history,  ancient  and  what  we  now  sit  under,  oft-times  to  as  great 
modern:  and  ere  this  time  the  Hebrew  tongue  a  trial  of  our  patience  as  any  other  that  they 
at  a  set  hour  might  have  been  gained,  that  the  preach  to  us.  These  are  the  studies  wherein 
Scriptures  may  be  now  read  in  their  own  5  our  noble  and  our  gentle  youth  ought  to  bestow 
original;  whereto  it  would  be  no  impossibility  to  their  time  in  a  disciplinary  way  from  twelve  to 
add  the  Chaldee  and  the  Syrian  dialect.  When  one-and-twenty,  unless  they  rely  more  upon 
all  these  employments  are  well  conquered,  their  ancestors  dead  than  upon  themselves 
then  will  the  choice  histories,  heroic  poems,  and  living.  In  which  methodical  course  it  is  so 
Attic  tragedies  of  stateliest  and  most  regal  10  supposed  they  must  proceed  by  the  steady 
argument,  with  all  the  famous  political  ora-  pace  of  learning  onward,  as  at  convenient  times 
tions,  offer  themselves;  which,  if  they  were  not  for  memory's  sake  to  retire  back  into  the  middle 
only  read,  but  some  of  them  got  by  memory,  ward,  and  sometimes  into  the  rear  of  what 
and  solemnly  pronounced  with  right  accent  they  have  been  taught,  until  they  have  con- 
and  grace,  as  might  be  taught,  would  endue  15  firmed  and  solidly  united  the  whole  body  of 
them  even  with  the  spirit  and  vigour  of  Demos-  their  perfected  knowledge,  Hke  the  last  em- 
thenes  or  Cicero,  Euripides  or  Sophocles.  battling  of  a  Roman  legion. 22     Now  will  be 

And  now,  lastly,  will  be  the  time  to  read  with      worth  the  seeing  what  exercises  and  recreations 
them  those  organic  arts^"  which  enable  men  to      may  best  agree  and  become  these  studies, 
discourse  and  write  perspicuously,  elegantly,  20 

and   according  to   the  fittest  style  of  lofty,  their  exercise 

mean,  or  lowly.    Logic,  therefore,  so  much  as  is  The  course  of  study  hitherto  briefly  described 

useful,  is  to  be  referred  to  this  due  place,  with  is,  what  I  can  guess  by  reading,  likest  to  those 
all  her  well-couched  heads  and  topics,  until  it  be  ancient  and  famous  schools  of  Pythagoras, 
time  to  open  her  contracted  palm  into  a  grace-  25  Plato,  Isocrates,  Aristotle,  and  such  others, 
ful  and  ornate  rhetoric,  taught  out  of  the  rule  out  of  which  were  bred  such  a  number  of 
of  Plato,  Aristotle,  Phalereus,  Cicero,  Her-  renowned  philosophers,  orators,  historians, 
mogenes,  Longinus.  To  which  poetry  would  poets,  and  princes  all  over  Greece,  Italy,  and 
be  made  subsequent,  or,  indeed,  rather  pre-  Asia,  besides  the  flourishing  studies  of  Cyrene 
cedent,  as  being  less  subtile  and  fine,  but  more  30  and  Alexandria.  But  herein  it  shall  exceed 
simple,  sensuous,  and  passionate.  I  mean  not  them,  and  supply  a  defect  as  great  as  that  which 
here  the  prosody  of  a  verse,  which  they  could  Plato  noted  in  the  commonwealth  of  Sparta, 
not  but  have  hit  on  before  among  the  rudiments  Whereas  that  city  trained  up  their  youth  most 
of  grammar,  but  that  sublime  art  which  in  for  war,  and  these  in  their  academies  and 
Aristotle's  Poetics,  in  Horace,  and  the  Italian  35  Lycasum  all  for  the  gown,  this  institution  of 
commentaries  of  Castlevetro,  Tasso,  Mazzoni,^!^  breeding  which  I  here  dehneate  shall  be  equally 
and  others,  teaches  what  the  laws  are  of  a  true  good  both  for  peace  and  war.  Therefore,  about 
epic  poem,  what  of  a  dramatic,  what  of  a  lyric,  an  hour  and  a  half  ere  they  eat  at  noon  should 
what  decorum  is,  which  is  the  grand  master-  be  allowed  them  for  exercise,  and  due  rest 
piece  to  observe.  This  would  make  them  soon  40  afterwards;  but  the  time  for  this  may  be  en- 
perceive  what  despicable  creatures  our  com-  larged  at  pleasure,  according  as  their  rising  in 
mon  rhymers  and  play-writers  be;  and  show  the  morning  shall  be  earlj'.  The  exercise  which 
them  what  rehgious,  what  glorious  and  mag-  I  commend  first  is  the  exact  use  of  their  weapon, 
nificent  use  might  be  made  of  poetry,  both  in  to  guard,  and  to  strike  safely  with  edge  or 
divine  and  human  things.  .  45  point.     This  will  keep  them  healthy,  nimble, 

From  hence,  and  not  till  now,  will  be  the  strong,  and  well  in  breath;  is  also  the  likeliest 
right  season  of  forming  them  to  be  able  writers  means  to  make  them  grow  large  and  tall,  and 
and  composers  in  every  excellent  matter,  when  to  inspire  them  with  a  gallant  and  fearless 
they  shall  be  thus  fraught  with  an  universal  courage,  which  being  tempered  with  seasonable 
insight  into  things:  or  whether  they  be  to  speak  50  lectures  and  precepts  to  them  of  true  fortitude 
in  parliament  or  council,  honour  and  attention  and  patience,  will  turn  into  a  native  and 
would  be  waiting  on  their  Hps.  There  would  heroic  valour,  and  make  them  hate  the  cow- 
then  also  appear  in  pulpits  other  visages,  other 

22  A  reference  to  the  Roman  custom  in  battle,  accordinp; 

20  Arts  which  are  not  an  end  in  themselves,  but  in-  to  which  the  division  in  the  front  rank  (hastati)  would 

strumental  to  the  attainment  of  some  further  end.  retire  through  openings  left  for  that  purpose,  the  division 

^^  Ludovico  Castlevetro  (1515-1571),  Italian  scholar  and  immediately  in  the  rear  (principes)  advancing  to  take  \ 

commentator,    translated    Aristotle's   Ethics.       Torquato  their  place.     If  the  principes  had  to  retire,  then,  by  a 

Tasso  (1541-1595),  one  of  the  greater  Italian  poets,  dis-  similar  movement,  the  third  division,  originally  at  the 

cussed  the  epic  in  his  Discourses  on  the  Art  of  Poetry.  extreme  rear,  would  come  to  the  front.     In  the  last  em- 

Oiacomo  Mazzoni  (1.548-1598)  was  an  Italian  critic,  and  a  battling  those  who  had  originally  been  in  advance  would 

friend  of  Tasso.    He  wrote  a  book  on  Dante.  thus  be  in  the  rear. 


JOHN  MILTON  265 

ardice  of  doing  wrong.  They  must  be  also  these  constant  exercises  at  home,  there  is 
practised  in  all  the  locks  and  gripes  of  wrestling,  another  opportunity  of  gaining  experience  to 
wherein  Englishmen  were  wont  to  excel,  as  be  won  from  pleasure  itseK  abroad:  in  those 
need  may  often  be  in  fight  to  tug,  to  grapple,  vernal  seasons  of  the  year,  when  the  air  is 
and  to  close.  And  this,  perhaps,  will  be  enough  5  calm  and  pleasant,  it  were  an  injury  and 
wherein  to  prove  and  heat  their  single  strength,  sullenness  against  nature  not  to  go  out  and  see 
The  interim  of  unsweating  themselves  regularly,  her  riches  and  partake  in  her  rejoicing  with 
and  convenient  rest  before  meat,  may  both  heaven  and  earth.  I  should  not,  therefore,  be  a 
with  profit  and  delight  be  taken  up  in  recreating  persuader  to  them  of  studying  much  then, 
and  composing  their  travailed  spirits  with  the  10  after  two  or  three  years  that  they  have  well 
solemn  and  divine  harmonies  of  music  heard  or  laid  their  grounds,  but  to  ride  out  in  companies 
learned,  either  whilst  the  skilful  organist  pHes  with  prudent  and  staid  guides  to  all  the  quarters 
his  grave  and  fancied  descant  in  lofty  fugues,  or  of  the  land,  learning  and  observing  all  places  of 
the  whole  symphony  with  artful  and  un-  strength,  all  commodities  of  building  and  of 
imaginable  touches  adorn  and  grace  the  well-  15  soil  for  towns  and  tillage,  harbours,  and  ports 
studied  chords  of  some  choice  composer;  some-  for  trade.  Sometimes  taking  sea  as  far  as  to  our 
times  the  lute  or  soft  organ-stop,  waiting  on  navy,  to  learn  there  also  what  they  can  in  the 
elegant  voices  either  to  religious,  martial,  or  practical  knowledge  of  sailing  and  of  sea-fight, 
civil  ditties,  which,  if  wise  men  and  prophets  be  These  ways  would  try  all  their  pecuHar  gifts  of 
not  extremely  out,  have  a  great  power  over  20  nature,  and  if  there  were  any  secret  excellence 
dispositions  and  manners  to  smooth  and  make  among  them,  would  fetch  it  out  and  give  it 
them  gentle  from  rustic  harshness  and  dis-  fair  opportunities  to  advance  itself  by,  which 
tempered  passions.  The  like  also  would  not  be  could  not  but  mightily  redound  to  the  good  of 
unexpedient  after  meat,  to  assist  and  cherish  this  nation,  and  bring  into  fashion  again  those 
nature  in  her  first  concoction,  and  send  their  25  old  admired  virtues  and  excellencies  with  far 
minds  back  to  study  in  good  tune  and  satisfac-  more  knowledge  now  in  this  purity  of  Christian 
tion.  Where  having  followed  it  close  under  knowledge.  Nor  shall  we  then  need  the  mon- 
vigilant  eyes  until  about  two  hours  before  sieurs  of  Paris  to  take  our  hopeful  youth  into 
supper,  they  are,  by  a  sudden  alarum  or  their  sHght  and  prodigal  custodies,  and  send 
watchword,  to  be  called  out  to  their  mihtary  30  them  over  back  again  transformed  into  mimics, 
motions,  under  sky  or  covert,  according  to  the  apes,  and  kekshose.^^  But  if  they  desire  to  see 
season,  as  was  the  Roman  wont;  first  on  foot,  other  countries  at  three  or  four  and  twenty 
then,  as  their  age  permits,  on  horseback,  to  all*  years  of  age,  not  to  learn  principles,  but  to 
the  art  of  cavalry;  that  having  in  sport,  but  enlarge  experience  and  make  wise  observation, 
with  much  exactness  and  daily  muster,  served  35  they  will  by  that  time  be  such  as  shall  deserve 
out  the  rudiments  of  their  soldiership  in  all  the  the  regard  and  honour  of  all  men  where  they 
skill  of  embattling,  marching,  encamping,  pass,  and  the  society  and  friendship  of  those  in 
fortifying,  besieging,  and  battering,  with  all  the  all  places  who  are  best  and  most  eminent.  And 
helps  of  ancient  and  modern  strategems,  perhaps  then  other  nations  will  be  glad  to  visit 
tactics,  and  warhke  maxims,  they  may,  as  it  40  us  for  their  breeding,  or  else  to  imitate  us  in 
were  out  of  a  long  war,  come  forth  renowned      their  own  country. 

and  perfect  commanders  in  the  service  of  their  Now,  lastly,  for  their  diet  there  cannot  be 

country.  They  would  not  then,  if  they  were  much  to  say,  save  only  that  it  would  be  best 
trusted  with  fair  and  hopeful  armies,  suffer  in  the  same  house;  for  much  time  else  would  be 
them  for  want  of  just  and  wise  disciphne  to  shed  45  lost  abroad,  and  many  ill  habits  got;  and  that  it 
away  from  about  them  hke  sick  feathers,  should  be  plain,  healthful,  and  moderate,  I  sup- 
though  they  be  never  so  oft  supphed;  they  pose  is  out  of  controversy, 
would  not  suffer  their  empty  and  unrecruitable  Thus,  Mr.  Hartlib,  you  have  a  general  view 
colonels  of  twenty  men  in  a  company  to  quaff  in  writing,  as  your  desire  was,  of  that  which  at 
out  or  convey  into  secret  hoards  the  wages  of  a  50  several  times  I  had  discoursed  with  you  con- 
delusive  list  and  miserable  remnant;  yet  in  the  cerning  the  best  and  noblest  way  of  education; 
meanwhile  to  be  overmastered  with  a  score  or  not  beginning,  as  some  have  done,  from  the 
two  of  drunkards,  the  only  soldiery  left  about  cradle,  which  yet  might  be  worth  many  con- 
them,  or  else  to  comply  with  all  rapines  and  siderations,  if  brevity  had  not  been  my  scope, 
violences.  No,  certainly,  if  they  knew  aught  of  55  P^any  other  circumstances  also  I  could  have 
that  knowledge  that  belongs  to  good  men  or  mentioned,  but  this,  to  such  as  have  the 
good  governors  they  would  not  suffer  these  worth  in  them  to  make  trial,  for  light  and 
thmgs.  ^  T»     -J  22  i.  e.,  Kickshaws  (Fr.  aueZgtte  cAose)  trifling,  fantastif 

But  to  return  to  our  own  institute.    Besides     things. 


266  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

direction  may  be  enough.  Only  I  believe  that  loth  to  own;  next  what  is  to  be  thought  in 
this  is  not  a  bow  for  every  man  to  shoot  in,  that  general  of  reading,  whatever  sort  the  books  be; 
counts  himself  a  teacher,  but  will  require  sinews  and  that  this  Order  avails  nothing  to  the  sup- 
almost  equal  to  those  which  Homer  gave  pressing  of  scandalous,  seditious,  and  libellous 
Ulysses;  yet  I  am  withal  persuaded  that  it  5  books,  which  were  mainly  intended  to  be 
may  prove  much  more  easy  in  the  assay  than  it  suppressed.  Last,  that  it  will  be  primely  to 
now  seems  at  distance,  and  much  more  illus-  the  discouragement  of  all  learning,  and  the 
trious:  howbeit,  not  more  difficult  than  I  stop  of  Truth,  not  only  by  the  disexercising  and 
imagine,  and  that  imagination  presents  me  with  blunting  our  abilities  in  what  we  know  already, 
nothing  but  very  happy  and  very  possible  10  but  by  hindering  and  cropping  the  discovery 
according  to  best  wishes,  if  God  have  so  decreed,  that  might  be  yet  further  made  both  in  religious 
and  this  age  have  spirit  and  capacity  enough  to      and  civil  Wisdom. 

apprehend.  '   I  deny  not,  but  that  it  is  of  greatest  concern- 

ment in  the  Church  and  Commonwealth,  to 
15  have  a  vigilant  eye  how  books  demean  them- 
AREOPAGITICA*  selves  as  well  as  men;  and  thereafter  to  confine, 

imprison,  and  do  sharpest  justice  on  them  as 

(1644)  malefactors:  For  books  are  not  absolutely  dead 

(Selections)  things,  but  do  contain  a  potency  of  life  in  them 

20  to  be  as  active  as  that  soul  was  whose  progeny 

If  ye  be  thus  resolved, ^  as  it  were  injury  to  they  are;  nay,  they  do  preserve  as  in  a  vial  the 
think  ye  were  not,  I  know  not  what  should  purest  eflScacy  and  extraction  of  that  living 
withhold  me  from  presenting  ye  with  a  fit  intellect  that  bred  them.  I  know  they  are  as 
instance  wherein  to  show  both  that  love  of  lively,  and  as  vigorously  productive,  as  those 
truth  which  ye  eminently  profess,  and  that  25  fabulous  Dragon's  teeth  ;^  and  being  sown  up 
uprightness  of  your  judgment  which  is  not  and  down,  may  chance  to  spring  up  armed  men. 
wont  to  be  partial  to  yourselves;  by  judging  And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  unless  wariness  be 
over  again  that  Order  which  ye  have  or-  used,  as  good  almost  kill  a  man  as  kill  a  good 
dained^  to  regulate  Printing:  That  no  Book,  book:  who  kills  a  man  kills  a  reasonable  crea- 
pamphlet,  or  paper  shall  be  henceforth  Printed,  30  ture,  God's  image;  but  he  who  destroys  a  good 
unless  the  same  be  first  approved  and  licensed  by  book,  kills  reason  itself,  kills  the  image  of 
such,  or  at  least  one  of  such  as  shall  be  thereto  God,  as  it  were  in  the  eye.^  Many  a  man  lives  a 
appointed.  For  that  part  which  preserves  'burden  to  the  earth;  but  a  good  book  is  the 
justly  every  man's  copy  to  himself,  or  provides  precious  life-blood  of  a  master  spirit,  embalmed 
for  the  poor,  I  touch  not,  only  wish  they  be  not  35  and  treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond 
made  pretences  to  abuse  and  persecute  honest  life.  'Tis  true,  no  age  can  restore  a  life,  whereof 
and  painful  men,  who  offend  not  in  either  of  perhaps  there  is  no  great  loss;  and  revolutions 
these  particulars.  But  that  other  clause  of  of  ages  do  not  oft  recover  the  loss  of  a  rejected 
Licensing  Books,  which  we  thought  had  died  truth,  for  the  want  of  which  whole  nations  fare 
with  his  brother  quadragesimal*  and  matrimonial  40  the  worse.  We  should  be  wary  therefore  what 
when  the  prelates  expired,  I  shall  now  attend  persecution  we  raise  against  the  Hving  labours 
with  such  a  homily,  as  shall  lay  before  ye,  first  of  pubhc  men,  how  we  spill  that  seasoned  hfe  of 
the  inventors  of  it,  to  be  those  whom  ye  will  be      man,  preserved  and  stored  up  in  books;  since  we 

, .  jj        +    +u    A  -D    *i.    A  see  a  kind  of  homicide  may  be  thus  com- 

ii.  e.,  address  to  the  Areopagus.    By  the  Areopagus  .,,     ,  ,.  ,       i  ,     .-    . 

Milton  means  the  English  Parliament,  which  he  thus  45  mitted,    Sometimes    a    martyrdom,    and    if    it 

likens  to  the  Greek  Areopagus,  the  high  council  and  court      extend  to  the  whole  impression,^  a  kind  of 

of  ancient  Athens.    One  of  the  orations  of  Isocrates.  the  ,  »  , ,  *^    .  '  .       , 

Attic  orator,  is  known  as  Logos  Areopagitikos,  the  Areop-  maSSacre,  whereOI  the  execution  ends  not  m  the 
agitic  Discourse.     As  Isocrates  appealed  to  the  ancient       olnvino-  nf  nn  plpmpnfal  lifp    hnf  <5frikp«s  nf  fhaf 

Areopagus  (the  high  court  of  Ares.  "  or  Mars."  Hill),  so  -W^g  ot  an  elemental  Hie,  DUt  StrikCb  at  that 
Milton  appeals  to  the  modern  Areopagus,  "the  Lords  and  ethereal  and  faith  essence,^  the  breath  of  reason 
^^Trc.^i^il''^%\rrr^:^dcJ4^"''''''  ^''"' 50  itself,  slays  an  immortality  rather  than  a  lite. 

2  i.  e..  resolved  to  do  what  has  just  been  urged  by  Milton  8  gee  the  stories  of  Cadmuc  and  of  Jason. 

in  the  preceding  passage;  viz.  to  "obey  the  voice  of  reason  6  God's  image  is  reflected  in  a  good  book  as  the  image  of 

from  whatever  quarter  it  be  heard  speaking."  and  to  repeal  outward  objects  is  on  the  retina  of  the  eye. 

any  Parliamentary  act  of  your  own  as  willingly  as  you  '  The  whole  edition;  here,  all  the  copies  printed. 

would  one  passed  by  your  predecessors  in  Parliament.  « Aristotle  holds  that   there  are  five  elements,  earth, 

3  The  ordinance  of  1643,  reestablishing  a  censorship  of  .water,  air.  fire,  ether;  the  last  is  the  "fifth  element,"  or 
the  press,  which  had  been  substantially  free  since  1640.  g7iin/.essence  (fifth  essence),  which  is  not  subject  to  change. 

*  Pertaining  to  Lent,  a  season  of  forty  days.    Ecclesias-  He  who  destroys  all  the  copies  of  a  book,  does  not  merelv 

tical  rules  for  the  observence  of  Lent,  and  ecclesiastical  destroy  a  thing  subject  to  change  (like  the  first  four 

views  of  marriage   (which   Milton   regarded  as  a  civil  elements),  he  destroys  part  of  a  man's  spirit  preserved  and 

contract  and  not  as  a  sacrament)  had  "died  when  the  stored  up  in  a  good  book  beyond  the  term  of  mortal  life, 

K relates  expired,"  but  the  censorship  of  the  press  (which  he  slays  the  "fifth  essence."  the  man's  ethereal  part,  "an 

lilton  calls  their  brother)  is  continued.  immortality  rather  than  a  life." 


JOHN  MILTON  267 

But  lest  I  should  be  condemned  of  introducing  learned  men  reputed  in  this  land,  Mr.  Selden,^ 
license,  while  I  oppose  Ucensing,  I  refuse  not  whose  volume  of  natural  and  national  laws 
the  pains  to  be  so  much  historical,  as  will  serve  proves,  not  only  by  great  authorities  brought 
to  show  what  hath  been  done  by  ancient  and  together,  but  by  exquisite  reasons  and  theorems 
famous  commonwealths,  against  this  disorder,  5  almost  mathematically  demonstrative,  that  all 
till  the  very  time  that  this  project  of  hcensing  opinions,  yea  errors,  known,  read,  and  collated, 
crept  out  of  the  Inquisition,  was  catched  up  by  are  of  main  service  and  assistance  toward  the 
our  prelates,  and  hath  caught  some  of  our  speedy  attainment  of  what  is  truest.  I  con- 
presbyters,  ceive,  therefore,  that  when  God  did  enlarge  the 

[An  historical  survey  here  follows,  showing  lo  universal  diet  of  man's  body,  saving  ever  the 
the  position  of  the  authorities  in  Athens,  rules  of  temperance,  He  then  also,  as  before, 
Lacedsemon,  and  Rome,  in  regard  to  the  left  arbitrary  the  dieting  and  repasting  of  our 
question  at  issue.  Continuing  the  history  minds;  as  wherein  every  mature  man  might 
through  early  Christian  times,  Milton  finally  have  to  exercise  his  own  leading  capacity.  How 
contends  that  the  system  of  press  censorship,  15  great  a  virtue  is  temperance,  how  much  of 
which  he  condemned,  was  "engendered"  by  moment  through  the  whole  life  of  man!  yet 
the  Council  of  Trent  (1546)  and  the  Spanish  God  commits  the  managing  so  great  a  trust, 
Inquisition.]  without  particular  law  or  prescription,  wholly 

Dionysius  Alexandrinus  was  about  the  to  the  demeanour  of  every  grown  man.  And 
year  240,  a  person  of  great  name  in  the  Church  20  therefore  when  He  Himself  tabled  the  Jews 
for  piety  and  learning,  who  had  wont  to  avail  from  heaven,  that  omer,  which  was  every 
himself  much  against  heretics  by  being  con-  man's  daily  portion  of  manna,  is  computed  to 
versant  in  their  books;  until  a  certain  presbyter  have  been  more  than  might  have  well  sufficed 
laid  it  scrupulously  to  his  conscience,  how  he  the  heartiest  feeder  thrice  as  many  meals.  For 
durst  venture  himself  among  those  defiling  25  those  actions  which  enter  into  a  man,  rather 
volumes.  The  worthy  man,  loth  to  give  than  issue  out  of  him,  and  therefore  defile  not, 
offence,  fell  into  a  new  debate  with  himself  God  uses  not  to  captivate  under  a  perpetual 
what  was  to  be  thought;  when  suddenly  a  childhood  of  prescription,  but  trusts  him  with 
vision  sent  from  God  (it  is  his  own  epistle  that  the  gift  of  reason  to  be  his  own  chooser;  there 
so  avers  it)  confirmed  him  in  these  words:  so  were  but  Httle  work  left  for  preaching,  if  law 
Read  any  books  whatever  come  to  thy  hands,  and  compulsion  should  grow  so  fast  upon  those 
for  thou  art  sufficient  both  to  judge  aright,  and  things  which  heretofore  were  governed  only 
to  examine  each  matter.  To  this  revelation  he  by  exhortation.  Solomon  informs  us,  that 
assented  the  sooner,  as  he  confesses,  because  it  much  reading  is  a  weariness  to  the  flesh;  but 
was  answerable  to  that  of  the  Apostle  to  the  35  neither  he  nor  other  inspired  author  tells  us 
Thessalonians:  Prove  all  things,  hold  fast  that  that  such,  or  such  reading  is  unlawful:  yet 
which  is  good.  And  he  might  have  added  an-  certainly  had  God  thought  good  to  limit  us 
other  remarkable  saying  of  the  same  author:  herein,  it  had  been  much  more  expedient  tc 
To  the  pure,  all  things  are  pure;  not  only  have  told  us  what  was  unlawful,  than  what 
meats  and  drinks,  but  all  kind  of  knowledge  40  was  wearisome.  As  for  the  burning  of  those 
whether  of  good  or  evil;  the  knowledge  cannot  Ephesian  books  by  St.  Paul's  converts ;i°  'tis 
defile,  nor  consequently  the  books,  if  the  will  repHed  the  books  were  magic,  the  Syriac  so 
and  conscience  be  not  defiled.  For  books  are  as  renders  them.  It  was  a  private  act,  a  voluntary 
meats  and  viands  are;  some  of  good,  some  of  act,  and  leaves  us  to  a  voluntary  imitation:  the 
evil  substance;  and  yet  God  in  that  unapocry- 45  men  in  remorse  burnt  those  books  which  were 
phal  vision,  said  without  exception:  Rise,  Peter,  their  own;  the  magistrate  by  this  example  is 
kill  and  eat,  leaving  the  choice  to  each  man's  not  appointed:  these  men  practised  the  books, 
discretion.  Wholesome  meats  to  a  vitiated  another  might  perhaps  have  read  them  in  some 
stomach  differ  Httle  or  nothing  from  unwhole-  sort  usefully.  Good  and  evil  we  know  in  the 
some;  and  best  books  to  a.  naughty  mind  are  50  field  of  this  world  grow  up  together  almost 
not  unapphable  to  occasions  of  evil.  Bad  inseparably;  and  the  knowledge  of  good  is  so 
meats  will  scarce  breed  good  nourishment  in  involved  and  interwoven  with  the  knowledge  of 
the  healthiest  concoction;  but  herein  the  evil,  and  in  so  many  cunning  resemblances 
difference  is  of  bad  books,  that  they  to  a  dis-  hardly  to  be  discerned,  that  those  confused 
creet  and  judicious  reader  serve  in  many  re- 55     9john   Selden   (1584-1654),  jurist,   antiquary,   and 

-^npfts  to  Hisipnvpr    to  ponfutp    to  forewarn    and       author.    He  was  member  of  the  Long  Parimment  (1640) 
speciS  to  aiSCOVer,  to  coniutc,  lo  loxewdni,  duu       ^^^j  ^^^  ^^  ^^^  Committee  which  nnpeached  Archbishop 

to    illustrate.       Whereof    what    better    witness        Laud.     As  an  author,  he  is  chiefly  remembered  by  his 

pan    VP  Pvnppt    T  ^hniilrl   nrodiiff*    than  one  of       Table-Talk.    Milton  here  refers  to  Selden's  treatise  De 

can  ye  expect  l  snouia  proauce,  tnan  one  oi      j^^^  Maturaii  et  Gentium,  etc.,  1640. 
your  own  now  sitting  in  Parhament,  the  chief  of         lo  Acts,  xix.,  19. 


268  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

seeds  which  were  imposed  on  Psyche^^  as  an  examine  all  the  lutes,  the  violins,  and  the  guitars 
incessant  labour  to  cull  out,  and  sort  asunder,  in  every  house;  they  must  not  be  suffered  to 
were  not  more  intermixed.  It  was  from  out  prattle  as  they  do,  but  must  be  licensed  what 
the  rind  of  one  apple  tasted,  that  the  knowledge  they  may  say.  And  who  shall  silence  all  the 
of  good  and  evil,  as  two  twins  cleaving  together,  5  airs  and  madrigals  that  whisper  softness  in 
leaped  forth  into  the  world.  And  perhaps  this  chambers?  The  windows  also,  and  the  bal- 
is  that  doom  which  Adam  fell  into  of  knowing  conies  must  be  thought  on,  there  are  shrewd 
good  and  evil,  that  is  to  say  of  knowing  good  by  books,  with  dangerous  frontispieces,  set  tol 
evil.  As  therefore  the  state  of  man  now  is;  sale;  who  shall  prohibit  them,  shall  twenty 
what  wisdom  can  there  be  to  choose,  what  lO  licensers?  The  villages  also  must  have  their 
continuance  to  forbear  without  the  knowledge  visitors  to  inquire  what  lectures  the  bagpipe 
of  evil?  He  that  can  apprehend  and  consider  and  the  rebeck  reads  even  to  the  ballatry,i* 
vice  with  all  her  baits  and  seeming  pleasures,  and  the  gamut  of  every  municipal  fiddler,  for 
and  yet  abstain,  and  yet  distinguish,  and  yet  these  are  the  countryman's  Arcadias,  and  his 
prefer  that  which  is  truly  better,  he  is  the  true  15  Monte  Mayors, ^^  Next,  what  more  national 
wayfaring  Christian.  I  cannot  praise  a  fugitive  corruption,  for  which  England  hears  ill  abroad, 
and  cloistered  virtue,  unexercised  and  un-  than  household  gluttony:  who  shall  be  the 
breathed,  that  never  sallies  out  and  sees  her  rectors  of  our  daily  rioting?  And  what  shall  be 
adversary,  but  slinks  out  of  the  race,  where  done  to  inhibit  the  multitudes  that  frequent 
that  immortal  garland  is  to  be  run  for,  not  20  those  houses  where  drunkenness  is  sold  and 
without  dust  and  heat.  Assuredly  we  bring  not  harboured?  Our  garments  also  should  be 
innocence  into  the  world,  we  bring  impurity  referred  to  the  licensing  of  some  more  sober 
much  rather;  that  which  purifies  us  is  trial,  and  workmasters  to  see  them  cut  into  a  less  wanton 
trial  is  by  what  is  contrary.  That  virtue  garb.  Who  shall  regulate  all  the  mixed  conver- 
therefore  which  is  but  a  youngling  in  the  con-25sation  of  our  youth,  male  and  female  together, 
templation  of  evil,  and  knows  not  the  utmost  as  is  the  fashion  of  this  country,  who  shall  still 
that  vice  promises  to  her  followers,  and  rejects  appoint  what  shall  be  discoursed,  what  pre- 
it,  is  but  a  blank  virtue,  not  a  pure;  her  white-  sumed,  and  no  further?  Lastly,  who  shall 
ness  is  but  an  excremental  whiteness  ;i2  which  forbid  and  separate  all  idle  resort,  all  evil  com- 
was  the  reason  why  our  sage  and  serious  poetsopany?  These  things  will  be,  and  must  be;  but 
Spenser,  whom  I  dare  be  known  to  think  a  how  they  shall  be  least  hurtful,  how  least 
better  teacher  than  Scotus  or  Aquinas,  de-  enticing,  herein  consists  the  grave  and  govern- 
scribing  true  temperance  under  the  person  of  ing  wisdom  of  a  state.  To  sequester  out  of 
Guion,i3  brings  him  in  with  his  palmer  through  the  world  into  Atlantic  and  Utopian  polities, i*' 
the  cave  of  Mammon,  and  the  bower  of  earthly  35  which  never  can  be  drawn  into  use,  will  not 
bliss,  that  he  might  see  and  know,  and  yet  mend  our  condition;  but  to  ordain  wisely  as  in 
abstain.  Since  therefore  the  knowledge  and  this  world  of  evil,  in  the  midst  whereof  God 
survey  of  vice  is  in  the  world  so  necessary  to  the  hath  placed  us  unavoidably.  .  .  . 
constituting  of  human  virtue,  and  the  scan-  Lords  and  Commons  of  England,  consider 
ning  of  error  to  the  confirmation  of  truth,  how  40  what  Nation  it  is  whereof  ye  are,  and  whereof 
can  we  more  safely,  and  with  less  danger  scout  ye  are  the  governors:  a  nation  not  slow  and 
into  the  regions  of  sin  and  falsity  than  by  dull,  but  of  a  quick,  ingenious,  and  piercing 
reading  all  manner  of  tractates  and  hearing  spirit,  acute  to  invent,  subtle  and  sinewy  to 
all  manner  of  reason?  And  this  is  the  benefit  discourse,  not  beneath  the  reach  of  any  point 
which  may  be  had  of  books  promiscuously  45  the  highest  that  human  capacity  can  soar  to. 
read.  •  .  -^  ^  Therefore  the  studies  of  Learning  in  her  deepest 

If  we  think  to  regulate  printing,  thereby  to  sciences  have  been  so  ancient,  and  so  eminent 
rectify  manners,  we  must  regulate  all  recrea-  among  us,  that  writers  of  good  antiquity,  and 
tions  and  pastimes,  all  that  is  delightful  to  man.  ablest  judgment  have  been  persuaded  that  even 
No  music  must  be  heard,  no  song  be  set  or  50  the  school  of  Pythagoras,  and  the  Persian 
sung,  but  what  is  grave  and  Doric.  There  wisdom  took  beginning  from  the  old  philosophy 
must  be  licensing  dancers,  that  no  gesture,  of  this  island.  And  that  wise  and  civil  Roman, 
motion,  or  deportment  be  taught  our  youth  but  Julius  Agricola,  who  governed  once  here  for 
what   by   their   allowance   shall   be    thought         ,aT,  „  ^    xu  i 

t            .     "i             1    -ni    .                          -J    J     r    •.       -n  "  Ballads,  the  popular  songs. 

honest;  tor  such  Plato  was  prOVldea  Ot;  it  will  55      nj„rge  de  Montemayor  (c.  1520-1561),  author  of  the 

ask  more  than  the  work  of  twenty  licensers  to  Spanish  pastoral  drama  Diana.    Sidney's  Arcadia  is  a 

•^  work  of  the  same  general  character, 

"  See  the  familiar  story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  told  by  i«  To  withdraw   (sequester)   ourselves  from  the  actual 

Apuleius,  world,  into  such  ideal  and  visionary  systems  of  govern- 

12  i.  e.,  only  superficial,  only  "skin-deep."  inent  as  those  pictured  by  Bacon  in  his  New  Atlantis,  or 

"  See  Faerie  Queene,  Bk.  II,  More  in  his  Utopia,  ''tvill  not  mend"  etc. 


JOHN  MILTON  269 

Caesar,  preferred  the  natural  wits  of  Britain,      could  a  man  require  more  from  a  Nation  so 
before  the  laboured  studies  of  the  French.    Nor      pliant  and  so  prone  to  seek  after  knowledge? 
is  it  for  nothing  that  the  grave  and  frugal      What  wants  there  to  such  a  towardly  and 
Transylvanian^^  sends  out  yearly  from  as  far  as      pregnant  soil,  but  wise  and  faithful  labourers, 
the  mountainous  borders  of  Russia,  and  beyond  5  to  make  a  knowing  people,  a  Nation  of  Prophets^ 
the  Hercynianwilderness,i8  not  their  youth,  but      of  Sages,  and  of  Worthies?    We  reckon  more 
their  staid  men,  to  learn  our  language,  and  our      than  five  months  yet  to  harvest;  there  need  not 
theologic  arts.    Yet  that  which  is  above  all  this,      be  five  weeks;  had  we  but  eyes  to  hft  up,  the 
the  favour  and  the  love  of  Heaven,  we  have      fields  are  white  already.    Where  there  is  much 
great  argument  to  think  in  a  peculiar  manner  lo  desire  to  learn,  there  of  necessity  will  be  much 
propitious  and  propending  towards  us.     Why      arguing,    much   writing,    many   opinions;   for 
(ilse  was  this  Nation  chosen  before  any  other,      opinion  in  good  men  is  but  knowledge  in  the 
that  out  of  her  as  out  of  Sion  should  be  pro-      making.    Under  these  fantastip  terrors  of  sect 
claimed  and  sounded  forth  the  first  tidings  and      and  schism,  we  wrong  the  earnest  and  zealous 
trumpet  of  Reformation  to  all  Europe?    And  15  thirst  after  knowledge  and  understanding  which 
had  it  not  been  the  obstinate  perverseness  of  our      God  hath  stirred  up  in  this  city.    What  some 
prelates    against    the    divine    and    admirable      lament  of,  we  rather  should  rejoice  at,  should 
spirit  of  Wickliff,  to  suppress  him  as  a  schis-      rather  praise  this   pious  forwardness  among 
matic    and    innovator,    perhaps    neither    the      men,  to  reassume  the  ill-reputed  care  of  their 
Bohemian  Huss  and  Jerome, ^^  no  nor  the  name  20  Religion  into  their  own  hands  again.    A  little 
of  Luther,  or  of  Calvin  had  been  ever  known:      generous  prudence,  a  little  forbearance  of  one 
the  glory  of  reforming  all  our  neighbours  had      another,  and  some  grain  of  charity  might  win 
been  completely  ours.     But  now,  as  our  ob-      all  these  diligences  to  join,  and  unite  in  one 
durate  clergy  have  with  violence  demeaned  the      general    and    brotherly    search    after    Truth; 
matter,  we  are  become  hitherto  the  latest  and  25  could  we  but  forego  this  prelatical  tradition  of 
backwardest  scholars,  of  whom  God  offered  to      crowding     free     consciences     and     Christian 
have  made  us  the  teachers.     Now  once  again      liberties  into  canons  and  precepts  of  men.     I 
by  all  concurrence  of  signs,  and  by  the  general      doubt  not,  if  some  great  and  worthy  stranger 
instinct  of  holy  and  devout  men,  as  they  daily      should  come  among  us,  wise  to  discern  the 
and  solemnly  express  their  thoughts,  God  is  30  mould  and  temper  of  a  people,  and  how  to 
decreeing  to  begin  some  new  and  great  period      govern  it,  observing  the  high  hopes  and  aims, 
in  His  Church,  even  to  the  reforming  of  Refor-      the  diligent  alacrity  of  our  extended  thoughts 
mation  itself.    What  does  He  then  but  reveal      and  reasonings  in  the  pursuance  of  truth  and 
Himself  to  His  servants,  and  as  His  manner  is,      freedom,  but  that  he  would  cry  out  as  Pyrrhus^o 
first  to  His  Englishmen;  I  say  as  His  manner  is,  35  did,  admiring  the  Roman  docility  and  courage: 
first  to  us,  though  we  mark  not  the  method  of      If  such  were  my  Epirots,^!  I  would  not  despair 
His  counsels,  and  are  unworthy.    Behold  now      the  greatest  design  that  could  be  attempted  to 
this  vast  City:  a  city  of  refuge,  the  mansion      make  a  Church  or  Kingdom  happy.    Yet  these 
house  of  liberty,  encompassed  and  surrounded      are  the  men  cried  out  against  for  schismatics 
with  His  protection;  the  shop  of  war  hath  not  40  and  sectaries;  as  if,  while  the  temple  of  the 
there  more  anvils  and  hammers  waking,   to      Lord  was  building,  some  cutting,  some  squaring 
fashion    out   the   plates    and    instruments   of      the  marble,  others  hewing  the  cedars,  there 
armed  Justice  in  defence  of  beleaguered  truth,      should  be  a  sort^^  of  irrational  men  who  could 
than  there  be  pens  and  heads  there,  sitting  by      not  consider  there  must  be  many  schisms  and 
their  studious  lamps,   musing,  searching,   re-  45  many  dissections  made  in  the  quarry  and  in  the 
volving  new  notions  and  ideas  wherewith  to      timber,  ere  the  house  of  God  can  be  built, 
present,  as  with  their  homage  and  their  fealty,      And  when  every  stone  is  laid  artfully  together, 
the  approaching  reformation:  others  as  fast      it  cannot  be  united  into  a  continuity,  it  can 
reading,    trying   all   things,    assenting  to   the      but  be  contiguous  in  this  world;  neither  can 
force    of    reason    and    convincement.      What  50  every  piece  of  the  building  be  of  one  form; 

nay   rather   the   perfection    consists   in   this: 

"  Transylvania    (the    land    beyond    the    Carpathian       i]^^^^    q^^    of    many    moderate    varieties    and 
forests,  trari.s-sylva),  since  1868  a  part  of  Hungary,  was       1,1,         ,.     .     '^^'f    j         -1     x  4.  xi 

an  independent  principality  in  Milton's  time.  brotherly  dissimihtudes  that  are  not  vastly 

'^'l^^ ^^F'^ynia  siim  of  PVmy  was  a  wild  region  oi     disproportional,    arises    the    goodly   and    the 

undefined  hmits  south  of  the  Caspian  (or  Ilyrcane)  Sea.  ^   i                   .        j.i.    x                     j     xi,         i.   ^ 

But  Milton,  apparently,  is  thinking  here  of  a  remote  55  graceful  Symmetry  that  COmmendS  the  wnole 
district  near  Transylvania  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 

Carpathian  mountains.  20  Pyrrhus,  king  of  Epirus.     He  is  reported  to  have 

's  Jerome  of  Prague,  a  religious  reformer  of  the  four-  made  a  remark  similar  to  the  one  here  attributed  to  him 

tecnth  and  early  fifteenth  centuries,  who  was  a  follower  after  his  hard-won  victory  over  the  Romans  in  the  battle 

of  John  Huss.    John  Wyclif  died  in  1384 ;  Huss  was  burned  of  Heraclea,  280  B.  C. 

for  heresy  in  1415,  and  Jerome  in  141C.  *'  Men  of  Epirus.                            "  Group,  company. 


270  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

pile  and  structure.  Let  us  therefore  be  more  acutest,  and  the  pertest  operations  of  wit 
considerate  builders,  more  wise  in  spiritual  and  subtlety,  it  argues  in  what  good  plight  and 
architecture,  when  great  reformation  is  ex-  constitution  the  body  is,  so  when  the  cheerful- 
pected.  For  now  the  time  seems  come,  wherein  ness  of  the  people  is  so  sprightly  up,  as  that  it 
Moses  the  great  prophet  may  sit  in  heaven  5  has,  not  only  wherewith  to  guard  well  its  own 
rejoicing  to  see  that  memorable  and  glorious  freedom  and  safety,  but  to  spare,  and  to  bestow 
wish  of  his  fulfilled,  when  not  only  our  seventy  upon  the  solidest  and  sublimest  points  of  con- 
Elders,  but  all  the  Lord's  people,^^  are  become  troversy  and  new  invention,  it  betokens  us  not 
prophets.  No  marvel  then  though  some  men,  degenerated,  nor  drooping  to  a  fatal  decay,  but 
and  some  good  men  too,  perhaps,  but  young  in  lo  casting  off  the  old  and  wrinkled  skin  of  corrup- 
goodness,  as  Joshua  then  was,  envy  them,  tion  to  outlive  these  pangs  and  wax  young 
They  fret,  and  out  of  their  own  weakness  are  in  again,  entering  the  glorious  ways  of  truth  and 
agony,  lest  these  divisions  and  subdivisions  will  prosperous  virtue  destined  to  become  great  and 
undo  us.  The  adversary  again  applauds,  and  honourable  in  these  latter  ages.  Methinks  I  see 
waits  the  hour;  when  they  have  branched  them-  15  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation  rousing 
selves  out,  saith  he,  small  enough  into  parties  herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shak- 
and  partitions,  then  will  be  our  time.  Fool!  ing  her  invincible  locks:  Methinks  I  see  her  as 
he  sees  not  the  firm  root,  out  of  which  we  all  an  eagle  mewing^e  her  mighty  youth,  and 
grow,  though  into  branches:  nor  will  beware  kindling  her  undazzled  eyes  at  the  full  midday 
until  he  see  our  small  divided  maniples^^  20  beam ;  purging  and  unsealing  her  long-abused 
cutting  through  at  every  angle  of  his  ill-united  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of  heavenly  radiance; 
and  unwieldy  brigade.  And  that  we  are  to  while  the  whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking 
hope  better  of  all  these  supposed  sects,  and  birds,  with  those  also  that  love  the  twilight, 
schisms,  and  that  we  shall  not  need  that  flutter  about,  amazed  at  what  she  means,  and 
solicitude  honest  perhaps  though  over-timorous  25  in  their  envious  gabble  would  prognosticate  a 
of  them  that  vex  in  this  behef ,  but  shall  laugh  year  of  sects  and  schisms, 
in  the  end,  at  those  malicious  applauders  of  our  What  should  ye  do  then,  should  ye  suppress 

differences,  I  have  these  reasons  to  persuade      all  this  flowery  crop  of  knowledge  and  new  light 
me.  sprung  up  and  yet  springing  daily  in  this  city, 

First,  when  a  City  shall  be  as  it  were  besieged  30  should  ye  set  an  oligarchy  of  twenty  engrossers 
and  blocked  about,  her  navigable  river  infested,  over  it,  to  bring  a  famine  upon  our  minds  again, 
inroads  and  incursions  round,  defiance  and  when  we  shall  know  nothing  but  what  is 
battle  oft  rumoured  to  be  marching  up  even  to  measured  to  us  by  their  bushel?  Believe  it, 
her  walls,  and  suburb  trenches,  that  then  the  Lords  and  Commons,  they  who  counsel  ye  to 
people,  or  the  greater  part,  more  than  at  other  35  such  a  suppressing,  do  as  good  as  bid  ye  sup- 
times,  wholly  taken  up  with  the  study  of  press  yourselves;  and  I  will  soon  show  how. 
highest  and  most  important  matters  to  be  If  it  be  desired  to  know  the  immediate  cause  of 
reformed,  should  be  disputing,  reasoning,  read-  all  this  free  writing  and  free  speaking,  there 
ing,  inventing,  discoursing,  even  to  a  rarity,  and  cannot  be  assigned  a  truer  than  your  own  mild, 
admiration,  things  not  before  discoursed  or  40  and  free,  and  humane  government;  it  is  the 
written  of,  argues  first  a  singular  goodwill,  liberty.  Lords  and  Commons,  which  your  own 
contentedness  and  confidence  in  your  prudent  valorous  and  happy  counsels  have  purchased 
foresight,  and  safe  government,  Lords  and  us,  liberty  which  is  the  nurse  of  all  great  wits; 
Commons;  and  from  thence  derives  itself  to  a  this  is  that  which  hath  rarified  and  enhghtened 
gallant  bravery  and  well  grounded  contempt  45 our  spirits  like  the  influence  of  heaven;  this  is 
of  their  enemies,  as  if  there  were  no  small  num-  that  which  hath  enfranchised,  enlarged,  and 
ber  of  as  great  spirits  among  us,  as  his  was,^^  lifted  up  our  apprehensions  degrees  above 
who  when  Rome  was  nigh  besieged  by  Hannibal,  themselves.  Ye  cannot  make  us  now  less 
being  in  the  city,  bought  that  piece  of  ground  capable,  less  knowing,  less  eagerly  pursuing  of 
at  no  cheap  rate,  whereon  Hannibal  himself  50  the  truth,  unless  ye  first  make  yourselves,  that 
encamped  his  own  regiment.  Next  it  is  a  lively  made  us  so,  less  the  lovers,  less  the  founders 
and  cheerful  presage  of  our  happy  success  and  of  our  true  liberty.  We  can  grow  ignorant 
victory.  For  as  in  a  body,  when  the  blood  is  again,  brutish,  formal,  and  slavish,  as  ye 
fresh,  the  spirits  pure  and  vigorous,  not  only  to  found  us;  but  you  then  must  first  become  that 
vital,  but  to  rational  faculties,  and  those  in  the  55  which  ye  cannot  be,  oppressive,  arbitrary,  and 

23  Numb.  xi..  29.  tyrannous,  as  they  were  from  whom  ye  have 

24  Small  companies  of  soldiers.    The  Roman  manipulus       freed    US.       That    OUr    hearts    are    now    more 

™'Tl"e''SrrL?cffS'SVs  s<,»e.  „vi.  u.    The     "apacious,  our  thoughts  more  erected  to  the 

name  of  the  confident  purchaser  is  not  given.  20  Renewing:  as  a  moulting  bird  puts  on  new  plumage. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY  271 

search  and  expectation  of  greatest  and  exactest  companion,  if  I  could  find  any  of  the  same 
things,  is  the  issue  of  your  own  virtue  prop-  temper.  I  was  then,  too,  so  much  an  enemy  to 
agated  in  us;  ye  cannot  suppress  that  unless  ye  all  constraint,  that  my  masters  could  never 
reinforce  an  abrogated  and  merciless  law,  that  prevail  on  me,  by  any  persuasions  or  encourage- 
fathers  may  despatch  at  will  their  own  chil-  5  ments,  to  learn  without  book  the  common  rules 
dren.  And  who  shall  then  stick  closest  to  ye,  of  grammar,  in  which  they  dispensed  with  me 
and  excite  others?  not  he  who  takes  up  arms  alone, ^  because  they  found  I  made  a  shift  to  do 
for  coat  and  conduct,  ^^  and  his  four  nobles  of  the  usual  exercises  out  of  my  own  reading  and 
Danegelt.  Although  I  dispraise  not  the  observation.  That  I  was  then  of  the  same  mind 
defence  of  just  immunities,  yet  love  my  peace  10  as  I  am  now  (which,  I  confess,  I  wonder  at 
better,  if  that  were  all.  Give  me  the  liberty  to  myself)  may  appear  by  the  latter  end  of  an 
know,  to  utter,  and  to  argue  freely  according  to  ode  which  I  made  when  I  was  but  thirteen  years 
conscience,  above  all  liberties.  old,  and  which  was  then  printed  with  many 

other  verses.    The  beginning  of  it  is  boyish,  but 

15  of  this  part,  which  I  here  set  down,  if  a  very 

jSbtdbdint   dDotOln'  nttle  were  corrected,  I  should  hardly  now  be 

much  ashamed. 


1618-1667 


IX 


m?   A/rva-PTT?  '^^^^  ^^^y  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  li© 

Ulf    Ml  toUiLiF  20  Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  iiigh. 

(E.say.  in  Verse  and  Pro..  1668)  Not  Kr^'drb^t  g^JI  alone: 

It  is  a  hard  and  nice  subject  for  a  man  to      The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known.  5 

write  of  hi,nself;  it  grates  his  own  heart  to  say  H-^eTw^ulf hl^ertut  when  it  de, 

anythmg  of  disparagement,  and  the  reader  s  25      ^      pends 

ears  to  hear  anything  of  praise  for  him.  There  ^^^  ^^  ^1^^  number,  but  the  choice  of  friends, 
is  no  danger  from  me  of  offending  him  in  this 

kind;  neither  my  mind,  nor  my  body,  nor  my  x 

fortune,  allow  me  any  materials  for  that  Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the  light, 
vanity.  It  is  sufficient  for  my  own  contentment  30  And  sleep,  as  undisturbed  as  death,  thenight.  10 
that    they    have    preserved    me    from    being  My  house  a  cottage,  more 

scandalous,    or   remarkable   on   the   defective      Than  palace,  and  should  fitting  be 
side.     But  besides  that,  I  shall  here  speak  of      For  all  my  use,  no  luxury, 
myself  only  in  relation  to  the  subject  of  these  M^^^^^  ^^^  p^^^^^^^^ 

precedent    discourses,^    and    shall    be    likelier  35  .^^  j^ 

thereby  to  fall  into  the  contempt,  than  rise  up      Horace  m'ight  envy  in  his  Sabine  field, 
to  the  estimation  of  most  people.  ^ 

As  far  as  my  memory  can  return  back  into  , ,  ^  ,     ,  ,  ^^e  ,   n  j- 

my  past  life,  before  1  knew  or  was  capable     Thus  would  I  double  my  life  s  fading  sp^^^^^^ 

of^gu^essing  what  the  world,  or  f-es  or  bu^'"  «  ^^  ^'dt  ^^t^  ™"  "^  '^^ 
ness  of  It  were,  the  natural  affectioiis  ot  my      ^^^^^^  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state,       2t 
soul  gave  me  a  secret  bent  of  aversion  trom      j  would  not  fear,  nor  wish  my  fate, 
them,  as  some  plants  are  said  to  turn  away  g^^^  boldly  say  each  night, 

from   others,   by  an  antipathy  imperceptible      To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  display 
to  themselves  and  inscrutable  to  man's  under-  45  Or  in  clouds  hide  them— I  have  lived  to-day. 
standing.    Even  when  I  was  a  very  young  boy  , 

at  school,  instead  of  running  about  on  holy-  You  may  see  by  it  I  was  even  then  acquainted 
days  and  playing  with  my  fellows,  I  was  wont  with  the  poets  (for  the  conclusion  is  taken  out 
to  steal  from  them  and  walk  into  the  fields,  of  Horace),^  and  perhaps  it  was  the  immature 
either  alone  with  a  book,  or  with  some  one  50  and  immoderate  love  of  them  which  stamped 
27  Not  he  who  takes  up  arms  on  account  of  (i .  e.  against)  first,  or  rather  engraved,  these  characters  in  me, 
illegal  taxation,  imposed  to  pay  for  the  clothing  (coat)      Thev  were  like  letters  cut  into  the  barl«  of  a 

and  transport  (conduct)  of  the  king's  troops,  and  not  he  J                                        .  ,        ,                       ..,,     _-.„™ 

who  refuses  to  give  his  four  nobles  of  a  ship-money  tax.  yOUng    tree,    WhlCh    Wltn    tne    tree    SllU    grow 

The  proceeds  of  the  tax  imposed  to  meet  the  cost  of  nronortionablv      But  hoW  this  love  came  to  be 

clothing  and  transporting  new  levies  was  known  as  coai  piupuitiuim     y.                                          nnP<5finn       T 

and  conduct  money.    The  ship-money  tax  (which  John  55  produced  m  me  SO  early  IS  a  nard  question.    1 

Hampden  and  others  refused  to  pay),  was  called  Danegelt.  Kplievp  I  can  tell  the  particular  little  chance 
because  the  king  and  his  party  relied  on  the  old  Danegelt       ^    ^      '  j;       .  ,  ,     pV>4mAQ  nf 

(originally  money  given  to  the  Danes  to  refrain  from       that  filled  my  head  first  With  SUCh  ChimeS  OI 

attacking  England)  as  a  precedent.  verse    as  have  never  since  left  ringing  there. 

1  The  essay  Of  Myself  is  the  last  of  a  series  entitled  ,  ^  '         ,  «  » n^  TTT  -r-^^  ai  ^  ««, 

Several  Discourses  by  Way  of  Essays  in  Prose  and  Verse.  '  Excused  me  alone.  »  Od.  Ill,  XMX,  41  et.  seq. 


272  THE  AGE  OF  MILTON 

For  I  remember,  when  I  began  to  read,  and  to  I  was  in  business  of  great  and  honourable  trust, 

take  some  pleasure  in  it,  there  was  wont  to  lie  though  I  ate  at  the  best  table,  and  enjoyed  the 

in  my  mother's  parlour  (I  know  not  by  what  best  conveniences  for  present  subsistence  that 

accident,  for  she  herself  never  in  her  life  read  ought  to  be  desired  by  a  man  of  my  condition  in 

any  book  but  of  devotion),  but  there  was  wont  5  banishment  and  pubhc  distresses;  yet  I  could 

to  lie  Spenser's  works;  this  I  happened  to  fall  not  abstain  from  renewing  my  old  schoolboy's 

upon,  and  was  infinitely  delighted  with  the  wishinacopy  of  verses  to  the  same  effect: 

stories  of  the  knights,  and  giants,  and  monsters,  irr  n  ^i,       t          j      i  •  i 

and  brave  houses,  which  I  found  everywhere         Swv'JnX.nH  ?  Sinter  «c^^^  .f .  s 
,,.,,,  J      ^      T      1     1  Txxi   X    J  inis  busy  world  anal  shall  neer  agree,  etc.* 

there  (though  my  understandmg  had  little  to  do  10  °^     ' 

with  all  this) ;  and  by  degrees  with  the  tinkling  And  I  never  then  proposed  to  myseK  any 
of  the  rhjTue  and  dance  of  the  numbers,  so  other  advantage  from  His  Majesty's  happy 
that  I  think  I  had  read  him  all  over  before  I  was  Restoration,  but  the  getting  into  some  mod- 
twelve  years  old,  and  was  thus  immediately  erately  convenient  retreat  in  the  country,  which 
made  a  poet.  15  I  thought  in  that  case  T  might  easily  have 

With  these  affections  of  mind,  and  my  heart  compassed,  as  well  as  some  others,  with  no 
wholly  set  upon  letters,  I  went  to  the  univer-  greater  probabiUties  or  pretences  have  arrived 
sity,^  but  was  soon  torn  from  thence  by  that  to  extraordinary  fortunes.  But  I  had  before 
violent  public  storm^  which  would  suffer  noth-  written  a  shrewd  prophecy  against  myself,  and 
ing  to  stand  where  it  did,  but  rooted  up  every  20 1  think  Apollo  inspired  me  in  the  truth,  though 
plant,  even  from  the  princely  cedars  to  me,  the  not  in  the  elegance  of  it: 
hyssop.     Yet  I  had  as  good  fortune  as  could      ^,  .^,  ^     ^  ^  •     ^r 

i,o,r^  K^foii^r.  ^«  ir.  c„^i; -,  +^^^^of.  fr.r.  T  t^.oc  Thou,  ncithcr  great  at  court  nor  m  the  war 
have  befallen  me  m  such  a  tempest  for  I  was  ^^^  ^^  ^^,  exchange  shalt  be,  nor  at  the  wran- 
cast  by  it  into  the  family  of  one  of  the  best  gling  bar* 

persons,^  and  into  the  court  of  one  of  the  best  25  Content  thysdf  with  the  smaU  barren  praise, 
princesses^  of  the  world.     Now  though  I  was      Which  neglected  verse  does  raise,  etc. 
here  engaged  in  ways  most  contrary  to  the 

original  design  of  my  life,  that  is,  into  much  However,  by  the  failing  of  the  forces  which  I 

company,  and  no  small  business,  and  into  a  had  expected,  I  did  not  quit  the  design  which  I 
daily  sight  of  greatness,  both  mihtant  and  30  had  resolved  on;  I  cast  myself  into  it  A  corps 
triumphant  (for  that  was  the  state  then  of  the  perdu,^  without  making  capitulations  or  taking 
English  and  French  Courts) ;  yet  all  this  was  so  counsel  of  fortune.  But  God  laughs  at  a  man 
far  from  altering  my  opinion,  that  it  only  added  who  says  to  his  soul,  "Take  thy  ease:"  I  met 
the  confirmation  of  reason  to  that  which  was  presently  not  only  with  many  little  encum- 
before  but  natural  inclination.  I  saw  plainly  35  brances  and  impediments,  but  with  so  much 
all  the  paint  of  that  kind  of  Hfe,  the  nearer  I  sickness  (a  new  misfortune  to  me)  as  would 
came  to  it;  and  that  beauty,  which  I  did  not  have  spoiled  the  happiness  of  an  emperor  as 
fall  in  love  with  when,  for  aught  I  knew,  it  was  well  as  mine.  Yet  I  do  neither  repent  nor  alter 
real,  was  not  like  to  bewitch  or  entice  me  when  my  course.  Non  ego  perfidum  dixi  sacramen- 
I  saw  that  it  was  adulterate.  I  met  mth.  40  tum.^°  Nothing  shall  separata  me  from  a  mis- 
several  great  persons,  whom  I  liked  very  well;  tress  which  I  have  loved  so  long,  and  have  now 
but  could  not  perceive  that  any  part  of  their  at  last  married,  though  she  neither  has  brought 
greatness  was  to  be  liked  or  desired,  no  more  me  a  rich  portion,  nor  lived  yet  so  quietly  with 
than  I  would  be  glad  or  content  to  be  in  a      me  as  I  hoped  from  her: 

storm,  though  I  saw  many  ships  wJiich  rid  45  ,r  i  i  -    ■  t 

r  1         J  u        1     •     -i.      A     i.  ij       i.      •  .  •  Necvos.auLcissiniamundi 

safely  and  bravely  m  it.    A  storm  would  not      ^^^^    ^^^  ^^^         ^^  ^^^  ^^^ 

agree  with  my  stomach,   if  it  did  with  my      Hortique  sylvceque,  animd  remanente  relinquam. 

courage.    Though  I  was  in  a  crowd  of  as  good 

company  as  could  be  found  anywhere,  though  Nor  by  me  e'er  shall  you, 

5Q  You  of  all  names  the  sweetest,  and  the  best, 
*  S?™^*^.?®;^/*  ^^?^-  ,..  ^     ,  ,    ,^    T,      ..        You,  Muses,  books,  and  liberty,  and  rest; 

.ide  •  '"^  ""  ""  You  gardens,  fields,  and  woods,  forsaken  be, 

6  Henry   Jermyn    (d.    1684),    afterwards   Earl    of   St.  As  long  as  life  itself  forsakes  not  me. 
Albans. 

^Henrietta    Maria    (1609-1669),    Queen    Consort    of  « See  The  Wish,  p.  223. 

Charles  I.    Cowley  followed  her  to  France  in  1646,  and  ^F,quiva\enttohead  foremost,  or,  head-over -heels. 

was  employed  in  various  diplomatic  matters  by  the  court.  ">  I  have  not  sworn  a  faithless  oath. 


VI.  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

c.  1660-1784 


THE  AGE  OF  DRYDEN 

g)amuel  Butler 

1612-1680 

THE  MERITS  OF  SIR  HUDIBRASi 

(From  Hudibras,  Part  I,  Canto  I,  1663) 

When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high, 

And  men  fell  out,  they  knew  not  why: 

When  hard  words,  jealousies,  and  fears 

Set  folks  together  by  the  ears, 

And  made  them  fight,  like  mad  or  drunk,        5 

For  dame  Religion  as  for  Punk; 

Whose  honesty  they  all  durst  swear  for, 

Tho'  not  a  man  of  them  knew  wherefore: 

When  Gospel-Trumpeter  2  surrounded 

With  long-ear'd  rout,  to  battle  sounded,         10 

.And  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic, 

Was  beat  with  fist,  instead  of  a  stick : 

Then  did  Sir  Knight'  abandon  dwelling, 

And  out  he  rode  a  coUonelling.^ 

A  wight  he  was,  whose  very  sight  would        15 

Entitle  him.  Mirror  of  Knighthood; 

That  never  bow'd  his  stubborn  knee 

To  anything  but  chivalry; 

Nor  put  up  blow, 5  but  that  which  laid 

Right  Worshipful  on  shoulder-blade:  20 

Chief  of  domestic  Knights,  and  errant, 

Either  for  charted  or  for  warrant:' 

Great  on  the  bench,  great  in  the  saddle. 

That  could  as  well  bind  o'er,  as  swaddle;' 

Mighty  he  was  at  both  of  these,  25 

And  styl'd  of  war  as  well  as  peace. 

(So  some  rats  of  amphibious  nature, 

Are  either  for  the  land  or  water.) 

But  here  our  authors  make  a  doubt, 

Whether  he  were  more  wise  or  stout.  30 

Some  hold  the  one,  and  some  the  other; 

But  howsoe'er  they  make  a  pother. 

The  difif'rence  was  so  small,  his  brain 

Outweigh'd  his  rage  but  half  a  grain; 

Which  made  some  take  him  for  a  tool  35 

That  knaves  do  work  with,  call'd  a  fool. 

For  't  has  been  held  by  many,  that 

As  Montaigne,^  playing  with  his  cat, 

1  Hudibras  is  a  long  satirical  poem,  in  mock-heroic  vein, 
directed  especially  against  the  Puritans  and  other  non- 
conforming sects,  and  also  ridiculing  many  folhes  of  the 

"  Reierring  to  Presbyterians  who  preached  rebellion 
irom  the  pulpit. 

»  The  original  of  Sir  Hudibras  is  supposed  to  have  been 
Sir  Samuel  Luke,  of  Bedfordshire,  a  rigid  Puritan,  high 
in  Cromwell's  favor. 

*  Acting  or  plaving  the  colonel.  i  •  u  xu 

*  He  submitted  to  no  blow  but  that  with  which  the 
King  dubbed  him  Knight. 

6  A  written  challenge. 

^  Beat,  or  cudgel.  r,        ,  •  ,. 

8  Michael  de  Montaigne  the  famous  French  essayist, 

1523-1592.    V.  p.  235,  1.  25,  etc. 


Complains  she  thought  him  but  an  ass, 
Much  more  she  would  Sir  Hudibras:  40 

For  that's  the  name  our  valiant  knight 
To  all  his  challenges  did  write. 
But  they're  mista^^en  very  much, 
'Tis  plain  enough  he  was  no  such; 
We  grant,  altho'  he  had  much  wit,  45 

H'  was  very  shy  of  using  it; 
As  being  loath  to  wear  it  out, 
And  therefore  bore  it  not  about; 
f>  Unless  on  holy-days,  or  so, 
As  men  their  best  apparel  do.  50 

Beside,  'tis  known  he  could  speak  Greek 
As  naturally  as  pigs  squeak: 
That  Latin  was  no  more  difficile. 
Than  to  a  blackbird  'tis  to  whistle: 
Being  rich  in  both,  he  never  scanted  65 

His  bounty  unto  such  as  wanted; 
But  much  of  either  would  afford 
To  many,  that  had  not  one  word.  ...  58 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic,  65 

Profoundly  skill'd  in  Analytic; 
He  could  distinguish,  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west  side; 
On  either  which  he  would  dispute. 
Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute;       70 
He'd  undertake  to  prove,  by  force 
Of  argument,  a  man's  no  horse; 
He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl, 
And  that  a  Lord  may  be  an  owl; 
A  calf  an  Alderman,  a  goose  a  Justice,  75 

And  rocks,  Committee-men  or  Trustees. 
He'd  run  in  debt  by  disputation, 
And  pay  with  ratiocination. 
All  this  by  syllogism,  true 
In  mood  and  figure,  he  would  do.  80 

For  Rhetoric,  he  could  not  ope 
His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope;® 
And  when  he  happen'd  to  break  off 
I'  th'  middle  of  his  speech,  or  cough, 
H'  had  hard  words  ready,  to  shew  why,         85 
And  tell  what  rules  he  did  it  by: 
Else,  when  with  greatest  art  he  spoke, 
You'd  think  he  talk'd  like  other  folk. 
For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules 
Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools.  90 

But,  when  he  pleas'd  to  shew't,  his  speech 
In  loftiness  of  sound  was  rich; 
A  Babylonish  dialect, 
Which  learned  pedants  much  affect; 
It  was' a  party-colour'd  dress  95 

Of  patch'd  and  piebald  languages: 
'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  Latin, 
Like  fustian^"  heretofore  on  satin. 
It  had  an  odd  promiscuous  tone. 
As  if  h'  had  talk'd  three  parts  in  one;  lOO 

» A  figure  of  rhetoric,  i.  e.  he  could  not  speak  without 
using  ornate  language.  . 

10  Sleeves  or  hose  made  of  coarse  fustian  were  often 
cut  into  holes  in  order  to  show  the  satin  underneath. 


273 


274 


DRYDEN   TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


Which  made  some  think,  when  he  did  gabble, 

Th'  had  heard  three  labourers  of  Babel; 

Or  Cerberus"  himself  pronounce 

A  leash  of  languages  at  once. 

This  he  as  volubly  would  vent  105 

As  if  his  stock  would  ne'er  be  spent; 

And  truly,  to  support  that  charge, 

He  had  supplies  as  vast  and  large: 

For  he  could  coin  or  counterfeit 

New  words,  with  little  or  no  wit;  110 

Words  so  debas'd  and  hard,  no  stone^'^ 

Was  hard  enough  to  touch  them  on. 

And  when  with  hasty  noise  he  spoke  'em, 

The  ignorant  for  current  took  'em; 

That  had  the  orator,^^  ^j^q  once  lis 

Did  fill  his  mouth  with  pebble  stones 

When  he  harangu'd,  but  known  his  phrase, 

He  would  have  us'd  no  other  ways. 

In  Mathematics  he  was  greater 

Than  Tycho  Brahe,/*  or  Erra  Pater;!^  120 

For  he,  by  geometric  scale, 

Could  take  the  size  of  pots  of  ale; 

Resolve  by  sines  and  tangents  straight, 

If  bread  or  butter  wanted  weight; 

And  wisely  tell  what  hour  o'  th'  day  125 

The  clock  does  strike,  by  Algebra. 

Beside,  he  was  a  shrewd  Philosopher, 

And  had  read  ev'ry  text  and  gloss  over: 

Whate'er  the  crabbed 'st  author  hath, 

He  understood  b'  implicit  faith :  130 

Whatever  sceptic  could  enquire  for, 

For  ev'ry  why,  he  had  a  wherefore; 

Knew  more  than  forty  of  them  do. 

As  far  as  words  and  terms  could  go. 

All  which  he  understood  by  rote,  135 

And,  as  occasion  serv'd,  would  quote: 

No  matter  whether  right  or  wrong; 

They  might  be  either  said  or  sung. 

His  notions  fitted  things  so  well. 

That  which  was  which  he  could  not  tell;       140 

But  oftentimes  mistook  the  one 

For  th'  other,  as  great  clerks  have  done. 

He  could  reduce  all  things  to  acts. 

And  knew  their  natures  by  abstracts; 

Where  entity^^  and  quiddity, ^^  145 

The  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies  fly; 

Where  Truth  in  person  does  appear. 

Like  words  congeal'd  in  Northern  air. 

He  knew  what's  what,  and  that's  as  high 

As  metaphysic  wit  can  fly.  150 

In  school-divinity  as  able 

As  he  that  hight  Irrefragable;^^ 

A  second  Thomas, ^^  or  at  once 

To  name  them  all,  another  Duns. 2° 

11  According  to  Hesiod,  Cerberus  had  fifty  heads. 

"  Referring  to  the  testing  of  precious  metals  by  the  use 
of  the  touchstone. 

13  Demosthenes. 

1*  A  famous  Danish  astronomer,  1546-1601. 

"  An  old  astrologer,  whose  name  is  here  given  to 
William  Lilly,  a  famous  astrologer  of  the  time. 

w  A  philosophical  term  for  things  that  exist,  as  opposed 
to  those  things  that  are  only  potential. 

"  The  real  essences  of  things. 

18  Alexander  of  Hales,  d.  1245,  was  called  doctor  irref- 
ragable. 

19  Thomas  Aquinas,  d.  1274,  a  famous  scholar. 

20  The  followers  of  Duns  Scotus  (d.  1308).  by  their  op- 
position to  the  New  Learning,  came  to  be  looked  upon  as 
stupid  obstructionists:  hence  our  word  dunce^=  Dunsman. 


Profound  in  all  the  nominal, ^^  155 

And  real  ways,  beyond  them  all; 

For  he  a  rope  of  sand  could  twist 

As  tough  as  learned  Sorbonist;22 

And  weave  fine  cobwebs  fit  for  skull 

That's  empty  when  the  moon^^  is  full;  160 

Such  as  take  lodgings  in  a  head 

That's  to  be  let  unfurnished. 

He  could  raise  scruples  dark  and  nice, 

And  after  solve  'em  in  a  trice.  ...  164 

For  his  Religion,  it  was  fit 
To  match  his  learning  and  his  wit:  190 

'Twas  Presbyterian  true  blue. 
For  he  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 
Of  errant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant 
To  be  the  true  Church  Militant: 
Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon  195 

The  holy  text  of  Pike  and  Gun. 
Decide  all  controversies  by 
Infallible  artillery; 
And  prove  their  doctrine  Orthodox 
By  apostolic  Blows  and  Knocks;  200 

Call  fire,  and  sword,  and  desolation, 
A  godly  thorough  reformation, 
Which  always  must  be  carried  on. 
And  still  be  doing,  never  done: 
As  if  religion  were  intended  205 

For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended. 
A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 
In  odd  perverse  antipathies: 
In  faUing  out  with  that  or  this, 
And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss:  210 

More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic, 
Than  dog  distract,  or  monkey  sick. 
That  with  more  care  keep  holy-day 
The  wrong,  than  others  the  right  way: 
Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to,       215 
By    damning    those    they    have    no    mind 

to. 
Still  so  perverse  and  opposite, 
As  if  they  worshipp'd  God  for  spite. 
The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 
One  way,  and  long  another  for.  220 

Free-will  they  one  way  disavow, 
Another,  nothing  else  allow. 
All  piety  consists  therein 
In  them,  in  other  men  all  sin. 
Rather  than  fail,  they  will  defy  225 

That  which  they  love  most  tenderly; 
Quarrel  with  minc'd-pies,  and  disparage 
Their  best  and  dearest  friend,  plum-porridge; 
Fat  pig  and  goose  itself  oppose, 
And  blaspheme  custard  thro'  the  nose.  230 

Th'  apostles  of  this  fierce  religion, 
Like  Mahomet's,  were  ass  and  widgeon. ^^ 


21  Nominal  vs.  real.  The  reference  is  to  two  philosoph- 
ical doctrines  advocated  by  the  Nominalists  and  the 
Realists  respectively. 

22  A  member  or  Doctor  of  the  College  of  the  Sorbonne 
in  Paris,  founded  by  Robert  de  Sorbon  in  1257. 

23  The  old  belief  that  insanity  was  due  to  the  influence 
of  the  moon  is  reflected  in  our  words  lunatic,  lunacy,  from 
Latin  lutia,  moon. 

^^  The  ass,  according  to  the  Koran,  was  the  beast 
which  Gabriel  brought  to  carry  Mahomet  to  the  presence 
of  God.  The  pigeon  (ivigeon)  Mahomet  taught  to  eat  out 
of  his  ear,  that  it  might  be  thought  to  be  his  meaaa  o' 
communication  with  God. 


JOHN  DRYDEN 


275 


To  whom  our  Knight,  by  fast  instinct 
Of  wit  and  temper,  was  so  Hnkt, 
As  if  hypocrisy  and  nonsense  235 

Had  got  th'  advowson^s  of  his  conscience. 


31ol)n  Dr^Dm 

1631-1700 

MAC-FLECK  NOE;  OR,  A  SATIRE  ON  THE 
TRUE  BLUE  PROTESTANT  POET,  T.  S.^ 

(1682) 

All  hufnan  things  are  subject  to  decay, 

And,  when  fate  summons,  monarchs  must  obey. 

This    Flecknoe    found,    who,    like    Augustus, 

young 
Was  called  to  empire,  and  had  governed  long; 
In  prose  and  verse  was  owned,  without  dis- 
pute, 5 
Through  all  the  realms  of  Nonsense,  absolute. 
This  aged  prince,  now  flourishing  in  peace. 
And  blest  with  issue  of  a  large  increase, 
Worn  out  with  business,  did  at  length  debate 
To  settle  the  succession  of  the  state;                  lO 
And,  pondering  which  of  all  his  sons  was  fit 
To  reign,  and  wage  immortal  war  with  wit, 
Cried,  "Tis  resolved!  for  Nature  pleads,  that  he 
Should  only  rule,  who  most  resembles  me. 
Shadwell  alone  my  perfect  image  bears,            15 
Mature  in  dulness  from  his  tender  years; 
Shadwell  alone,  of  all  my  sons,  is  he. 
Who  stands  confirmed  in  full  stupidity. 
The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretence, 
But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense ;           20 
Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall. 
Strike  through,   and  make  a  lucid  interval; 
But  Shadwell's  genuine  night  admits  no  ray, 
His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day. 
Besides,  his  goodly  fabric  fills  the  eye,         ^      25 
And  seems  designed  for  thoughtless  majesty; 
Thoughtless  as  monarch  oaks,  that  shade  the 

plain, 
And,  spread  in  solemn  state,  supinely  reign. 
Hey  wood  and  Shirley  were  but  types  of  thee, 
Thou  last  great  prophet  of  tautology !  30 

Even  I,  a  dunce  of  more  renown  than  they, 
Was  sent  before  but  to  prepare  thy  way; 
And,  coarsely  clad  in  Norwich  drugget,^  came 
To  teach  the  nations  in  thy  greater  name. 

25  Advov}son  meafit  originally  the  obligation  to  protect 
a  religious  office  or  institution;  hence  the  passage  would 
seem  to  mean  that  hypocrisy  and  nonsense  had  come  to 
defend  and  excuse  his  conscience. 

'  Mac-Flecknoe  is  a  satire  directed  against  Thomas 
Shadwell,"T.  S.,"  (1640-1692),  a  minor  poet  and  drama- 
fist  of  the  Restoration.  Dryden's  poem,  The  Medal,  drew 
from  Shadwell  a  venomous  counter  attack.  The  Medal  of 
John  Bayes  (i.  e.  Dryden).  This  Dryden  answered  in 
Mac-Flecknoe.  Shadwell  is  represented  in  the  poem  as 
the  son  or  poetic  successor  of  Richard  Flecknoe,  an  Irish 
poet,  wit,  and  playwright,  and  the  poem  opens  with  the 
abdication  of  Flecknoe  as  absolute  monarch  of  the 
kingdom  of  Nonsense,  in  favor  of  Shadwell. 

2  "This  stuff  appears  to  have  been  sacred  to  the  poorer 
votaries  of  Parnassus;  and  it  is  somewhat  odd  that  it 
seems  to  have  been  the  dress  of  our  poet  hioaseif  in  the 
entire  stages  of  tiis  fortune."   Scott. 


My  warbling  lute, — the  lute  I  whilom  strung,  35 
When  to  King  John  of  Portugal'  I  sung, — 
Was  but  the  prelude  to  that  glorious  day, 
When  thou  on  silver  Thames  didst  cut  thy  way, 
With  well-timed  oars,  before  the  royal  barge, 
Swelled  with  the  pride  of  thy  celestial  charge;  40 
And  big  with  hymn,  commander  of  an  host, — 
The  like  was  ne'er  in  Epsom  blankets  tost. 
Methinks  I  see  the  new  Arion  sail. 
The  lute  still  trembling  underneath  thy  nail. 
At  thy  well-sharpened  thumb,  from  shore  to 

shore,  45 

The  trebles  squeak  for  fear,  the  basses  roar;  .  .  . 
About  thy  boat  the  little  fishes  throng,  49 

As  at  the  morning  toasf*  that  floats  along. 
Sometimes,  as  prince  of  thy  harmonious  band, 
Thou   wield'st   thy  papers   in   thy   threshing 

hand; 
St.  Andre's^  feet  ne'er  kept  more  equal  time, 
Not  even  the  feet  of  thy  own  Psyche's  rhyme: 
Though  they  in  number  as  in  sense  excel;         55 
So  just,  so  like  tautology,  they  fell. 
That,  pale  with  envy,  Singleton^  forswore 
The  lute  and  sword,  which  he  in  triumph  bore. 
And  vowed  he  ne'er  would  act  Villerius  more." 
Here  stopt  the  good  old  sire  and  wept  for 

joy,  60 

In  silent  raptures  of  the  hopeful  boy. 
All  arguments,  but  most  his  plays,  persuade, 
That  for  anointed  dulness  he  was  made. 

Close  to  the  walls  which  fair  Augusta^  bind, 
(The  fair  Augusta  much  to  fears  inclined),  65 
An  ancient  fabric  raised  to  inform  the  sight. 
There  stood  of  yore,  and  Barbican^  it  hight,^ 
A  watch-tower  once,  but  now,  so  fate  ordains, 
Of  all  the  pile  an  empty  name  remains;  ...  .69 
Near  it  a  Nursery^*^  erects  its  head,  73 

Where  queens  are  formed  and  future  heroes 

bred. 
Where  unfledged  actors  learn  to  laugh  and 

cry,  ...  75 

And  little  Maximins"  the  gods  defy.  78 

Great  Fletcher  never  treads  in  buskins  here. 
Nor  greater  Jonson  dares  in  socks  appear;  80 
But  gentle  Simkin^^  j^g^  reception  finds 
Amidst  this  monument  of  vanished  minds; 
Pure  clinches^'  the  suburban  muse  affords, 
And  Panton^^  waging  harmless  war  with  words. 
Here    Flecknoe,    as    a    place    to    fame    well 

known,  85 

Ambitiously  designed  his  Shadwell's  throne. 
For  ancient  Decker  prophesied  long  since, 

s  An  allusion  to  some  work  of  Flecknoe's  of  which,  it 
seems,  nothing  is  now  known. 

<  Apparently  the  bread  and  toast  thrown  into  the 
Thames  from  the  boats  in  order  to  attract  the  fishes. 

'  A  fashionable  dancing  master  of  the  time. 

*  An  opera  singer  and  musician.  He  acted  the  part  of 
Villerius,  in  Sir  William  Davenant's  opera,  The  Siege  of 
Rhodes. 

7  The  title  given  by  the  Romans  to  London,  Londinium 
Augusta. 

8  A  round  tower  near  the  junction  of  Barbican  and 
Aldersgate  Streets. 

'  Was  called. 

10  A  school  of  acting  established  in  1665  by  the  king. 

11  MaximiB  was  the  hero  of  Dryden's  Tyrannic  Love. 

12  A  cobbler,  in  an  Interlude  of  the  day. 

13  Puns. 

1*  A  noted  puiister. 


276 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


That  in  this  pile  should  reign  a  mighty  prince, 
Born  for  a  scourge  of  wit,  and  flail  of  sense; 
To  whom  true  dulness  should  some  Psyches 
owe,  90 

But  worlds  of  Misers^^  from  his  pen  should 

flow; 
Humorists    and    Hypocrites,    it    should    pro- 
duce,— 
Whole  Raymond  families,  and  tribes  of  Bruce. 
Now  empress  Fame  had  published  the  re- 
nown 
Of  Shad  well's  coronation  through  the  town.     95 
Roused  by  report  of  fame,  the  nations  meet, 
From    near    Bunhill/^    and    distant    Watling 

Street.  17 
No  Persian  carpets  spread  the  imperial  way, 
But  scattered  limbs  of  mangled  poets  lay.  .  .  . 
Much  Hey  wood,  Shirley,  Ogleby^^  there  lay,  102 
But  loads  of  Shad  well  almost  choked  the  way; 
Bilked^^  stationers  for  yeomen  stood  prepared, 
And  Herringman^o  was  captain  of  the  guard.  105 
The  hoary  prince  in  majesty  appeared. 
High  on  a  throne  of  his  own  labours  reared. 
At  his  right  hand  our  young  Ascanius  sate, 
Rome's  other  hope,  and  pillar  of  the  state. 
His  brows  thick  fogs,  instead  of  glories,  grace. 
And  lambent  dulness  played  around  his  face.lil 
As  Hannibal  did  to  the  altars  come, 
Sworn  by  his  sire,  a  mortal  foe  to  Rome, 
So  Shadwell  swore,  nor  should  his  vow  be  vain, 
That  he  till  death  true  dulness  would  main- 
tain; 115 
And,  in  his  father's  right,  and  realm's  defence. 
Ne'er  to  have  peace  with  wit,  nor  truce  with 

sense. 
The  king  himself  the  sacred  unction  made, 
As  king  by  office,  and  as  priest  by  trade. 
In  his  sinister  hand,  instead  of  ball,  120 

He  placed  a  mighty  mug  of  potent  ale; 
"Love's  kingdom"  to  his  right  he  did  convey, 
At  once  his  sceptre,  and  his  rule  of  sway; 
Whose  righteous  lore  the  prince  had  practised 

young. 
And    from    whose    loins    recorded^i    Psyche^^ 
sprung.  125 

His  temples,  last,  with  poppies  were  o'erspread. 
That  nodding  seemed  to  consecrate  his  head. 
Just  at  the  point  of  time,  if  fame  not  lie. 
On  his  left  hand  twelve  reverend  owls  did  fly; 
So  Romulus,  'tis  sung,  by  Tiber's  brook,         130 
Presage  of  sway  from  twice  six  vultures  took. 
The  admiring  throng  loud  acclamations  make, 
And  omens  of  his  future  empire  take. 
The  sire  then  shook  the  honours  of  his  head, 
And  from  his  brows  damps  of  oblivion  shed    135 
Full  on  the  filial  dulness :  long  he  stood, 
Repelling  from  his  breast  the  raging  god; 

^5  The  reference  here  is  to  The  Miser  and  The  Humor- 
ists, plays  by  Shadwell.  Raymond  is  a  character  in  The 
Humorists,  while  Bru^e  appears  in  another  of  Shadwell's 
plays. 

16.17  Two  sections  of  London.  The  sense  is  that  they 
come  from  north  and  south. 

18  John  Ogleby,  1600-1676,  a  Scotch  versifier. 

»  Defrauded. 

20  A  leading  publisher  of  the  day. 

21.22  The  opera  of  Psyche  which  was  recorded,  i.  e., 
sung. 


At  length  burst  out  in  this  prophetic  mood: — 
"Heavens  bless  my  son!  from  Ireland  let  him 

reign, 
To  far  Barbadoes  on  the  western  main ;  uo 

Of  his  dominion  may  no  end  be  known, 
And  greater  than  his  father's  be  his  throne; 
Beyond   love's  kingdom   let  him   stretch  his 

pen!" 
He  paused,  and  all  the  people  cried,  "Amen." 
Then  thus  continued  he:  "  My  son,  advance  145 
Still  in  new  impudence,  new  ignorance. 
Success  let  others  teach,  learn  thou  from  me 
Pangs  without  birth,  and  fruitless  industry. 
Let  Virtuosos  in  five  years  be  writ. 
Yet  not  one  thought  accuse  thy  toil  of  wit.      150 
Let  gentle  George^^  in  triumph  tread  the  stage, 
Make  Dormiant  betray,  and  Loveit  rage; 
Let  Cully,  Cockwood,  Fopling,  charm  the  pit, 
And  in  their  folly  show  the  writer's  wit; 
Yet  still  thy  fools  shall  stand  in  thy  defence,  155 
And  justify  their  author's  want  of  sense. 
Let  them  be  all  by  thy  own  model  made 
Of  dulness,  and  desire  no  foreign  aid. 
That  they  to  future  ages  may  be  known, 
Not  copies  drawn,  but  issue  of  thy  own :  160 

Nay,  let  thy  men  of  wit  too  be  the  same, 
All  full  of  thee,  and  differing  but  in  name. 
But  let  no  alien  Sedley^*  interpose, 
To  lard  with  wit  thy  hungry  Epsom  prose. 
And  when  false  flowers  of  rhetoric  thou  wouldst 
cull,  165 

Trust  nature;  do  not  labour  to  be  dull, 
But  write  thy  best,  and  top;  and,  in  each  line, 
Sir  Formal's^s  oratory  will  be  thine : 
Sir  Formal,  though  unsought,  attends  thy  quill, 
And  does  thy  northern  dedications^^  fill.         170 
Nor  let  false  friends  seduce  thy  mind  to  fame, 
By  arrogating  Jonson's  hostile  name; 
Let  father  Flecknoe  fire  thy  mind  with  praise, 
And  uncle  Ogleby  thy  envy  raise. 
Thou  art  my  blood,  where  Jonson  has  no  part: 
What  share  have  we  in  nature,  or  in  art?         176 
Where  did  his  wit  on  learning  fix  a  brand, 
And  rail  at  arts  he  did  not  understand? 
Where  made  he  love  in  Prince  Nicander's" 

vein, 
Or  swept     the     dust     in     Psyche's     humble 
strain?  ...  180 

When  did  his  muse  from  Fletcher  scenes  pur- 
loin, 183 
As  thou  whole  Etherege  dost  transfuse  to  thine? 
But  so  transfused,  as  oil  and  waters  flow,  i  S5 
His  always  floats  above,  thine  sinks  below. 
This  is  thy  province,  this  thy  wondrous  way. 
New  humours  to  invent  for  each  new  play: 
This  is  that  boasted  bias  of  thy  mind,  .  ^ 
By  which  one  way  to  dulness  'tis  inclined ;       190 

23  Sir  George  Etheridge  (c.  1636-1689),  a  famous  wit 
and  comedy  writer.  Dorimant,  Loveit,  etc.,  are  char- 
acters in  his  plays. 

24  Sir  Charles  Sedley,  1639-1701,  a  wit  and  patron  of 
literature,  who  assisted  Shadwell  in  his  comedy  Epsom 
Wells.  The  insinuation  is  that  Sedley  larded  its  prose 
with  a  wit  alien  to  its  dullness. 

25  A  character  in  Shadwell's  Virtuoso. 

28  Certain  dedications  of  Shadwell's  to  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Newcastle. 

^  A  lover  in  the  opera  of  Psyche. 


JOHN   DRYDEN 


277 


Which  makes  thy  writings  lean  on  one  side  still, 
And,  in  all  changes,  that  way  bends  thy  will. 
Nor  let  thy  mountain  belly  make  pretence 
Of  likeness;  thine's  a  tympany  of  sense. 
A  tun  of  man  in  thy  large  bulk  is  writ,  195 

But  sure  thou  art  but  a  kilderkin^s  of  wit. 
Like  mine,  thy  gentle  numbers  feebly  creep; 
Thy  tragic  muse  gives  smiles,  thy  comic  sleep. 
With  whate'er  gall  thou  setst  thyself  to  write, 
Thy  inoffensive  satires  never  bite;  200 

In  thy  felonious  heart  though  venom  lies, 
It  does  but  touch  thy  Irish  pen,  and  dies. 
Thy  genius  calls  thee  not  to  purchase  fame 
In  keen  iambics,  but  mild  anagram. 
Leave  writing  plays,  and  choose  for  thy  com- 
mand,' -205 
Some  peaceful  province  in  Acrostic  land. 
There  thou  may'st  wings  display,,  and  altars 

rais^ 
And  torture  one  poor  word  ten  thousand  ways; 
Or,  if  thou  wouldst  thy  different  talents  suit, 
Set  thy  own  songs,  and  sing  them  to  thy  lute." 
He  said:  but  his  last  words  were  scarcely 
heard;  211 

For  Bruce29  and  Longvipo  had  a  trap  prepared 
And  down  they  sent  the  yet  declaiming  bard. 
Sinking  he  left  his  drugget  robe  behind. 
Borne  upwards  by  a  subterranean  wind .         215 
The  mantle  fell  to  the  young  prophet's  part; 
With  double  portion  of  his  father's  art. 

ACHITOPHELi 
(From  Absalom  and  Achilophel,  1681) 
Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first ;        150 
A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst: 
For  close  designs,  and^crooked  counsels  fit; 
Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit; 
Restless,  unfixed  in  principles  and  place; 
In  power  unpleased,  impatient  of  disgrace;     155 
A  fiery  soul,  which,  working  out  its  way, 
Fretted  the  pigmy-body  to  decay. 
And  o'er-informed  the  tenement  of  clay. 
A  daring  pilot  in  extremity, 
Pleased  with  the  danger,  when  the  waves  went 
high,  160 

He  sought  the  storms;  but  for  a  calm  unfit. 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands,  to  boast  his  wit. 
Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied, 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide; 
Else,  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honour 
blest,  165 

Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest? 
Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please; 
Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease? 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won. 
To  that  unfeathered  two-legged  thing,  a  son;i70 
Got,  while  his  soul  did  huddled  notions  try; 
And  born  a  shapeless  lump,  like  anarchy. 
In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate; 
Resolved  to  ruin,  or  to  rule  the  state. 

28  A  small  barrel. 

29.30  Two  characters  in  Shadwell's  Virtuoso. 

1  The  earliest  of  Drvden's  satires.  It  was  directed 
against  the  versatile,  able,  but  unscrupulous  politician, 
Anthony  Ashley  Cooper,  Lord  Shaftsbury,  who  appears' 
under  the  name  of  Achitophel. 


To  compass  this  the  triple  bond^  he  broke;      175 

The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook; 

And  fitted  Israel  for  a  foreign  yoke; 

Then,  seized  with  fear,  yet  still  affecting  fame, 

Usurped  a  patriot's  all-atoning  name. 

So  easy  still  it  proves  in  factious  times,  ISO 

With  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes. 

How  safe  is  treason,  and  how  sacred  ill. 

Where  none  can  sin  against  the  people's  will, 

Where  crowds  can  wink,  and  no  offence  be 

known, 
Since  in  another's  guilt  they  find  their  own?   185 
Yet  fame  deserved  no  enemy  can  grudge; 
The  statesman  we  abhor,  but  praise  the  judge. 
In  Israel's  courts  ne'er  sat  on  Abbethdin^ 
With  more  discerning  eyes,   or  hands  more 

clean, 
Unbribed,  unsought,  the  wretched  to  redress; 
Swift  of  despatch,  and  easy  of  access.  191 

Oh!  had  he  been  content  to  serve  the  crown. 
With  virtue  only  proper  to  the  gown ; 
Or  had  the  rankness  of  the  soil  been  freed 
From  cockle,  that  oppressed  the  noble  seed;   195 
David  for  him  his  tuneful  harp  had  strung. 
And  heaven  had  wanted  one  immortal  song. 
But  wild  ambition  loves  to  slide,  not  stand. 
And  fortune's  ice  prefers  to  virtue's  land. 
Achitophel,  grown  weary  to  possess  200 

A  lawful  fame,  and  lazy  happiness. 
Disdained  the  golden  fruit  to  gather  free, 
And  lent  the  crowd  his  arm  to  shake  the  tree. 


A  SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S^  DAY,  22nd 
NOVEMBER 

1687 
I 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began : 
When  nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay. 
And  could  not  heave  lier  head,  5 

The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

''Arise,  ye  more  than  dead." 
Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 

And  Music's  power  obey.  10 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony. 
This  universal  frame  began; 
From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran. 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  man.  15 

II 
What  passion  cannot  music  raise  and  quell? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 

2  A  "Triple  Alliance"  between  Holland.  Sweden,  and 
England  in  1668.  It  was  broken  by  an  infamous  secret 
treaty  with  France,     Shaftsbury  was  one  of  its  signers. 

3  A  Hebrew  word  meaning  "fathprj>f  the  Nation;"  1.  e.. 
the  judges.  As  Lord  Chancellor,  Shaftsbury  had  a  well 
deserved  reputation  for  uprightness  and  ability. 

1  St.  Cecilia,  virgin  martyr  of  the  third  century,  be- 
came patron  saint  of  music,  and  was  supposed  to  have 
invented  the  organ. 


278 


DRYDEN   TO  THE  DEATH   OF   JOHNSON 


And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 

To  worship  that  celestial  sound:  20 

Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not 
dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell, 
That  spoke  so  sweetly,  and  so  well. 

What  passion  cannot  music  raise  and  quell? 


The  trumpet's  loud  clangour  25 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 
And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum,  30 

Cries,  hark!  the  foes  come: 
Charge,  charge!  'tis  too  late  to  retreat. 

IV 

The  soft  complaining  flute. 
In  dying  notes,  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers;  35 

Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 

V 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation. 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion,  40 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

VI 

But,  oh!  what  art  can  teach. 
What  human  voice  can  reach, 


The  sacred  organ's  praise? 

Notes  inspiring  holy  love. 
Notes  that  wend  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 


45 


VII 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race; 
And  trees  unrooted  left  their  place. 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre:  50 

But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher; 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given. 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared, 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

GRAND   CHORUS 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays  55 

The  spheres  began  to  move. 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blessed  above; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour,  60 

The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high. 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die. 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST,  OR  THE  POWER 
OF  MUSIC;  AN  ODE  IN  HONOUR  OF 
ST.  CECILIA'S  DATTTG^T 
I 
'Twas  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son: 
Aloft,  in  awful  state, 
The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne.  6 


His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around; 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound : 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side. 
Sate  like  a  blooming  eastern  bride,  10 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair.    15 

CHORUS 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 

None  hut  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


Timotheus,  placed  on  high  20 

Amid  the  tuneful  quire. 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky. 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove,  25 

Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love.) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires^  he  rode; 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed,  30 

And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast; 
Then,  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled. 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign 

of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity!  they  shout  around ;  35 

A  present  deity!  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravished  ears, 
The  monarch  hears; 
Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod,  40 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

CHORUS 

With  ravished  ears, 
The  monarch  hears; 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


45 


III 


The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician 
sung; 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums;        50 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face: 
Now,  give  the  hautboys  breath;  he  comes,  he 
comes. 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain ;  55 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure; 
Rich  the  treasure. 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain .  60 

1  Spirals,  coils.     Cf.  Milton,  Par.  Lost,  ix,  502. 


JOHN  DRYDEN 


279 


CHORUS 


Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier^ s  -pleasure; 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 


65 


IV 


Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain: 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he 
slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ;  70 

And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  muse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse. 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good  75 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  weltering  in  his  blood: 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need,  80 

By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies. 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving,  in  his  altered  soul,  85 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


CHORUS 

Revolving,  in  his  altered  soul. 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


90 


The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move,       95 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures. 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures: 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble; 
Honour,  but  an  empty  bubble;  100 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying; 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee,  105 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee — 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the 
cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair.  lio 

Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again; 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  op- 
pressed 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast.  115 


CHORUS 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again;     120 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

VI 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder,  125 

And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark !  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around.  130 

Revenge,  revenge!  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  furies  arise; 
See  the  snakes,  that  they  rear. 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes!  135 
Behold  a  ghastly  band. 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were 
slain. 
And,  unburied,  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain:  140 

Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high. 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. — 
The  princes  applaud,  with  a  furious  joy,  146 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to 
destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy.  150 


CHORUS 

And  the  King  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  cte- 
stroy; 

Thais  led  the  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

VII 

Thug,  long  ago,  155 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 

And  sounding  lyre. 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft 
desire.  160 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
In ven tress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds,        165 
With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown 
before. 


280 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 
Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 


GRAND   CHORUS 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame: 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrov)  hounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds,  175 

With   nature's   mother-wit,   and   arts   unknown 
before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies. 
She  drew  an  angel  down.  180 


UNDER  MR.   MILTON'S  PICTURE 

(1688) 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 

Greece,  Italy,  and  England,  did  adorn. 

The  first,  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed; 

The  next,  in  majesty;  in  both  the  last. 

The  force  of  Nature  could  no  further  go;  5 

To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the  former  two. 


Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high, 
Rich  in  thy  sevenfold  energy ! 
Thou  strength  of  his  Almighty  hand,  15 

170      Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  command. 
Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence. 
Who  dost  the  gift  of  tongues  dispense. 
And  crown'st  thy  gifts  with  eloquence! 
Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts;  2C 

But,  oh,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts! 
Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control, 
Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul; 
And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown. 
Then  lay  thy  hand,  and  hold  'em  down.         25 

Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal  foe; 
And  peace  the  fruit  of  love  bestow; 
And  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 
Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 

Make,  us  eternal  truths  receive;  30 

And  practise  all  that  we  believe; 
Give  us  thyself,  that  we  may  see: 
The  Father,  and  the  Son,  by  thee: 

Immortal  honour,  endless  fame; 
Attend  the  Almighty  Father's  name:  35 

The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified, 
Who  for  lost  man's  redemption  died: 
And  equal  adoration  be. 
Eternal  Paraclete,  to  thee. 


SONG 

In  ''The  Indian  Emperor" 

Ah  fading  joy!  how  quickly  art  thou  past! 

Yet  we  thy  ruin  haste. 
As  if  the  cares  of  human  life  were  few, 

We  seek  out  new: 
And  follow  fate,  which  would  too  fast  pursue: 
See  how  on  every  bough  the  birds  express, 
In  their  sweet  notes  their  happiness. 
They  all  enjoy  and  nothing  spare; 
But  on  their  mother  Nature  lay  their  care: 
Why  then  should  man  the  lord  of  all  below. 

Such  troubles  choose  to  know, 
As  none  of  all  his  subjects  undergo? 

Hark,  hark,  the  waters  fall,  fall,  fall, 
And  with  a  murmuring  sound. 
Dash,  dash  upon  the  ground, 
To  gentle  slumbers  call. 


10 


15 


VENI  CREATOR  SPIRITUS 

(Paraphrased) 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 
The  world's  foundations  first  were  laid, 
Come  visit  every  pious  mind; 
Come  pour  thy  joys  on  human  kind; 
From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free, 
And  make  thy  temples  worthy  thee. 

O  source  of  uncreated  light. 
The  Father's  promised  Paraclete! 
Thrice  holy  fount,  thrice  holy  fire, 
Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire; 
Come,  and  thy  sacred  unction  bring 
To  sanctify  us,  while  we  sing. 


31otin   Wilmot,  dBarl  of  Hoclie0ter 

1647-lGSO 

EPITAPH    ON    CHARLES    II 

(1685) 

Here  lies  our  sovereign  lord  the  King, 
Whose  word  no  man  relies  on. 

Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing. 
Nor  ever  did  a  wise  one. 


1620-1706 

THE  GREAT  FIRE 

(From  Evelyn's  Diary,  1641-1697) 

Sept.  2,  1666.  This  fatal  night  about  ten, 
began  that  deplorable  fire  near  Fish  street^  in 
London. 

3.  I  had  public  prayers  at  home.  The  fire 
5  continuing,  after  dinner  I  took  coach  with  my 
wife  and  son  and  went  to  the  Bankside  in. 
Southwark,  where  we  beheld  the  dismal 
spectacle,  the  whole  City  in  dreadful  flames 
near  the  Water  side;  all  the  houses  from  the 
5 10  Bridge,  all  Thames  Street,  and  upwards 
towards  Cheapside,  down  to  the  Three  Cranes, 
were  now  consumed;  and  so  returned  exceeding 
astonished  what  would  become  of  the  rest. 

10  ^  The  fire  started  in  the  house  of  the  "King's  Baker," 

in  Pudding  Lane,  near  New  Fish-street-hill.  In  general 
terms,  this  was  not  far  from  the  river,  and  between  thf 
Tower  and  London  Bridge. 


JOHN  EVELYN  281 

The  fire  having  continued  all  this  night  (if  I  semblance  of  Sodom,  or  the  last  day.  It 
may  call  that  night  which  was  light  as  day  forcibly  called  to  my  mind  that  passage  non 
for  ten  miles  round  about,  after  a  dreadful  enim  hie  habemus  stabilem  civitatem;^  the  rums 
manner),  when  conspiring  with  a  fierce  eastern  resembling  the  picture  of  Troy.  London  was, 
wind  in  a  very  dry  season;  I  went  on  foot  to  the  5  but  is  no  more!  Thus  I  returned  home, 
same  place,  and  saw  the  whole  south  part  of  the  Sept.  4.  The  burning  still  rages,  and  it  wa^ 
city  burning  from  Cheapside  to  the  Thames,  now  gotten  as  far  as  the  Inner  Temple;  all 
and  all  along  Cornhill  (for  it  likewise  kindled  Fleet  Street,  the  Old  Bailey,  Ludgate  Hill, 
back  against  the  wind  as  well  as  forward),  Warwick  Lane,  Newgate,  Paul's  Chain,  Wat- 
Tower  Street,  Fen-church  Street,  Gracious  lo  ling  Street,  now  flaming,  and  most  of  it  re- 
Strect,  and  so  along  to  Baynard's  Castle,  and  duced  to  ashes;  the  stones  of  Paul's  flew  like 
was  now  taking  hold  of  St.  Paul's  Church,  to  granados,'  the  melting  lead  running  down  the 
which  the  scaffolds  contributed  exceedingly,  streets  in  a  stream,  and  the  very  pavements 
The  conflagration  was  so  universal,  and  the  glowing  with  fiery  redness,  so  as  no  horse  nor 
people  so  astonished,  that  from  the  beginning,  1 15  m^n  was  able  to  tread  on  them,  and  the 
know  not  by  what  despondency  or  fate,  they  demolition  had  stopped  all  the  passages,  so  that 
hardly  stirred  to  quench  it,  so  that  there  was  no  help  could  be  applied.  The  eastern  wind 
nothing  heard  or  seen  but  crying  out  and  still  more  impetuously  driving  the  flames  for- 
lamentation,  running  about  like  distracted  ward.  Nothing  but  the  Almighty  power  of 
creatures,  without  at  all  attempting  to  save  20  God  was  able  to  stop  them,  for  vain  was  the 
even  their  goods;  such  a  strange  consternation     help  of  man. 

there  was  upon  them,  so  as  it  burned  both  in  5.  It  crossed  towards  Whitehall;  but  oh,  the 
breadth  and  length,  the  churches,  public  halls,  confusion  there  was  then  at  that  Court!  It 
Exchange,  hospitals,  monuments,  and  orna-  pleased  his  Majesty  to  command  me  among  the 
ments,  leaping  after  a  prodigious  manner  from  25  rest  to  look  after  the  quenching  of  Fetter  Lane 
house  to  house  and  street  to  street,  at  great  end,  to  preserve  if  possible  that  part  of  Holborn 
distances  one  from  the  other;  for  the  heat  with  whilst  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen  took  their 
a  long  set  of  fair  and  warm  weather  had  even  several  posts,  some  at  one  part,  some  at  an- 
ignited  the  air  and  prepared  the  materials  to  other  (for  now  they  began  to  bestir  themselves, 
conceive  the  fire,  which  devoured  after  an  30  and  not  till  now,  who  hitherto  had  stood  as  men 
incredible  manner  houses,  furniture,  and  every-  intoxicated,  with  their  hands  across)  and  began 
thing.  Here  we  saw  the  Thames  covered  with  to  consider  that  nothing  was  likely  to  put  a 
goods  floating,  all  the  barges  and  boats  laden  stop  but  the  blowing  up  of  so  many  houses  as 
with  what  some  had  time  and  courage  to  save,  might  make  a  wider  gap  than  any  had  yet  been 
as,  on  the  other,  the  carts,  etc.,  carrying  out  to  35  made  by  the  ordinary  method  of  pulling  them 
the  fields,  which  for  many  miles  were  strewed  down  with  engines;  this  some  stout  seamen  pro- 
Itvith  moveables  of  all  sorts,  and  tents  erecting  posed  early  enough  to  have  saved  nearly  the 
to  shelter  both  people  and  what  goods  they  whole  City,  but  this  some  tenacious  and  avari- 
could  get  away.  Oh  the  miserable  and  calam-  cious  men,  aldermen  &c.,  would  not  permit, 
itous  spectacle!  such  as  haply  the  world  had  40  because  their  houses  must  have  been  of  the 
not  seen  the  like  since  the  foundation  of  it,  nor  first.  It  was  therefore  now  commanded  to  be 
be  outdone  till  the  universal  conflagration  of  it.  practised,  and  my  concern  being  particularly 
All  the  sky  was  of  a  fiery  aspect,  like  the  top  of  for  the  Hospital  of  St.  Bartholomew,  near 
a  burning  oven,  and  the  fight  seen  above  forty  Smithfield,  where  I  had  my  wounded  and  sick 
miles  round  about  for  many  nights.  God  45  men,  made  me  the  more  diligent  to  promote  it; 
grant  mine  eyes  may  never  behold  the  like,  who  nor  was  my  care  for  the  Savoy  less, 
now  saw  above  10,000  houses  all  in  one  flame;  It  now  pleased  God  by  abating  the  wind,  and 

the  noise  and  cracking  and  thunder  of  the  by  the  industry  of  the  people,  when  almost  all 
impetuous  flames,  the  shrieking  of  women  and  was  lost,  infusing  a  new  spirit  into  them,  that 
children,  the  hurry  of  people,  the  fall  of  towers,  50  the  fury  of  it  began  sensibly  to  abate  about 
houses  and  churches,  was  like  an  hideous  storm,  noon,  so  as  it  came  no  farther  than  the  Temple 
and  the  air  all  about  so  hot  and  inflamed  that  westward,  nor  than  the  entrance  of  Smithfield 
at  the  last  one  was  not  able  to  approach  it,  so  north;  but  continued  all  this  day  and  night  so 
that  they  were  forced  to  stand  still  and  let  the  impetuous  toward  Cripple-gate  and  the  Tower 
flames  bum  on,  which  they  did  for  near  two  55  as  made  us  all  despair;  it  also  brake  out  again  in 
miles  in  length  and  one  in  breadth.  The  the  Temple,  but  the  courage  of  the  multitude 
clouds  also  of  smoke  were  dismal  and  reached  persisting,  and  many  houses  being  blown  up, 
upon  computation  near  fifty-six  miles  in  length.  , ..  ^^^  j^^^^  ^^  j^^^^  ^^  continuing  city."  Heb.,  xiii..  14. 
Thus   I   left   it    this   afternoon   burning,    a   re-  serenades;  an  explosive  missile  thrown  by  the  hand. 


282  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

3uch  gaps  and  desolations  were  soon  made,  as  unnecessary  trouble  or  incumbrance  of  life:  si 
with  the  former  three  days  consumption,  the  that  whether  they  are  to  be  reckoned  among 
back  fire  did  not  so  vehemently  urge  upon  the  goods  or  evils  is  yet  left  in  doubt, 
rest  as  formerly.  There  was  yet  no  standing  When  I  was  young  and  in  some  idle  com- 
near  the  burning  and  glowing  ruins  by  near  a  5pany,  it  was  proposed  that  every  one  should 
fftrlong's  space.  tell  what  their  three  wishes  should  be,  if  they 

The  coal  and  wood  wharves  and  magazines  were  sure  to  be  granted;  some  were  very  pleas- 
of  oil,  rosin,  &c.,  did  infinite  mischief,  so  as  ant,  and  some  very  extravagant;  mine  were 
the  invective  which  a  little  before  .1  had  ded-  health,  and  peace,  and  fair  weather;  which, 
icated  to  his  Majesty  and  published,  giving  lo  though  out  of  the  way  among  young  men,  yet 
warning  what  might  probably  be  the  issue  of  perhaps  might  pass  well  enough  among  old: 
suffering  those  shops  to  be  in  the  City,  was  they  are  all  of  a  strain,  for  health  in  the  body  is 
looked  on  as  a  prophecy.  like  peace  in  the  State  and  serenity  in  the  air: 

The  poor  inhabitants  were  dispersed  about  the  sun,  in  our  chmate  at  least,  has  something 
St.  George's  Fields,  and  Moo'tfields,  as  far  as  15  so  reviving,  that  a  fair  day  is  a  kind  of  a  sensual 
Highgate,  and  several  miles  in  circle,  some  pleasure,  and,  of  all  others,  the  most  innocent, 
under  tents,  some  under  miserable  huts  and  Peace  is  a  public  blessing,  without  which  no 

hovels,  many  without  a  rag  or  any  necessary  man  is  safe  in  his  fortunes,  his  liberty,  or  his 
utensils,  bed  or  board,  who  from  dehcateness,  life:  neither  innocence  or  laws  are  a  guard  or 
riches,  and  easy  accommodations  in  stately  and  20  defence;  no  possessions  are  enjoyed  but  in 
well  furnished  houses,  were  now  reduced  to  danger  or  fear,  which  equally  lose  the  pleasure 
extremest  misery  and  poverty.  and  ease  of  all  that  fortune  can  give  us.    Health 

In  this  calamitous  condition  I  returned  with  is  the  soul  that  animates  all  enjoyments  of  life, 
a  sad  heart  to  my  house,  blessing  and  adoring  which  fade  and  are  tasteless,  if  not  dead, 
the  distinguishing  mercy  of  God  to  me  and  mine  25  without  it:  a  man  starves  at  the  best  and  the 
who  in  the  midst  of  all  this  ruin  was  like  Lot,  in  greatest  tables,  makes  faces  at  the  noblest  and 
my  little  Zoar,^  safe  and  sound.  most  delicate  wines,  is  poor  and  wretched  in  the 

midst  of  the  greatest  treasures  and  fortunes: 

with  common  diseases  strength  grows  decrepit, 
^iX    ^ilUattl    XE^ttttplt  30  youth  loses  all  vigour,  and  beauty  all  charms; 

°^"^^^  grows  harsh,  and  conversation  disagree- 

lb28-lo98  able;  palaces  are  prisons,  or  of  equal  confine- 

OT?  HPATTTT    ANn  T  ONP   T  TFF  ment,  riches  are  useless,  honour  and  attendance 

Ob    ilJi.ALlli   AJNU  l^UJNLr   Lltih  ^^.^  cumbersome,  and  crowns  themselves  are 

(From  Miscellanea,  1679-1692)  35  a  burden :  but,  if  diseases  are  painful  and  violent, 

they  equal  all  conditions  of  life,  make  no 
Some  writers,  in  casting  up  the  goods  most  difference  between  a  Prince  and  a  beggar;  and  a 
desirable  in  life,  have  given  them  this  rank,  fit  of  the  stone  or  the  colic  puts  a  King  to  the 
health,  beauty,  and  riches.  Of  the  first  I  find  rack,  and  makes  him  as  miserable  as  he  can  do 
no  dispute,  but  to  the  two  others  much  may  be  40  the  meanest,  the  worst,  and  most  criminal  of 
said:  for  beauty  is  a  good  that  makes  others      his  subjects. 

happy  rather  than  one's  self;  and,  how  riches  To  know  that  the  passions  or  distempers  of 

should  claim  so  high  a  rank,  I  cannot  tell,  when  the  mind  make  our  lives  unhappy,  in  spite  of 
so  great,  so  wise,  and  so  good  a  part  of  mankind  all  accidents  and  favours  of  fortune,  a  man 
have  in  all  ages  preferred  poverty  before  them.  45  perhaps  must  be  a  philosopher;  and  requires 
The  TherapeutoB^  and  Ebionites^  among  the  much  thought,  and  study,  and  deep  reflections. 
Jews,  the  primitive  monks  and  modern  friars  To  be  a  Stoic,  and  grow  insensible  of  pain,  as 
among  Christians,  so  many  Dervises^  among  the  well  as  poverty  or  disgrace,  one  must  be  per- 
Mahometans,  the  Brachmans^  among  the  haps  something  more  or  less  than  a  man, 
/ndians,  and  all  the  ancient  philosophers;  who,  50  renounce  common  nature,  oppose  common 
whatever  else  they  differed  in,  agreed  in  this  of  truth  and  constant  experience.  But  there 
despising  riches,  and  at  best  esteeming  them  an  needs  little  learning  or  study,  more  than  com- 
*The  "little  city"  which  was  the  refuge  of  Lot.  when      mon  thought  and  observation,  to  find  out,  that 

Sodom  and  Gomorrah  were  destroyed.  V.G.n..xix    19-23.       jjj    ^^^^^^    j^^^g    ^^^    ^^^       ^^^    enjoyments    of 

1  A  sect  of  Jewish  ascetics  m  pre-chnstian  and  early        .,  i.j^ii  /•  j  c 

Christian  times.    They  were  established  chiefly  in  Egypt  55  fortune,  but  the  pleasures  ol  Sense,  and  even  ol 

and  lived  austere  and  solitary  lives.  imagination,  and  hinders  the  common  opera- 

*  An   early   Christian   sect,    which   became   separated        ,•,,,       p,      i  i       -jr  u- 

from  the  Church  towards  the  end  of  the  second  century.        tions  both  of  body  and  mmd  Irom  bemg  easy 
3  Dervishes.  ,  .  ,       .  and  free.     Let  philosophers  reason  and  differ 

*  Brahmins,   members  of  the  sacerdotal  caste  among         ,        ,^,         i-rji.         •  c  li. 

the  Hindoos.  about  the  chief  good  or  happiness  of  man;  iet 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE  283 

them  find  it  where  they  can,  and  place  it  where  pains  to  discover  the  regions  where  it  grows, 
they  please;  but  there  is  no  mistake  so  gross,  or  the  springs  that  feed  it,  the  customs  and 
opinion  so  impertinent  (how  common  soever)  methods  by  which  it  is  best  cultivated  and 
as  to  think  pleasures  arise  from  what  is  without      preserved.  .  .  . 

us,  rather  than  from  what  is  within;  from  the  5  [Temple  here  goes  on  to  consider  the  va- 
impression  given  us  of  objects,  rather  than  from  rious  practices  for  the  preservation  of  health, 
the  disposition  of  the  organs  that  receive  them,  which  have  otjtained  in  different  times  and 
The  various  effects  of  the  same  objects  upon  countries,  illustrkting  his  remarks  by  personal 
different  persons,  or  upon  the  same  persons  at      anecdotes.]  .  .  . 

different  times,  make  the  contrary  most  10  In  the  course  of  my  life,  I  have  often  pleased 
evident.  Some  distempers  make  things  look  or  entertained  myself  with  observing  the  va- 
yellow,  others  double  what  we  see;  the  com-  rious  and  fantastical  changes  of  the  diseases 
monest  alter  our  tastes  and  our  smells,  and  the  generally  complained  of,  and  of  the  remedies  in 
very  foulness  of  ears  changes  sounds.  The  common  vogue,  which  were  like  birds  of  pas- 
difference  of  tempers,  as  well  as  of  age,  may  15  sage,  very  much  seen  or  heard  of  at  one  season, 
have  the  same  effect,  by  the  many  degrees  of  and  disappeared  at  another,  and  commonly 
perfection  or  imperfection  in  our  original  succeeded  by  some  of  a  very  different  kind, 
tempers,  as  well  as  of  strength  or  decay,  from  When  I  was  very  young,  nothing  was  so  much 
the  differences  of  health  and  of  years.  From  all  feared  or  talked  of  as  rickets  among  children, 
which  'tis  easy  without  being  a  great  naturalist,  20  and  consumptions  among  young  people  of  both 
to  conclude,  that  our  perceptions  are  formed,  sexes.  After  these  theepleen'^  came  in  play,  and 
and  our  imaginations  raised  upon  them,  in  a  grew  a  formal  disease:  then  the  scurvy,  which 
very  great  measure,  by  the  dispositions  of  the  was  the  general  complaint,  and  both  were 
organs  through  which  the  several  objects  make  thought  to  appear  in  many  various  guises, 
their  impressions;  and  that  these  vary  accord- 25  After  these,  and  for  a  time,  nothing  was  so 
ing  to  the  different  frame  and  temper  of  the  much  talked  of  as  the  ferment  of  the  blood, 
others;  as  the  sound  of  the  same  breath  passing  w^hich  passed  for  the  cause  of  all  sorts  of  ail- 
through  an  oaten  pipe,  a  fiute,  or  a  trumpet,  ments,  that  neither  physicians  nor  patients 
But  to  leave  philosophy,  and  return  to  health,  knew  well  what  to  make  of.  And  to  all  these 
Whatever  is  true  in  point  of  happiness  depend-  30  succeeded  vapours,^  which  serve  the  same  turn, 
ing  upon  the  temper  of  the  mind,  'tis  certain  and  furnish  occasion  of  complaint  among  per- 
that  pleasures  depend  upon  the  temper  of  the  sons  whose  bodies  or  minds  ail  something,  but 
body;  and  that,  to  enjoy  them,  a  man  must  be  they  know  not  what;  and  among  the  Chineses 
well  himself,  as  the  vessel  must  be  sound  to  would  pass  for  mists  of  the  mind  or  fumes  of  the 
have  your  wine  sweet;  for  otherwise,  let  it  be  35  brain,  rather  than  indispositions  of  any  other 
never  so  pleasant  and  so  generous,  it  loses  the  parts.  Yet  these  employ  our  physicians,  per- 
taste;  and  pour  in  never  so  much,  it  all  turns  haps  more  than  other  diseases,  who  are  fain 
sour,  and  were  better  let  alone.  Whoever  will  to  humour  such  patients  in  their  fancies  of 
eat  well,  must  have  a  stomach;  who  will  relish  being  ill,  and  to  prescribe  some  remedies,  for 
the  pleasure  of  drinks,  must  have  his  mouth  in  40  fear  of  losing  their  practice  to  others  that 
taste;  nay,  to  find  any  felicity,  or  take  any  pretend  more  skill  in  finding  out  the  cause  of 
pleasure  in  the  greatest  advantages  of  honour  diseases,  or  care  in  advising  remedies,  which 
and  fortune,  a  man  must  be  in  health.  Who  neither  they  nor  their  patients  find  any  effect 
would  not  be  covetous,  and  with  reason,  if  this  of,  besides  some  gains  to  one,  and  amusement  to 
could  be  purchased  with  gold?  who  not  ambi-  45  the  other.  This,  I  suppose,  may  have  con- 
tious,  if  it  were  at  the  command  of  power,  or  tributed  much  to  the  mode  of  going  to  the 
restored  by  honour?  But  alas!  a  white  staffs  waters  either  cold  or  hot  upon  so  many  occa- 
will  not  help  gouty  feet  to  walk  better  than  a  sions,  or  else  upon  none  besides  that  of  enter- 
common  cane;  nor  a  blue  ribband^  bind  up  a      tainment,  and  which  commonly  may  have  no 

wound  so  well  as  a  fillet :  the  glitter  of  gold  or  of  50  ,  Temple,  writing  at  the  end  of  the  17th  century,  speaks 
diamonds  will   but  hurt  sore  eyes,   instead  of       as  though  this  favorite  complaint  were  then  less  prevalent. 

curing  them;  and  an  aching  head  will  be  no  CT/^rJf^temAV"'!!  ffie  WeX?i  o^tK^^^^ 
more  eased  by  wearing  a  crown  than  a  common      isth  century  is  full  of  allusions  to  it  as  the  fashionable 

nitrVit  n«r>  disease.      Lady  Winchelsea   published   a   Pindaric   Ode 

nignt-cap.  entitled  The  Spleen,  in  1701,  and  Matthew  Green's  poem 

If  health  be  such  a  blessing,   and  the  very  55  on  the  same  subject  appeared  in  1737.     V.  also  Pope  s 

source   of    all   pleasure,    it   may   be   worth    the  ^r£iki'the^3een;  ^a' fashionable  malady,  real  or  pre- 

8  The  sign  of  office  given  bv  the  sovereign  in  Temple's  tended,  of  the  latter  17th  and  early  18th  centuries.     It 

time  to  the  members  of  the  Pfivy  Council,  as  the  Premier,  was  associated  with  nervous  depression  of  spirits  and 

the  Lord  Chamberlain,  the  Lord  Steward,  etc.  debility,   and  was  apparently  similar  to  what  we  call 

6  Part  of  the  insignia  of  the  order  of  the  Garter.  "nervous  prostration. 


284  DRYDEN   TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

1 
other  effect.  And  'tis  well  if  this  be  the  worst  which  feed  the  hopes  of  the  patient,  and  the 
of  the  frequent  use  of  those  waters,  which,  apothecary's  gains,  but  leave  nature  to  her 
though  commonly  innocent,  yet  are  sometimes  course,  who  is  the  sovereign  physician  in  most 
dangerous,  if  the  temper  of  the  person  or  cause  diseases,  and  leaves  little  for  others  to  do, 
of  the  indisposition  be  unhappily  mistaken,  5  further  than  to  watch  accidents;  where  they 
especially  in  people  of  age.  know  no  specific  remedies,  to  prescribe  diets; 

As  diseases  have  changed  vogue,  so  have  and,  above  all,  to  prevent  disorders  from  the 
remedies  in  my  time  and  observation.  I  stomach,  and  take  care  that  nature  be  not 
remember  at  one  time  the  taking  of  tobacco,  at  employed  in  the  kitchen,  when  she  should  be 
another  the  drinking  of  warm  beer,  proved  for  10  in  the  field  to  resist  her  enemy;  and  that  she 
universal  remedies;  then  swallowing  of  pebble-  should  not  be  weakened  in  her  spirits  and 
stones,  in  imitation  of  falconers  curing  hawks,  strength,  when  they  are  most  necessary  to 
One  Doctor  pretended  to  cure  all  heats  and  support  and  relieve  her.  'Tis  true,  physicians 
fevers,  by  drinking  as  much  cold  spring  water  must  be  in  danger  of  losing  their  credit  with 
as  the  patient  could  bear;  at  another  time,  15  the  vulgar,  if  they  should  often  tell  a  patient 
swallowing  up  a  spoonful  of  powder  of  sea-  he  has  no  need  of  physic,  and  prescribe  only 
bisket  after  meals  was  infallible  for  all  indiges-  rules  of  diet  or  common  use;  most  people  would 
tion,  and  so  preventing  diseases.  Then  coffee  think  they  had  lost  their  fee:  but  the  excellence 
and  tea  began  their  successive  reigns.  The  of  a  physician's  skill  and  care  is  discovered  by 
infusion  of  powder  of  steel  have  had  their  20  resolving  first  whether  it  be  best  in  the  case  to 
turns,  and  certain  drops  of  several  names  and  administer  any  physic  or  none,  to  trust  to 
compositions;  but  none  that  I  find  have  estab-  nature  or  to  art;  and  the  next,  to  give  such 
lished  their  authority,  either  long  or  generally,  prescriptions,  as,  if  they  do  no  good,  may  be 
by  any  constant  and  sensible  successes  of  their      sure  to  do  no  harm. 

reign,  but  have  rather  passed  hke  a  mode,  which  25  In  the  midst  of  such  uncertainties  of  health 
every  one  is  apt  to  follow,  and  finds  the  most  and  of  physic,  for  my  own  part,  I  have,  in  the 
convenient  or  graceful  while  it  lasts;  and  begins  general  course  of  my  life,  and  of  many  acute 
to  dislike  in  both  those  respects  when  it  goes  out  diseases,  as  well  as  some  habitual,  trusted  to 
of  fashion.  God  Almighty,  to  nature,  to  temperance  or 

Thus  men  are  apt  to  play  with  their  healths  30  abstinence,  and  the  use  of  common  remedies, 
and  their  fives,  as  they  do  with  their  clothes;  either  vulgarly  known,  and  approved  like 
which  may  be  the  better  excused,  since  both  proverbs  by  long  observation  and  experience, 
are  so  transitory,  so  subject  to  be  spoiled  with  either  of  my  own,  or  such  persons  as  have  fallen 
common  use,  to  be  torn  by  accidents,  and  at  in  the  way  of  my  observation  or  inquiry.  .  .  . 
best  to  be  so  soon  worn  out.  ...  I  observed  a  35  The  two  great  blessings  of  life  are,  in  my 
consult  of  physicians,  in  a  fever  of  one  of  opinion,  health  and  good  humour;  and  none 
my  near  friends,  perplexed  to  the  last  degree  contribute  more  to  one  another;  without  health, 
whether  to  let  him  blood  or  no,  and  not  able  to  all  will  allow  life  to  be  but  a  burden;  and  the 
resolve,  till  the  course  of  the  disease  had  de-  several  conditions  of  fortune  to  be  all  wearisome, 
clared  itself,  and  thereby  determined  them.  40  dull,  or  disagreeable,  without  good  humour: 
Anotherof  my  friends  was  so  often  let  blood,  by  nor  does  any  seem  to  contribute  towards  the 
his  first  physician,  that  a  second,  who  was  sent  true  happiness  of  life,  but  as  it  serves  to  increase 
for,  questioned  whether  he  would  recover  it:  that  treasure,  or  to  preserve  it.  Whatever 
the  first  persisted  the  blood  must  be  drawn  till  other  differences  are  commonly  apprehended  in 
some  good  appeared ;  the  other  affirmed,  that,  45  the  several  conditions  of  fortune,  none  perhaps 
in  such  diseases,  the  whole  mass  was  cor-  will  be  found  so  true  or  so  great,  as  what  is 
nipted,  but  would  purify  again  when  the  acci-  made  by  those  two  circumstances,  so  little 
dent  was  past,  like  wine  after  a  fermentation,  regarded  in  the  common  course  or  pursuits  of 
which  makes  all  in  the  vessel  thick  and  foul  for  a      mortal  men. 

season;  but  when  that  is  past,  grows  clear  again  50  Whether  long  life  be  a  blessing  or  no,  God 
of  itself.  So  much  is  certain,  that  it  depends  a  Almighty  only  can  determine,  who  alone  knows 
great  deal  upon  the  temper  of  the  patient,  the  what  length  it  is  like  to  run,  and  how  'tis  like  to 
nature  of  the  disease  in  its  first  causes,  upon  the  be  attended.  Socrates  used  to  say,  that  'twas 
skill  and  care  of  the  physician  to  decide  whether  pleasant  to  grow  old  with  good  health  and  a 
any  of  these  violences  upon  nature  are  neces-  55  good  friend;  and  he  might  have  reason.  A  man 
sary  or  no,  and  whether  they  are  like  to  do  good  may  be  content  to  live  while  he  is  no  trouble  to 
or  harm.  himself  or  his   friends;   but,    after  that,   'tis 

The  rest  of  our  common  practice  consists  in  hard  if  he  be  not  content  to  die.  I  knew  and 
various  compositions  of  innocent  ingredients,      esteemed  a  person  abroad,  who  used  to  say,  a 


JOHN  DRYDEN  285 

man  must  be  a  mean  wretch  that  desired  to  live  third  for  our  friends;  but  the  fourth  is  for  our 
after  threescore  years  old.     But  so  much,  I     enemies. 

doubt,  is  certain,  that,  in  life,  as  in  wine,  he.  For  temperance  in  other  kinds,  or  in  general, 
that  will  drink  it  good,  must  not  draw  it  to  the  I  have  given  its  character  and  virtues  in  thr . 
dregs.  5  essay  of  moxa,  so  as  to  need  no  more  upon  that  I 

Where  this  happens,  one  comfort  of  age  may     subject  here, 
be,  that,  whereas  younger  men  are  usually  in         When,  in  default  or  despite  of  all  these  cares, 
pain,  when  they  are  not  in  pleasure,  old  men     or  by  effect  of  ill  airs  and  seasons,  acute  or 
find  a  sort  of  pleasure,  whenever  they  are  out     strong  diseases  may  arise,  recourse  must  be 
of  pain.     And,  as  young  men  often  lose  oriohad  to  the  best  physicians  that  are  in  reach, 
impair  their  present  enjoyments,   by  raving     whose  success  will  depend  upon  thought  and 
after  what  is  to  come,  by  vain  hopes,  or  fruit-     care,  as  much  as  skill.    In  all  diseases  of  body 
less  fears;  so  old  men  relieve  the  wants  of  their     or  mind,^it  is  happy  to  have  an  able  physician 
age,  by  pleasing  reflexions  upon  what  is  past,     for  a  friend,  or  a  discreet  friend  for  a  physician; 
Therefore  men,  in  the  health  and  vigour  of  their  15  which  is  so  great  a  blessing,  that  the  wise  man 
age,  should  endeavour  to  fill  their  lives  with     will  have  it  to  proceed  only  from  God,  where 
reading,  with  travel,  with  the  best  conversa-     he  says,  A  faithful  friend  is  the  medicine  of 
tion,  and  the  worthiest  actions,  either  in  their     life,  and  he  that  fears  the  Lord  shall  find  him.* 
public  or  private  stations;  that  they  may  have 
something  agreeable  left  to  feed  on,  when  they  20 
are  old,  by  pleasing  remembrances.  ^lOi^tl     ^t^DtlX 

But,  as  they  are  only  the  clean  beasts  which 
chew  the  cud,  when  they  have  fed  enough;  1631-1700 

so  they  must  be  clean  and  virtuous  men  that         rpryc^-Kinzy     \T<rr\    t:^tv  o 
can  reflect,  with  pleasure,  upon  the  past  ac-25     FRENCH    AND    ENGLISH    TRAGIC 
cidents   or   courses   of   their   lives.     Besides,  WRITERS ^ 

men  who  grow  old  with  good  sense,  or  good  (p^.^^^  ^^  ^ssay  of  Dramatic  Poesy,  1668) 

fortunes,  and  good  nature,  cannot  want  the  ,^ 

pleasure  of  pleasing  others,  by  assisting  with  ''Now  what,  I  beseech  you,  is  more  easy  than 

their  gifts,  their  credit,  and  their  advice,  such  30  to  write  a  regular  French  play,  or  more  difficult 
as  deserve  it;  as  well  as  their  care  of  children,  than  write  an  irregular  English  one,  like  those 
kindness  to  friends,  and  bounty  to  servants.  of  Fletcher,  or  of  Shakespeare? 

But  there  cannot  indeed  live  a  more  unhappy  "If  they  content  themselves,  as  Corneille  did, 

creature  than  an  ill-natured  old  man,  who  is  with  some  flat  design,  which,  like  an  ill  riddle, 
neither  capable  of  receiving  pleasures,  nor  35  is  found  out  ere  it  be  half  proposed,  such 
sensible  of  doing  them  to  others;  and,  in  such  plots  we  can  make  every  way  regular,  as  easily 
a  condition,  it  is  time  to  leave  them.  as  they;  but  whene'er  they  endeavour  to  rise 

Thus  have  I  traced,  in  this  essay,  whatever  to  any  quick  turns  and  counterturns  of  plot, 
has  fallen  in  my  way  or  thoughts  to  observe  as  some  of  them  have  attempted,  since  Cor- 
concerning  life  and  health,  and  which  I  con-  40  neille's  plays  have  been  less  in  vogue,  you 
ceived  might  be  of  any  public  use  to  be  known  see  they  write  as  irregularly  as  we,  though 
or  considered:  the  plainness  wherewith  it  is  they  cover  it  more  speciously.  Hence  the 
written  easily  shews,  there  could  be  no  other  reason  is  perspicuous,  why  no  French  plays, 
intention :  and  it  may  at  least  pass  like  a  Derby-  when  translated,  have,  or  ever  can  succeed  on 
shire  charm,  which  is  used  among  sick  cattle,  45  the  English  stage.  For,  if  you  consider  the 
with  these  words;  if  it  does  thee  no  good,  it  will  plots,  our  own  are  fuller  of  variety;  if  the  writ- 
do  thee  no  harm.  ing,  ours  are  more  quick  and  fuller  of  spirit; 

To  sum  up  all,  the  first  principle  of  health      and  therefore  'tis  a  strange  mistake  in  tho^ 
and  long  life  is  derived  from  the  strength  of      who  decry  the  way  of  writing  plays  in  verse, 
our  race  or  our  birth;  which  gave  occasion  to  50  as  if  the  English  therein  imitated  the  French, 
that  saying,  gaudeant  bene  nati:  let  them  rejoice         » Ecdes.,  vi.,  16. 
that  are  happily  born.    Accidents  are  not  in  our      ,^:Jl^^Sfp^^.TwJ°"tVS:^°S^Z^t  It 

power  to  govern :  so  that  the  best  cares  or  pro-  our  English  writers  from  the  censure  of  those  who   un- 

vi<?innQ   for   lifp    f^tnt^    liAaltli     ihftf    qrp   Ipft,   n<?  justly  prefer  the  French  before  them."     The  essay  is  in 

visions  lOr  ine  ana  nealtn,  mat  are  leit  us,  i^e  form  of  a  conversation  between  four  gentlemen,  whom 
consist  m  the  discreet  and  temperate  govern- 55  Bryden  calls Eugenius,  Crites.Lisideius,  and  Neander,'who 

ment  of  diet   and    f^xf^roi'^p-   in   both  which  all  have  taken  a  barge  and  gone  down  the  Thames  towards 

meui  oi   uiet  ana   exercise,   m   ooiii  wuicii  <xu  Greenwich.       Eugenius    is    Charles.    Lord    Buckhurst, 

excess  is  to  be  avoided,  especially  in  the  common  Crites  is  Sir  Robert  Howard,   Lisideius    is   Sir    Charles 

imp  of  winp-  wfiPrpnf  fhp  firdf  p-lflss  mav  rJass  SedJe-y,  and  Meander  is  Dryden  himself.     In  the  passage 

use  OI  Wine,  wnereoi  ine  nrst  giass  may  pass  ^.^  above,*  Neander  is  replying  to  Lisideius.  who  has 

for  health,   the  second  for  good  humour,   the  been  speaking  in  praise  of  the  French  dramatists. 


286  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

We  have  borrowed  nothing  from  them;  our  writers,  both  French  and  EngUsh,  ought  to 
plots  are  weaved  in  English  looms:  we  endeav-      give  place  to  him." 

our  therein  to  follow  the  variety  and  greatness  "I  fear,"  replied  Neander,  "that  in  obeying 

of  characters  which  are  derived  to  us  from  your  commands  I  shall  draw  a  little  envy  on 
Shakespeare  and  Fletcher;  the  copiousness  and  5  myseK.  Besides,  in  performing  them,  it  will 
well-knitting  of  the  intrigues  we  have  from  be  first  necessary  to  speak  somewhat  of  Shake- 
Jonson;  and  for  the  verse  itseK  we  have  speare  and  Fletcher,  his  rivals  in  poesy;  and 
English  precedents  of  elder  date  than  any  of  one  of  them,  in  my  oj)inion,  at  least  his  equal, 
Corneille's  plays.    Not  to  name  our  old  come-      perhaps  his  superior. 

dies  before  Shakespeare,  which  were  all  writ  10  "To  begin  then,  with  Shakespeare.  He 
in  verse  of  six  feet,  or  Alexandrines,  such  as  was  the  man  who  of  all  modern,  and  perhaps 
the  French  now  use,  I  can  show  in  Shakespeare,  ancient  poets,  had  the  largest  and  most 'corn- 
many  scenes  of  rhyme  together,  and  the  like  prehensive  soul.  All  the  images  of  Nature 
in  Ben  Jonson's  tragedies:  in  Catiline  and  were  still  present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them, 
Sejanus  sometimes  thirty  or  forty  lines,  I  mean  15  not  laboriously,  but  luckily;  when  he  describes 
besides  the  Chorus,  or  the  monologues;  which  anything,  you  more  than  see  it,  you  feel  it  too. 
by  the  way,  showed  Ben  no  enemy  to  this  way  Those  who  accuse  him  to  have  wanted  learning, 
of  writing,  especially  if  you  look  upon  his  give  him  the  greater  commendation:  he  was 
Sad  Shepherd,  which  goes  sometimes  on  rhyme,  naturally  learned;  he  needed  not  the  spectacles 
sometimes  on  blank  verse,  like  an  horse  who  20  of  books  to  read  Nature;  he  looked  inwards  and 
eases  himself  on  trot  and  amble.  You  find  him  found  her  there.  I  cannot  say  he  is  every- 
likewise  comnjending  Fletcher's  pastoral  of  where  ahke;  were  he  so,  I  should  do  him  in- 
The  Faithful  Shepherdess,  which  is  for  the  most  jury  to  compare  him  with  the  greatek  of  man- 
part  rhyme,  though  not  refined  to  that  purity  kind.  He  is  many  times  flat,  insipid;  his  comic 
to  which  it  hath  since  been  brought.  And  these  25  wit  degenerating  into  clenches,^  his  serious 
examples  are  enough  to  clear  us  from  a  servile  sweUing  into  bombast.  But  he  is  always  great, 
imitation  of  the  French.  when  some  great  occasion  is  presented  to  him; 

"But  to  return  from  whence  I  have  digressed:      no  man  can  say  he  ever  had  a  fit  subject  for 
I  dare  boldly  affirm  these  two  things  of  the      his  wit,  and  did  not  then  raise  himself  as  high 
English  drama; — First^  that  we  have  many  go  above  the  rest  of  poets, 
plays  of  ours  as  regular  as  any  of  theirs,  and        j-,       ^       i    ^       i    ^  -  ^       -i  • , 

which,  besides,  have  more  variety  of  plot  and  ^«^«^^  ^««  'olent  inter  mbuma  cupressi.^ 
characters;  and  secondly,  that  in  most  of  the  The  consideration  of  this  made  Mr.  Hales  of 
irregular  plays  of  Shakespeare  or  Fletcher  Eaton^  say,  that  there  was  no  subject  of  which 
(for  Ben  Jonson's  are  for  the  most  part  S<  any  poet  ever  writ,  but  he  would  produce 
regular),  there  is  a  more  mascuhne  fancy  and  it  much  better  treated  of  in  Shakespeare;  and 
greater  spirit  in  the  writing,  than  there  is  in  however  others  are  now  generally  preferred 
any  of  the  French.  I  could  produce,  even  in  before  him,  yet  the  age  wherein  he  lived,  which 
Shakespeare's  and  Fletcher's  works,  some  had  contemporaries  with  him  Fletcher  and 
plays  which  are  almost  exactly  formed;  as4oJonson,  never  equalled  them  to  him  in  their 
The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  and  The  Scornful  esteem;  and  in  the  last  King's  court,  when 
Lady:  but  because  (generally  speaking).  Shake-  Ben's  reputation  was  at  highest,  Sir  John 
speare,  who  writ  first,  did  not  perfectly  observe  Suckling,  and  with  him  the  greater  part  of  the 
the  laws  of  Comedy,  and  Fletcher,  who  came  courtiers,  set  our  Shakespeare  far  above  him. 
nearer  to  perfection,  yet  through  carelessnesses  "Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  of  whom  I  am 
made  many  faults;  I  will  take  the  pattern  of  a  next  to  speak,  had,  with  the  advantage  of 
perfect  play  from  Ben  Jonson,  who  was  a  Shakespeare's  wit,  which  was  their  precedent, 
careful  and  learned  observer  of  the  dramatic  great  natural  gifts,  improved  by  study:  Beau- 
laws,  and  from  all  his  comedies  I  shall  select  mont  especially  being  so  accurate  a  judge  of 
The  Silent  Woman;  of  which  I  wiU  make  a  50  plays,  that  Ben  Jonson,  while  he  Hved,  sub- 
short  examen,  according  to  those  rules  which  mitted  all  his  writings  to  his  censure,  and,  'tis 
the  French  observe."  thought,  used  his  judgment  in  correcting,  if 

As  Neander  was  beginning  to  examine  The  not  contriving,  all  his  plots.  What  value  he 
Silent  Woman,  Eugenius,  looking  earnestly  had  for  him,  appears  by  the  verses  he  writ  to 
upon  him;  "I  beseech  you,  Neander,"  said  he,  55     zpuns.  \ 

"gratify  the  company,  and  me  in  particular,      J^t^reth'^ofv'ibSrvTgTi'.'L'""*"' '''"^'   ' 

SO  far,  as  before  you  speak  of  the  play,  to  give  ^John    Hales    (1584-1656),    a    distinguished    English 

us  a  character  of  the  author;  and  tell  us  frankly  -l^°rfrLfd"^rL^;d  Fatfi/lTe^rw^^^^^^^^^^^^  aS 
your  opinion,  whether  you  do  laot  think  all     Ben  Jousoo,  aad  w^e  »»de  a  fellow  of  Etoo  in  1613. 


JOHN  DRYDEN  2^ 

him;5  and  therefore  I  need  speak  no  farther  He  invades  authors  hke  a  monarch;  and  what 
of  it.  The  first  play  that  brought  Fletcher  and  would  be  theft  in  other  poets,  is  only  victory 
him  m  esteem  was  their  Philaster:  for  before  in  him.  With  the  spoils  of  these  writers  he  so 
that,  they  had  written  two  or  three  very  un-  represents  old  Rome  to  us,  in  its  rites,  cere- 
successfully,  as  the-  like  is  reported  of  Ben  5  monies,  and  customs,  that  if  one  of  their 
Jonson,  before  he  writ  Every  Man  in  his  Hu-  poets  had  written  either  of  his  tragedies,  we 
mour.  Their  plots  were  generally  more  regular  had  seen  less  of  it  .than  in  him.  If  there  was 
than  Shakespeare's,  especially  those  which  any  fault  in  his  language,  'twas  that  he  weaved 
were  made  before  Beaumont's  death;  and  they  it  too  closely  and  laboriously,  in  his  serious 
understood  and  imitated  the  conversation  of  lo plays:  Perhaps  too  he  did  a  Httle  too  much 
gentlemen  much  better;  whose  wild  debauch-  Romanize  our  tongue,  leaving  the  words 
eries,  and  quickness  of  wit  in  repartees,  no  which  he  translated  ahnost  as  much  Latin  as 
poet  can  ever  paint  an  they  have  done.  Hu-  he  found  them:  wherein,  though  he  learnedly 
mour,  which  Ben  Jonson  derived  from  par-  followed  the  idiom  of  their  language,  he  did 
ticular  persons,  they  made  it  not  their  business  15  not  enough  comply  with^  the  idiom  of  ours, 
to  describe:  they  represented  all  the  passions  If  I  would  compare  him  with  Shakespeare,  1 
very  lively,  but  above  all,  love.  I  am  apt  to  must  acknowledge  him  the  more  correct  poet, 
believe  the  English  language  in  them  arrived  but  Shakespeare  the  greater  wit; .  Shakespeare 
to  its  highest  perfection:  what  words  have  was  the  Homer,  or  father  of  our  dramatic 
since  been  taken  in,  are  rather  superfluous  than  20  poets;  Johnson"  was  the  Virgil,  the  pattern  of 
ornamental.  Their  plays  are  now  the  most  elaborate  writing;  I  admire  him  but  I  love 
pleasant  and  frequent  entertainments  of  the  Shakespeare.  To  conclude  of  him;  as  he  has 
stage;  two  o(  theirs  being  acted  through  the  given  us  the  most  correct  plays,  so  in  the 
year  for  one  of  Shakespeare's  or  Jonson's;  precepts  which  he  has  laid  down  in  his  Dis- 
the  reason  is,  because  there  is  a  certain  gaiety  25  coveries,  we  have  as  many  and  profitable 
in  their  -comedies,  and  pathos  in  their  more  rules  for  perfecting  the  stage,  as  any  where- 
serious  plays,  which  suits  generally  with  all  with  the  French  can  furnish  us." 
men's  humours.  Shakespeare's  language  is 
likewise  a  Httle  obsolete,  and  Ben  Jonson's 
wit  comes  short  of  theirs.  30  SHAKESPEARE 

-As  for  Jonson,  to  whose  cha.racter  I  am  now      ^^^^^  p^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^^  ^^  Cressida,  1679) 
arrived,  if  we  look  upon  him  while  he  was 

himself  (for  his  last  plays  were  but  his  dotages).  If  Shakespeare  be  allowed,  as  I  think  he 

I  think  him  the  most  learned  and  judicious  must,  to  have  made  his  characters  distinct, 
writer  which  any  theatre  ever  had.  He  was  a  35  it  will  easily  be  inferred  that  he  understood 
most  severe  judge  of  himself,  as  well  as  others,  the  nature  of4he  passions:  because  it  has  been 
One  cannot  say  he  wanted  wit,  but  rather  that  proved  already  that  confused  passions  make 
he  was  frugal  of  it.  In  his  works  you  find  little  undistinguishable  characters:  yet  I  cannot 
to  retrench  or  alter.  Wit,  and  language,  and  deny  that  he  has  his  failings;  but  they  are  not 
humour  also  in  some  measure,  we  had  before  40  so  much  in  the  passions  themselves,  as  in  his 
him;  but  something  of  art  was  wanting  to  the  manner  of  expression:  he  often  obscures  his 
Drama,  till  he  came.  He  managed  his  strength  meaning  by  his  words,  and  sometimes  makes 
to  more  advantage  than  any  who  preceded  it  unintelligible.  I  will  not  say  of  so  great  a 
him.  You  seldom  find  him  making  love  in  any  poet,  that  he  distinguished  not  the  blown  puffy 
of  his  scenes,  or  endeavouring  to  move  the  45  style  from  true  sublimity;  but  I  may  venture 
passions;  his  genius  was  too  sullen  and  satur-  to  maintain,  that  the  fury  of  his  fancy  often 
nine  to  do  it  gracefully,  especially  when  he  transported  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  judg- 
knew  he  came  alter  those  who  had  performed  ment,  either  in  coining  of  new  words  and 
both  to  such  an  height.  Humour  was  his  phrases,  or  racking  words  which  were  in  use, 
proper  st>liere;  and  in  that  he  delighted  50  into  the  violence  of  a  catachresis.^  It  is  not 
most  to  represent  mechanic  people.  He  was  that  I  would  explode  the  use  of  metaphors 
deeply  conversant  in  the  Ancients,  both  Greek  from  passion,  for  Longinus  thinks  'em  neces- 
and  Latin,  and  he  borrowed  boldly  from  them:  sary  to  raise  it:  but  to  use  'em  at  every  word, 
there  is  scarce  a  poet  or  historian  among  the  to  say  nothing  without  a  metaphor,  a  simile, 
Roman  authors  of  those  times  whom  he  has  55  an  image,  or  description,  is,  I  doubt,  to  smell 
not  translated  in  Sejanus  and  Catiline.  But  a  little  too  strongly  of  the  buskin.  I  must  be 
he  has  done  his  robberies  so  openly,  that  one  forced  to  give  an  example  of  expressing  passion 
may  see  he  fears  not  to  be  taxed  by  any  law.  ,  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^.^^^^  ^^  ^  ^^^  by  employing  it  in  a  sens. 

*  Epigram  Iv.    To  Francis  Beaumont.  beyond  its  legitimate  meaning. 


288  DRYDEN   TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

figuratively;  but  that  I  may  do  it  with  respect  writers,  who,  not  being  able  to  infuse  a  natural 
to  Shakespeare,  it  shall  not  be  taken  from  any-  passion  into  the  mind,  have  made  it  their 
thing  of  his:  'tis  an  exclamation  against  For-  business  to  ply  the  ears,  and  to  stun  their 
tune,  quoted  in  his  Hamlet  but  written  by  judges  by  the  noise.  But  Shakespeare  does 
some  other  poet —  5  not  often  thus;  for  the  passions  in  his  scene 

Out,  out,  thou  strumpet.  Fortune!  all  you  gods,  between  Brutus  and  Cassius  are  extremely 
In  general  synod,  take  away  her  power;  natural,  the  thoughts  are  such  as  arise  from 

Break  all  the  spokes  and  felleys  from  her  wheel,      the  matter,  the  expression  of  'em  not  viciously 
And  bowl  the  round  nave  down  the  hill  of      figurative.     I  cannot  leave  this  subject,  be- 
Heav'n,  10  fore  I  do  justice  to  that  divine  poet,  by  giving 

As  low  as  to  the  fiends.  5     you  one  of  his  passionate  descriptions:   'tis 

And  immediately  after,  speaking  of  Hecuba,  ^^  Richard  the  Second  when  he  was  deposed, 
when  Priam  was  killed  before  her  eyes —  and  led  in  triumph  through  the  streets  of 

The  mobbled  queen         ,.  ^^^?°.^  ^^  ?^"7  ^^  BulUngbrook:  the  painting 
Threatening  the  flame,  ran  up  and  down  ^^°^  **  ^^  ^^  "v^^^'  ^^^  ^^^  ^^^^s  so  movmg. 

With  bissom  rheum;  a  clout  about  that  head  ^^^\  I  have  scarce  read  anythmg  comparable 
Where  late  the  diadem  stood;  and  for  a  robe,  to  it  in  any  other  language.  Suppose  you 
About  her  lank  and  all  o'er-teemed  loins,  5  have  seen  already  the  fortunate  usurper  pass- 
A  blanket  in  th'  alarm  of  fear  caught  up.  ing  through  the  crowd,  and  followed  by  the 

Who  this  had  seen,   with  tongue  in  venom  20  shouts  and  acclamations  of  the  people;  and 

,n  •    T%    1.       >      i.  i.  1 J   J.  1-  110 w  behold  King  Richard  entering  upon  the 

Gamst  Fortune  s  state  would  treason  have  -j      fu  x  i.  j  r  ^• 

pronounced-                            wcacs^^u  ii<a,vc  gcene:  consider  the  wretchedness  of  his  con- 
But  if  the  gods  themselves  did  see  her  then,  ^l^^^^^'.  ^^^  ^^^  carriage  in  it;  and  refrain  from 
When  she  saw  Pyrrhus  make  malicious  sport  10  P^^^j  ^^  you  can — 
In  mincing  with  his  sword  her  husband's  limbs,  25  As  in  a  theatre,  the  eyes  of  men. 
The  instant  burst  of  clamour  that  she  made  After  a  well-graced  actor  leaves  the  stage, 
i^^^f!^*^^'^^^  mortal  naove  them  not  at  all)  Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next, 
Would  have  made  milch  the  burning  eyes  of  Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious: 

heaven.  Even  so,  or  with  much  more  contempt,  men's 
And  passion  m  the  gods.                                  15  eyes  5 

What  a  pudder  is  here  kept  in  raising  the  ^'^  ^^^^}  °^  I^i^hard:  no  man  cried,  God  save 
expression  of  trifling  thoughts!  Would  not  a  ^^  j^^^i  tongue  gave  him  hig  welcome  home, 
man  have  thought  that  the  poet  had  been  But  dust  was  thrown  upoii  his  sacred  head, 
bound  prentice  to  a  wheelwright,  for  his  first  Which  with  such  gentle  sorrow  he  shook  off, 
rant?  and  had  followed  a  ragman,  for  the  35  His  face  still  combating  with  tears  and  smiles 
clout  and  blanket  in  the  second?    Fortune  is      (The  badges  of  his  grief  and  patience),  11 

painted  on  a  wheel,  and  therefore  the  writer.  That  had  not  God  (for  some  strong  purpose) 
in  a  rage,  will  have  poetical  justice  done  upon      ^,     steel'd  ^        r         i. 

every  member  of  that  engine:  after  this  exe-      ^^^      \ll       °'^'^'      ^^  ^       perforce  have 
cution,   he  bowls   the   nave  down-hill    from  40  ^^^  ^^^^^^^^  i^^^lf  I^^^^     i^j^^  ^^^ 
Heaven,  to  the  nends  (an  unreasonable  long 

mark,  a  man  would  think);  'tis  well  there  are  To  speak  justly  of  this  whole  matter:  'tis 
no  solid  orbs  to  stop  it  in  the  way,  or  no  ele-  neither  height  of  thought  that  is  discommended, 
ment  of  fire  to  consume  it:  but  when  it  came  nor  pathetic  vehemence,  nor  any  nobleness  of 
to  the  earth,  it  must  be  monstrous  heavy,  45  expression  in  its  proper  place;  but  'tis  a  false 
to  break  grounds  as  low  as  the  centre.  His  measure  of  all  these,  something,  which  is  like 
making  milch  the  burning  eyes  of  heaven  them,  and  is  not  them;  'tis  the  Bristol-stone^ 
was  a  pretty  tolerable  flight  too:  and  I  think  which  appears  like  a  diamond;  'tis  an  extrava- 
no  man  ever  drew  milk  out  of  eyes  before  him:  gant  thought,  instead  of  a  sublime  one;  'tis 
yet,  to  make  the  wonder  greater,  these  eyes  50  roaring  madness,  instead  of  vehemence;  and 
were  burning.  Such  a  sight  indeed  were  a  sound  of  words,  instead  of  sense.  If  Shake- 
enough  to  have  raised  passion  in  the  gods;  speare  were  stripped  of  all  the  bombasts  in  his 
but  to  excuse  the  effects  of  it,  he  tells  you,  passions,  and  dressed  in  the  most  vulgar 
perhaps  they  did  not  see  it.  Wise  men  would  words,  we  should  find  the  beauties  of  his\ 
be  glad  to  find  a  little  sense  couched  under  55  thoughts  remaining;  if  his  embroideries  were 
all  these  pompous  words;  for  bombast  is  com-  burnt  down,  there  would  still  be  silver  at  the 
monly  the  deUght  of  that  audience  which  bottom  of  the  melting-pot:  but  I  fear  (at 
loves  Poetry,  but  understands  it  not:  and  as         ,  a     n        ^         ^  \  t     a       ,  ti^»*^i  »«^  =««.« 

,      % '        ,  . ,  ,.  ,.     , ,  ^  Small  quartz  crystals  found  near  Bristol,  and  some- 

commonly    has    been    the    practice    of    those       times  called  "Bristol-diamonds." 


JOHN  DRYDEN  289 

least  let  me  fear  it  for  myself)  that  we,  who  ape  for  their  guide,  that  if  this  fancy  be  not  regu- 

his  sounding  words,  have  nothing  of  his  thought  lated,  it  is  a  mere  caprice,  and  utterly  inca- 

but  are  all  outside;  there  is  not  so  much  as  a  pable  to  produce  a  reasonable  and  judicious 

dwarf  within  our  giant's  clothes.     Therefore,  poem." 

let  not  Shakespeare  suffer  for  our  sakes;  'tis  5 

our  fault,  who  succeed  him  in  an  age  which  is 

more  refined,  if  we  imitate  him  so  ill,  that  we  POSTSCRIPT  TO  THE  READER 

copy  his  faiHngs  only,  and  make  a  virtue  of        (^^^^  Dryden's  translation  of  Virgil,  1697) 
that  m  our  writmgs  which  m  his  was  an  im-  ' 

perfection.  10     What  Virgil  wrote  in  the  vigour  of  his  age, 

For  what  remains,  the  excellency  of  that  in  plenty  and  at  ease,  I  have  undertaken  to 
poet  was,  as  I  have  said,  in  the  more  manly  translate  in  my  declining  years;  struggling 
passions;  Fletcher's  in  the  softer:  Shake-  with  wants,  oppressed  with  sickness,  curbed 
speare  writ  better  betwixt  man  and  man;  in  my  genius,  liable  to  be  misconstrued  in  all 
Fletcher,  betwixt  man  and  woman:  conse-l5l  write;  and  my  judges,  if  they  are  not  very 
quently,  the  one  described  friendship  better;  equitable,  already  prejudiced  against  me,  by 
the  other  love:  yet  Shakespeare  taught  Fletcher  the  lying  character  which  has  been  given 
to  write  love:  and  Juliet  and  Desdemona  are  them  of  my  morals.  Yet  steady  to  my  prin- 
originals.  'Tis  true,  the  scholar  had  the  softer  ciples,  and  not  dispirited  with  my  afflictions, 
soul;  but  the  master  had  the  kinder.  Friend-  20 1  have,  by  the  blessing  of  God  on  my  endeav- 
ship  is  both  a  virtue  and  a  passion  essentially;  ours,  overcome  all  difficulties,  and,  in  some 
love  is  a  passion  only  in  its  nature,  and  is  not  a  measure,  acquitted  myself  of  the  debt  which 
virtue  but  by  accident:  good  nature  makes  I  owed  the  public  when  I  undertook  this 
friendship;  but  effeminacy  love.  Shakespeare  work.  In  the  first  place,  therefore,  I  thank- 
had  an  universal  mind,  which  comprehended  25  fully  acknowledge  to  the  Almighty  Power  the 
all  characters  and  passions;  Fletcher  a  more  assistance  He  has  given  me  in  the  beginning,  the 
confined  and  limited:  for  though  he  treated  prosecution,  and  conclusion  of  my  present 
love  in  perfection,  yet  honour,  ambition,  re-  studies,  which  are  more  happily  performed 
venge,  and  generally  all  the  stronger  passions,  than  I  could  have  promised  to  myself,  when  1 
he  either  touched  not,  or  not  masterly.  To  30  laboured  under  such  discouragements.  For, 
conclude  all,  he  was  a  limb  of  Shakespeare,      what  I  have  done,  imperfect  as  it  is  for  want 

I  had  intended  to  have  proceeded  to  the  of  health  and  leisure  to  correct  it,  will  be 
last  property  of  manners,  which  is,  that  they  judged  in  after-ages,  and  possibly  in  the 
must  be  constant,  and  the  characters, main-  present,  to  be  no  dishonour  to  my  native 
tained  the  same  from  the  beginning  to  the  end;  35  country,  whose  language  and  poetry  would  be 
and  from  thence  to  have  proceeded  to  the  more  esteemed  abroad,  if  they  were  better 
thoughts  and  expressions  suitable  to  a  tragedy;  understood.  Somewhat  (give  me  leave  to  say) 
but  I  will  first  see  how  this  will  relish  with  the  I  have  added  to  both  of  them  in  the  choice 
age.  It  is,  I  confess,  but  cursorily  written;  of  words,  and  harmony  of  numbers,  which 
yet  the  judgment,  which  is  given  here,  is  40  were  wanting,  especially  the  last,  in  all  .our 
generally  founded  upon  experience:  but  be-  poets,  even  in  those  who,  being  endued  with 
cause  many  men  are  shocked  at  the  name  of  genius,  yet  have  not  cultivated  their  mother- 
rules,  as  if  they  were  a  kind  of  magisterial  tongue  with  suflicient  care;  or,  relying  on  the 
prescription  upon  poets,  I  will  conclude  with  beauty  of  their  thoughts,  have  judged  the 
the  words  of  Rapin,  in  his  Reflections  on  Aris- 45  ornament  of  words,  and  sweetness  of  sound, 
totle's  work  Of  Poetry:  "Jf  the  rules  be  ^ell  unnecessary.  One  is  for  raking  in  Chaucer 
considered,  we  shall  find  there  to  be  made  (our  English  EnniusO  for  antiquated  words, 
only  to  reduce  Nature  into  method,  lo  trace  which  are  never  to  be  revived,  but  when  sound 
her  step  by  step,  and  not  to  suffer  the  least  or  significancy  is  wanting  in  the  present  Ian- 
mark  of  her  to  escape  us:  'tis  only  by  these,  soguage.  'But  many  of  his  deserve  not  this  re- 
that  probability  in  fiction  is  maintained,  which  demption,  any  more  than  the  crowds  of  men 
is  the  soul  of  poetry.  They  are  founded  upon  who  daily  die,  or  are  slain  for  sixpence  in  a 
good  sense,  and  sound  reason,  rather  than  on  battle,  merit  to  be  restored  to  fife,  if  a  wish 
authority;  for  though  Aristotle  and  Horace  could  revive  them.  Others  have  no  ear  for 
are  produced,  yet  no  man  must  argue,  that  55  verse,  nor  choice  of  words,  nor  distinction  of 
what  they  write  is  true,  because  they  writ  it;  thoughts;  but  mingle  farthings  with  their 
but  'tis  evident,  by  the  ridiculous  mistakes  gold,  to  make  up  the  sum.  Here  is  a  field  of 
and  gross  absurdities  which  have  been  made  ,  ^^^.^^^^^^  ^^^^.^^  ^239-169  B.  C.)  was  regarded  by  the 

by  those  poets  who  have  taken  their  fancy  only       Uonians  as  the  father  of  Latin  poetry. 


290  DRYDEN   TO   THE   DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 

Satire  opened  to  me:  but,  since  the  Revolution,  Extremum  hunc,  Arethusa  .  .  . 

/  have  wholly  renounced   that   talent.     For  .  .  .  Negat  quis  carmina  Gallo?^ 

who  would  give  physic  to  the  great,  when  he  is 

uncalled? — to  do  his  patient  no  good,  and  en-  Neither  am  I  to  forget  the  noble  presents 

danger  himself  for  his  prescription?     Neither  5  which  was  made  me  by  Gilbert  Dolben,  Esq., 

am  I  ignorant,  but  I  may  justly  be  condemned      the   worthy  son    of    the  late  Archbishop  of 

for  many  of  those  faults  of  which  I  have  too      York,  who,  when  I  began  this  work,  enriched 

liberally  arraigned  others.  me  with  all  the  several  editions  of  Virgil,  and 

all  the  commentaries  of  those  editions  in  Latin; 

.  .  .  Cynthius  aurem  10  amongst  which,   I  could  not  but  prefer  the 

Vellit,  et  admonuit  .  .  .^  Dauphin's,  as  the  last,  the  shortest,  and  the 

most  judicious.  Fabrini  I  had  also  sent  me 
'Tis  enough  for  me,  if  the  Government  will  let  from  Italy;  but  either  he  understands  Virgil 
me  pass  unquestioned.  In  the  meantime,  I  very  imperfectly,  or  I  have  no  knowledge  of 
am  obliged,  in  gratitude,  to  return  my  thanks  15  my  author. 

to  many  of  them,  who  have  not  only  distin-  Being  invited  by  that  worthy  gentleman, 

guished  me  from  others  of  the  same  party,  Sir  William  Bowyer,  to  Denham  Court,  I 
by  a  particular  exception  of  grace,  but,  without  translated  the  first  Georgic  at  his  house,  and 
considering  the  man,  have  been  bountiful  to  the  greatest  part  of  the  last  ^neid.  A  more 
the  poet :  have  encouraged  Virgil  to  speak  such  20  friendly  entertainment  no  man  ever  found. 
English  as  I  could  teach  him,  and  rewarded  his  No  wonder,  therefore,  if  both  those  versions 
interpreter  for  the  pains  he  has  taken  in  bring-  surpass  the  rest,  and  own  the  satisfaction  I 
ing  him  over  into  Britain,  by  defraying  the  received  in  his  converse,  with  whom  I  had 
charges  of  his  voyage.  Even  Cerberus,  when  the  honour  to  be  bred  in  Cambridge,  and  in 
he  had  received  the  sop,  permitted  iEneas  to  25  the  same  college.  The  Seventh  JEneid  was 
pass  freely  to  Elysium.  Had  it  been  offered  me,  made  English  at  Burleigh,  the  magnificent 
and  I  had  refused  it,  yet  still  some  gratitude  is  abode  of  the  Earl  of  Exeter.  In  a  village  be- 
due  to  such  who  were  wiUing  to  oblige  me;  longing  to  his  family  I  was  born;  and  under  his 
but  how  much  more  to  those  from  whom  I  roof  I  endeavoured  to  make  that  J^neid  ap- 
have  received  the  favours  which  they  have  30  pear  in  English  with  as  much  lustre  as  I  could; 
offeredtooneof  a  different  persuasion!  Amongst  though  my  author  has  not  given  the  finishing 
whom  I  cannot  omit  naming  the  Earls  of  Derby  strokes  either  to  it,  or  to  the  Eleventh,  as  I 
and  of  Peterborough.  To  the  first  of  these  I  perhaps  could  prove  in  both,  if  I  durst  presume 
have  not  the  honour  to  be  known;  and  there-      to  criticise  my  master. 

fore  his  liberality  was  as  much  unexpected  as  35  By  a  letter  from  William  Walsh,  ^  of  Abberley, 
it  was  undeserved.  The  present  Earl  of  Peter-  Esq.  (who  has  so  long  honoured  me  with  his 
borough  has  been  pleased  long  since  to  accept  friendship,  and  who,  without  flattery,  is  the 
the  tenders  of  my  service:  his  favours  are  so  best  critic  of  our  nation),  I  have  been  informed, 
frequent  to  me,  that  I  receive  them  almost  that  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury  has 
by  prescription.  No  difference  of  interest  or  40  procured  a  printed  copy  of  the  Pastorals, 
opinion  has  been  able  to  withdraw  his  pro-  Georgics,  and  first  six  JUneids,  from  my  book- 
tection  from  me;  and  I  might  justly  be  con-  seller,  and  has  read  them  in  the  country,  to- 
demned  for  the  most  unthankful  of  mankind,  gether  with  my  friend.  This  noble  person  hav- 
if  I  did  not  always  preserve  for  him  a  most  ing  been  pleased  to  give  them  a  commendation, 
profound  respect  and  inviolable  gratitude.  45  which  I  presume  not  to  insert,  has  made  me 
I  must  also  add,  that,  if  the  last  Mneid  vain  enough  to  boast  of  so  great  a  favour,  and 
shine  amongst  its  fellows,  'tis  owing  to  the  to  think  I  have  succeeded  beyond  my  hopes; 
commands  of  Sir  William  Trumball,  one  of  the  character  of  his  excellent  judgment,  the 
the  principal  Secretaries  of  State,  who  recom-  acuteness  of  his  wit,  and  his  general  knowledge 
mended  it,  as  his  favourite,  to  my  Qare;  and  50  of  good  letters,  being  known  as  well  to  all  the 
for  his  sake  particularly,  I  have  made  it  mine,  world,  as  the  sweetness  of  his  disposition,  his 
For  who  would  confess  weariness,  when  he  humanity,  his  easiness  of  access,  and  de«ire 
enjoined  a  fresh  labour?  I  could  not  but  of  obliging  those  who  stand  in  need  of  his 
invoke  the  assistance  of  a  Muse,  for  this  last  protection,  are  known  to  all  who  have  ap-  i 
\)ffice.  55  proached  him,  and  to  me  in  particular,  who  have  ^ 

2  Apollo  twitched  my  ear,  and  admonished  me.     Dry-  '  Grant  me  this  last  labor,  Arethusa  .  .  .  who  could 

den  translates  the  passage  (Virg.  EcL,  v.  3) :  refuse  songs  to  Gallus?    (Virg.  Eel,  x.,  1-54). 

*  William  Walsh  (1663-1708),  a  critic  and  minor  poet, 
"Apollo  checked  my  pride,  and  bade  me  feed  is  remembered  as  the  friend,  early  adviser,  and  corre- 

My  fattening  flocks,  nor  dare  beyond  the  reed."  spondent  of  Pope. 


SAMUEL  PEPYS  291 

formerly  had  the  honour  of  his  conversation,  the  Royalle  company  by  themselves  in  the 
Whoever  has  given  the  world  the  translation  of  coach, ^  which  was  a  blessed  sight  to  see. 
part  of  the  Third  Georgic,  which  he  calls  The  After  dinner  the  King  and  Duke  altered  the 
Power  of  Love,  has  put  me  to  sufficient  pains  name  of  some  of  the  ships,'  viz.  the  Nazeby 
to  make  my  own  not  inferior  to  his;  as  my  5  into  Charles;  the  Richard,  James;  the  Speaker, 
Lord  Roscommon's  Silenus  had  formerly  Mary;  the  Dunbar  (which  was  not  in  com- 
given  me  the  same  trouble.  The  most  ingenious  pany  with  us),  the  Henry;  Winsly,  Happy 
Mr.  Addison  of  Oxford  has  also  been  as  trouble-  Return;  Wakefield,  Richmond;  Lambert,  the 
some  to  me  as  the  other  two,  and  on  the  same  Henrietta;  Cheriton,  the  Speedwell;  Bradford, 
account.  After  his  Bees,  my  latter  swarm  10  the  Successe.  That  done,  the  Queen, ^  Princesse 
is  hardly  worth  the  hiving.  Mr.  Cowley's  Royalle,^  and  Prince  of  Orange,  took  leave  of 
Praise  of  a  Country  Life  is  excellent,  but  is  the  King,  and  the  Duke  of  York^  went  on  board 
rather  an  imitation  of  Virgil  than  a  version,  the  London,  and  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  the 
That  I  have  recovered,  in  some  measure,  the  Swiftsure.  Which  done,  we  weighed  anchor, 
health  which  I  had  lost  by  too  much  applica-  15  and  with  a  fresh  gale  and  most  happy  weather 
tion  to  this  work,  is  owing,  next  to  God's  mercy,  we  set  sail  for  England.  All  the  afternoon  the 
to  the  skill  and  care  of  Dr.  Guibbons  and  Dr.  King  walked  here  and  there,  up  and  down 
Hobbs,  the  two  ornaments  of  their  profession,  (quite  contrary  to  what  I  thought  him  to  have 
whom  I  can  only  pay  by  this  acknowledge-  been)  very  active  and  stirring.  Upon  the 
ment.  The  whole  Faculty  has  always  been  20  quarter-deck  he  fell  into  discourse  of  his  es- 
ready  to  oblige  me;  and  the  only  one  of  them,  cape  from  Worcester,^  where  it  made  me  ready 
who  endeavoured  to  defame  me,  had  it  not  in  to  weep  to  hear  the  stories  that  he  told  of  his 
his  power.  I  desire  pardon  from  my  readers  for  difficulties  that  he  had  passed  through,  as  his 
saying  so  much  in  relation  to  myself,  which  travelling  four  days  and  three  nights  on  foot, 
concerns  not  them;  and,  with  my  acknowledge-  25  every  step  up  to  his  knees  in  dirt,  with  nothing 
ments  to  all  my  subscribers,  have  only  to  add,  but  a  green  coat  and  a  pair  of  country  breeches 
that  the  few  Notes  which  follow  are  par  mavr-  on,  and  a  pair  of  country  shoes  that  made  him 
idre  d' acquit,^  because  I  had  obliged  myself  so  sore  all  over  his  feet,  that  he  could  scarce 
by  articles  to  do  somewhat  of  that  kind.  These  stir.  Yet  he  was  forced  to  run  away  from  a 
scattering  observations  are  rather  guesses  at  30  miller  and  other  company,  that  took  them  for 
my  author's  meaning  in  some  passages,  than  rogues.  His  sitting  at  table  at  one  place,  where 
proofs  that  so  he  meant.  The  unlearned  may  the  master  of  the  house,  that  had  not  seen  him 
have  recourse  to  any  poetical  dictionary  in  in  eight  years,  did  know  him,  but  kept  it  pri- 
English,  for  the  names  of  persons,  places,  or  vate;  when  at  the  same  table  there  was  one  that 
fables,  which  the  learned  need  not:  but  that  35  had  been  of  his  own  regiment  at  Worcester  could 
Httle  which  I  say  is  either  new  or  necessary;  not  know  him,  but  made  him  drink  the  King's 
and  the  first  of  these  qualifications  never  fails  health,  and  said  that  the  King  was  at  least 
to  invite  a  reader,  if  not  to  please  him.  four  fingers  higher  than  he.    At  another  place 

he  was  by  some  servants  of  the  house  made  to 
^StUUtl    ItDn^^fl'  *^  drink,  that  they  might  know  that  he  was  not  a 

Roundhead,   which  they  swore  he  was.     In 

1633-1703  another  place  at  his  inn,  the  master  of  the  house, 

THE  RETURN  OF  CHARLES  II.  as  the  King  was  standing  with  his  hands  upon 

,^         r..         -  o         7  D  1«fin^  ^^^  back  of  a  chair  by  the  fire-side,  kneeled 

(From  Diary  of  Samuel  Pepys,  1660)  ^^ 

23rd..     In   the   morning   come   infinity   of      J.^iy'S^S^Xthe'clpS'!"''^*  '-  "  "'"  "'  '"'' 

people  on  board  from  the  Kmg  to  go  along  with  3  xhe  reason  for  the  change  of  name  is  obvious:  but 

him  All    Hflv    nofViino-    hnf    LorH«?    and        t^is  purifying  from  Puritanic  and  embarrassing  associa- 

nim.  ...  All  day  notning  out  l^Oras  ana  ^j^^  ^^g  an  element  of  humour.  Naseby  and  Djmbar 
persons  of  honour  on  board,  that  we  were  ex-  were  of  course  reminiscent  of  Puritan  victories,  while  the 
f-PpHino-  full  DinPfl  in  a  PTPnt  dpal  of  state  50  Richard  (presumably  named  after  Cromwell's  son),  the 
Ceeamg  lUll.      Umea  m  a  grear  aeai  Ol  state,  ov  g^^^j^^^  ^^^  Lambert,  and  the  rest,  bore  names  hardly  less 

6  By  way  of  discharging  (an  obligation),  or  of  a  formal  full  of  unpleasant  suggestion  to  the  ears  of  the  Royalists. 
jharacter.  4  Elizabeth,   Queen  of   Bohemia,   daughter  of  James 

1  i.  e..  May  23,  1660.  At  this  time  Pepys  was  still  VI,  of  Scotland,  and  First  of  England,  whose  husband, 
young,  poor,  and  comparatively  unknown.  The  founda-  Frederick  became  King  of  Bohemia.  Shortly  after,  he 
ibion  of  his  fortune  had,  however,  been  laid  by  the  kind-  was  forced  by  reverses  to  fly  with  his  family  to  Holland, 
ness  of  his  patron  and  kinsman  Sir  Edward  Montague  Elizabeth  returned  to  England  after  the  Restoration  of 
(afterwards  Earl  of  Sandwich),  through  whose  influence  55  her  nephew,  where  she  died  in  1662. 

he  had  been  made  secretary  to  the  generals  on  the  English  *  Mary,  sister  of  Charles  II,  wife  of  William  II,  Prince 

fleet,  in  March,  1660.  With  his  patron,  and  the  other  of  Orange,  and  mother  oi  William  III,  of  Orange,  who 
members  of  the  delegation,  he  went  to  the  Hague  to       became  King  of  England  in  1689. 

bring  back  Charles  II.     The  passages  here  given  relate  «  Afterwards  James  II,  of  England.         „       ,  ,  , 

to  the  King's  embarkation  at  the  Hague  and  his  landing  at  ^  i.  e.,  after  the  crushing  defeat  of  the  Royal  forces  by 

Dover  Cromwell  at  the  Battle  of  Worcester,  1651. 


292  DRYDEN   TO   THE   DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 

down  and  kissed  his  hand,  privately,  saying,  which  he  did,  and  talked  awhile  with  General 
that  he  would  not  ask  him  who  he  was,  but  Monk  and  others,  and  so  into  a  stately  coach 
bid  God  bless  him  whither  he  was  going.  Then  there  set  for  him,  and  so  away  through  the 
the  difficulties  in  getting  a  boat  to  get  into  town  towards  Canterbury,  without  making 
France,  where  he  was  fain  to  plot  with  the  mas-  5  any  stay  at  Dover.  The  shouting  and  joy  ex- 
ter  thereof  to  keep  his  design  from  the  foreman  pressed  by  all  is  past  imagination, 
and  a  boy  (which  was  all  the  ship's  company,) 

and  so  get  to  Fecamp  in  France.    At  Rouen  he  PPFAT   T?TT?F  OT?  inMnOM 

looked  so  poorly,  that  the  people  went  into  THE  GREAT   FIRE  OF  LONDON 

the  rooms  before  he  went  away  to  see  whether  10  (From  the  same  1666) 

he  had  not   stole   something   or  other.  ... 

So  to  my  cabin  again,  where  the  company  still  2nd.*  (Lord's  Day).  Some  of  our  maids 
was,  and  were  talking  more  of  the  King's  sitting  up  late  last  night  to  get  things  ready 
difficulties;  as  how  he  was  fain  to  eat  a  piece  of  against  our  feast  to-day,  Jane  called  us  up 
bread  and  cheese  out  of  a  poor  body's  pocket;  15  about  three  in  the  morning,  to  tell  us  of  a 
how,  at  a  Catholique  house,  he  was  fain  to  great  fire  they  saw  in  the  city.  So  I  rose,  and 
lie  in  the  priest's  hole  a  good  while  in  the  house  slipped  on  my  night-gown,  and  went  to  h(T 
for  his  privacy.  After  that  our  company  window;  and  thought  it  to  be  on  the  back-side 
broke  up.  We  have  all  the  Lord  Commissioners  of  Marke-lane  at  the  farthest,  but  being  unused 
on  board  us,  and  many  others.  Under  sail  20  to  such  fires  as  followed,  I  thought  it  far  enoug,h 
all  night,  and  most  glorious  weather.  off:  and  so  went  to  bed  again,  and  to  sleop. 

24th.  Up,  and  made  myseK  as  fine  as  I  could,  About  seven  rose  again  to  dress  myself,  and 
with  the  linning  stockings  on  and  wide  canons'  there  looked  out  at  the  window,  and  saw  the 
that  I  bought  the  other  day  at  Hague.  .  .  .      fire  not  so  much  as  it  was,  and  further  off. 

25th.  By  the  morning  we  were  come  close  25  So  to  my  closet  to  set  things  to  rights,  after 
to  the  land,  and  everybody  made  ready  to  get  yesterday's  cleaning.  By  and  by  Jane  comes 
on  shore.  The  King  and  the  two  Dukes  did  and  tells  me  that  she  hears  that  above  300 
eat  their  breakfast  before  they  went,  and  there  houses  have  been  burned  down  to-night  by  the 
being  set  some  ship's  diet,  they  did  eat  of  noth-  fire  we  saw,  and  that  it  is  now  burning  down 
ing  else  but  pease  and  pork,  and  boiled  beef.  30  all  Fish-street,  by  London  Bridge.  So  I  made 
Dr.  Gierke,  who  eat  with  me,  told  me  how  the  myself  ready  presently,  and  walked  to  the 
King  had  given  50£  to  Mr.  Shepley  for  my  Tower,  and  there  got  upon  one  of  the  high 
Lord's  servants,  and  500£  among  the  officers  places,  Sir  J.  Robinson's  little  son  going  up 
and  common  men  of  the  ship.  I  spoke  to  the  with  me;  and  there  I  did  see  the  houses  at  that 
Duke  of  York  about  business,  who  called  me  35  end  of  the  bridge  all  on  fire,  and  an  infinite 
Pepys  by  name,  and  upon  my  desire  did  prom-  great  fire  on  this  and  the  other  side  the  end  of 
ise  me  his  future  favour.  Great  expectation  the  bridge;  which,  among  other  people,  did 
of  the  King's  making  some  Knights,  but  there  trouble  me  for  poor  little  Michell  and  our 
was  none.  About  noon  (though  the  brigantine  Sarah  on  the  bridge.  So  down  with  my  heart 
that  Beale  made  was  there  ready  to  carry  him)  40  full  of  trouble  to  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower, 
yet  he  would  go  in  my  Lord's  barge  with  the  who  tells  me  it  begun  this  morning  in  the  King's 
two  Dukes.  Our  Captn.  steered,  and  my  Lord  baker's  house  in  Puddine-lane,  and  that  it 
went  along  bare  with  him.  I  went,  and  Mr.  hath  burned  down  St.  Magnes  Church^  and 
Mansell,  and  one  of  the  King's  footmen,  and  a  most  part  of  Fish-street  already.  So  I  down  to 
dog  that  the  king  loved,  in  a  boat  by  ourselves,  45  the  water-side,  and  there  got  a  boat,  and 
and  so  got  on  shore  when  the  King  did,  who  through  bridge,  and  there  saw  a  lamentable 
was  received  by  General  Monk  with  all  imagi-  fire.  Poor  Michell's  house,  as  far  as  the  Old 
nable  love  and  respect  at  his  entrance  upon  the  Swan,'  already  burned  that  way,  and  the 
land  of  Dover,  Infinite  the  crowd  of  people  fire  running  further,  that  in  a  very  little  time 
and  the  horsemen,  citizens,  and  noblemen  of  50  it  got  as  far  as  the  Steele-yard,  while  I  was 
all  sorts.  The  Mayor  of  the  town  come  and  there.  Everybody  endeavouring  to  remove 
give  him  his  white  staff,  the  badge  of  his  place,  their  goods,  and  flinging  into  the  river,  or 
which  the  King  did  give  him  again.  The  Mayor  bringing  them  into  lighters  that  lay  off;  poor 
also  presented  him  from  the  town  a  very  rich  people  staying  in  their  houses  as  long  as  tilL 
Bible,  which  he  took,  and  said  it  was  the  thing  55 
that  he  loved  above  all  things  in  the  world.         l^^h^'^^^^i   ,r    ,       rr.,-    ,      ,  ,, 

A  .,,.,.  °  ,.       J         ,  ^  St.  Magnus  the  Martyr.    This  church  was  on  the  corner 

A  canopy  was  provided  for  him  to  stand  under,       of  Fish  Street  Hill  and  was  very  near  to  the  London 

Bridge. 
*  "Ornamental  rolls  which  terminated  the  breeches  or  'A    well-known    tavern    not    far   from    Old    London 

hose  at  the  knee."    Cent.  Diet.  Bridge. 


SAMUEL  PEPYS  293 

the  very  fire  touched  them,  and  then  running  tracted,  and  no  manner  of  means  used  to 
into  boats,  or  clambering  from  one  pair  of  quench  the  fire.  The  houses  too  so  very  thick 
stairs  by  the  water-side  to  another.  And  thereabouts,  and  full  of  matter  for  burning,  as 
among  other  things,  the  poor  pigeons,  I  per-  pitch  and  tar,  in  Thames-street:  and  warehouses 
ceive,  were  loth  to  leave  their  houses,  but  5  of  oil,  and  wines,  and  brandy,  and  other 
hovered  about  the  windows  and  balconys,  till  things.  .  .  .  Having  seen  as  much  as  I  could 
they  burned  their  wings  and  fell  down.  Having  now,  I  away  to  White  Hall  by  appointment,  and 
staid,  and  in  an  hour's  time  seen  the  fire  rage  there  walked  to  St.  James'  Park,  and  there  met 
every  way,  and  nobody,  to  my  sight,  endeavour-  my  wife  and  Creed  and  Wood  and  his  wife,  and 
ing  to  quench  it,  but  to  remove  their  goods,  lo  walked  to  my  boat;  and  there  upon  the  water 
and  leave  all  to  the  fire,  and  having  seen  it  get  again,  and  to  the  fire  up  and  down,  it  still 
as  far  as  the  Steele-yard,*  and  the  wind  mighty  encreasing,  and  the  wind  great.  So  near  the 
high,  and  driving  it  into  the  city;  and  every-  fire  as  we  could  for  smoke;  and  all  over  the 
thing  after  so  long  a  drouth  proving  combustible,  Thames,  with  one's  faces  in  the  wind,  you 
even  the  very  stones  of  churches,  and  among  15  were  almost  burned  with  a  shower  of  fire- 
other  things,  the  poor  steeple  by  which  pretty      drops.     This  is  very  true;  so  as  houses  were 

Mrs. lives,  and  whereof  my  old  school-      burned   by   these   drops   and   flakes   of   fire, 

fellow  Elborough  is  parson,  taken  fire  in  the  three  or  four,  nay  five  or  six  houses,  one  from 
very  top,  and  there  burned  till  it  fell  down:  another.  When  we  could  endure  no  more 
I  to  White  Hall  (with  a  gentleman  with  me,  20  upon  the  water,  we  to  a  little  ale-house  on 
who  desired  to  go  off  from  the  Tower,  to  see  the  the  Bankside,^  over  against  the  Three  Cranes, 
fire,  in  my  boat);  and  there  up  to  the  King's  and  there  staid  till  it  was  dark  almost,  and 
closet  in  the  Chapel,  where  people  come  about  saw  the  fire  grow,  and  as  it  grew  darker, 
me;  and  I  did  give  them  an  account  dismayed  appeared  more  and  more,  and  in  corners  and 
them  all,  and  word  was  carried  in  to  the  King.  25  upon  steeples,  and  between  churches  and 
So  I  was  called  for,  and  did  tell  the  King  and  houses,  as  far  as  we  could  see  up  the  hill  of 
the  Duke  of  York  what  I  saw,  and  that  unless  the  city,  in  a  most  horrid  malicious  bloody 
his  Majesty  did  command  houses  to  be  pulled  flame,  not  like  the  fine  flame  of  an  ordinary 
down,  nothing  could  stop  the  fire.  They  fire.  Barbary  and  her  husband  away  before 
seemed  much  troubled,  and  the  King  com-  30  us.  We  staid  till,  it  being  darkish,  we  saw  the 
manded  me  to  go  to  my  Lord  Mayor  from  him,  fire  as  only  one  entire  arch  of  fire  from  this  to 
and  command  him  to  spare  no  houses,  but  to  the  other  side  the  bridge,  and  in  a  bow  up  the 
pull  down  before  the  fire  every  way.  The  hill  for  an  arch  of  above  a  mile  long;  it  made 
Duke  of  York  bid  me  tell  him,  that  if  he  would  me  weep  to  see  it.  The  churches,  houses,  and 
have  any  more  soldiers,  he  shall;  and  so  did  my  35  all  on  fire,  and  flaming  at  once,  and  a  horrid 
Lord  Arlington  afterwards,  as  a  great  secret,  noise  the  flames  made,  and  the  cracking  of 
Here  meeting  with  Captain  Cocke,  I  in  his  houses  at  their  ruin.  So  home  with  a  sad 
coach,  which  he  lent  me,  and  Creed  with  me  to  heart,  and  there  find  everybody  discoursing 
Paul's,  and  there  walked  along  Watling-street,  and  lamenting  the  fire! 
as  well  as  I  could,  every  creature  coming  away  40 

loaden  with  goods  to  save,  and  here  and  there  THE  LAST  ENTRY  IN  PEPYS'  DIARY 
sick  people  carried  away  in  beds.  Extraor- 
dinary good  good.4  carried  in  carts  and  on  Slst.^  Up  very  betimes,  and  continued  all 
backs.  At  last  met  by  Lord  Mayor  in  Canning-  the  morning  with  W.  Hewer,  upon  examining 
street,  like  a  man  spent,  with  a  handkercher  45  and  stating  my  accounts,  in  order  to  the  fitting 
about  his  neck,  'to  the  King's  message,  he  myself  to  go  abroad  beyond  sea,  which  the  ill 
cried  like  a  fainting  woman,  "Lord!  what  can  condition  of  my  eyes  and  my  neglect  for  a 
I  do?  I  am  spent:  people  will  not  obey  me.  year  or  two  hath  kept  me  behind-hand  in, 
I  have  been  pulling  down  houses;  but  the  fire  and  so  as  to  render  it  very  difficult  now  and 
overtakes  us  faster  than  we  can  do  it."  That  50  troublesome  to  my  mind  to  do  it:  but  I  this 
he  needed  no  more  soldiers;  and  that,  for  him-  day  made  a  satisfactory  entrance  therein, 
self,  he  must  go  and  jefresh  himself,  having  been  Had  another  meeting  with  the  Duke  of  York 
up  all  night.  So  he  left  me,  and  I  him,  and  at  White  Hall  on  yesterday's  work,  and  made 
walked  home;  seeirig  people  all  almost  dis-  a  good  advance:  and  so  being  called  by  my 
!                                              55  wife,  we  to  the  Park,  Mary  Batelier,  and  a 

« Formerly  the  headqi^arters  in  England  of  the  Han-  Dutch  gentleman,  a  friend  of  hers,  being  with 

seatic  League,  and  hencte  called  the  "Guildhall  of  the  =•                "^pu^ 'TO'r.rlrl'a  TT'nrI  "  n  rlrinli-ino-- 

Germans."     It  was  sitUiUed  on  the  river-front  west  of  US.     Ihence  tO     The  World  S  il^nd,     a  dimkmg- 

London  Bridge:  the  fire  ,  (which  had  begun  east  of  the  b  On  the  southern  or  Surrey,  side  of  the  river, 

bridge,  near  Billingsgate)  was  therefore  spreadmg  west-  ^f     L      vfl^       ourrey, 

ward.                                   ^  ^  May  31st,  1669. 


294 


DRYDEN   TO  THE   DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


house  by  the  Park;  and  there  merry,  and  so 
home  late.  And  thus  ends  all  that  I  doubt 
I  shall  ever  be  able  to  do  with  my  own  eyes 
in  the  keeping  of  my  Journall,  I  being  not  able 
to  do  it  any  longer,  having  done  now  so  long 
as  to  undo  my  eyes  almost  every  time  that  I 
take  a  pen  in  my  hand;  and  therefore,  what 
ever  comes  of  it,  I  must  forbear:  and  therefore 
resolve  from  this  time  forward  to  have  it  kept 
by  my  people  in  long-hand,  and  must  be  con- 
tented to  set  down  no  more  than  is  fit  for  them 
and  all  the  world  to  know;  or  if  there  be  any- 
thing, I  must  endeavour  to  keep  a  margin  in 
my  book  open,  to  add  here  and  there  a  note  in 
short-hand  with  my  own  hand.  And  so  I 
betake  myself  to  that  course,  which  is  almost 
as  much  as  to  see  myself  go  into  my  grave; 
for  which,  and  all  the  discomforts  that  will  ac- 
company my  being  blind,  the  God  prepare 
me!  S.  P. 

THE  AGE  OF  POPE 

1664-1721 

TO  A  CHILD  OF  QUALITY  FIVE  YEARS 
OLD.    MDCCIV 

THE    AUTHOR  THEN    FORTY 

(From  Poems  on  Several  Occasions,  1709) 

Lords,  knights,  and  'squires  the  numerous  band, 
That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters, 

Were  summoned  by  her  high  command. 
To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters. 

My  pen  among  the  rest  I  took,  5 

Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 

Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obeyed. 


For,  as  our  different  ages  move,  23 

'Tis  so  ordained,  (would  Fate  but  mend  it!) 

That  I  shall  be  past  making  love, 
When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 


A  BETTER  ANSWER 

Dear  Chloe,  how  blubbered  is  that  pretty  face! 
Thy  cheek  all  on  fire,  and  thy  hair  all  un- 
curled: 
lOPr'ythee  quit  this  caprice;  and  (as  old  Falstaff 


20 


N^or  quality,  nor  reputation. 
Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell, 

Dear  five  years  old  befriends  my  passion, 
And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 


10 


For,  while  she  makes  her  silk-worm's  beds, 
With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear; 

Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads,  15 

In  papers  round  her  baby's  hair; 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame, 
For  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know 
it. 

She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 

And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet.  20 

Then,  too,  alas!  when  she  shall  tear 
The  lines  some  younger  rival  sends; 

She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 
And  we  shall  still  continue  frieiids. 


Let  us  e'en  talk  a  little  like  folks  of  this 
world. 

How  cans' t  thou  presume,   thou  hast  leave 
15         to  destroy  5 

The  beauties,  which  Venus  but  lent  to  thy 
keeping? 
Those  looks  were  designed  to  inspire  love  and 
joy: 
More  ordinary  eyes  may  serve  people  for 
weeping. 

To  be  vexed  at  a  trifle  or  two  that  I  writ. 
Your  judgment  at  once,  and  my  passion  you 
wrong:  lo 

You  take  that  for  fact,  which  will  scarce  be 
found  wit: 
Odds  life!  must  one  swear  to  the  truth  of  a 
song? 

What  I  speak,  my  fair  Chloe,  and  what  I  write, 
shows 
The  difference  there  is  betwixt  nature  and 
art: 
I  court  others  in  verse;  but  I  love  thee  in  prose: 
And  they  have  my  whimsies;  but  thou  hast 
my  heart.  16 

The  god  of  us  verse-men  (you  know,  Child) 
the  sun. 

How  after  his  journeys  he  sets  up  his  rest; 
If  at  morning  o'er  earth  'tis  his  fancy  to  run; 

At  night  he  reclines  on  his  Thetis's  breast.  20 

So  when  I  am  wearied  with  wandering  all  day; 

To  thee,  my  delight,  in  the  evening  I  come: 
No  matter  what  beauties  1  saw  in  my  way: 

They  were  but  my  visits,  but  thou  art  my 
home. 

Then  finish,  dear  Chloe,  this  pastoral  war;     25 
And  let  us  like  Horace  and  Lydia  agree: 

For  thou  art  a  girl  as  much  brighter  than  her, 
As  he  was  a  poet  sublim(;r  than  me. 


Iflonatlian  ^toift 

1667-17  \5 

IN  SICKNESS 

(Written  in  Ireland  in  October,  1714) 

'Tis  true— then  why  should  I  repine 
To  see  my  life  so  fast  decline? 
But  why  obscurely  here  alone. 
Where  I  am  neither  IcA^ed  nor  known? 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 


295 


My  state  of  health  none  care  to  learn,  5 

My  life  is  here  no  soul's  concern; 

And  those  with  whom  I  now  converse 

Without  a  tear  will  tend  my  hearse. 

Removed  from  kind  Arbuthnot's  aid,^ 

Who  knows  his  art  but  not  his  trade,  10 

Preferring  his  regard  for  me 

Before  his  credit  or  his  fee. 

Some  formal  visits,  looks,  and  words, 

What  mere  humanity  affords, 

I  meet,  perhaps,  from  three  or  four  15 

From  whom  I  once  expected  more, 

Which  those  who  tend  the  sick  for  pay 

Can  act  as  decently  as  they; 

But  no  obliging  tender  friend 

To  help  at  my  approaching  end.  20 

My  life  is  now  a  burden  grown 

To  others,  ere  it  be  my  own. 

Ye  formal  weepers  for  the  sick, 
In  your  last  oflSces  be  quick, 
And  spare  my  absent  friends  the  grief        25 
To  hear,  yet  give  me  no  relief; 
Expired  to-day,  intombed  tomorrow, 
When  known,  will  save  a  double  sorrow. 

THE   DAY  OF  JUDGMENT  . 

With  a  whirl  of  thought  oppress'd, 

I  sunk  from  reverie  to  rest. 

A  horrid  vision  seiz'd  my  head, 

I  saw  the  graves  give  up  their  dead! 

Jove,  armed  with  terrors,  bursts  the  skies,       5 

And  thunder  roars  and  lightning  flies! 

Amaz'd,  confus'd,  its  fate  unknown. 

The  world  stands  trembling  at  his  throne! 

While  each  pale  sinner  hung  his  head, 

Jove,  nodding,  shook  the  heavens,  and  said:     10 

''Offending  race  of  human  kind. 

By  nature,  reason,  learning,  blind; 

You  who,  through  frailty,  stepp'd  aside; 

And  you,  who  never  fell  from  pride: 

You  who  in  different  sects  were  shamm'd,     15 

And  come  to  see  each  other  damn'd: 

(So  some  folk  told  you,  but  they  knew 

No  more  of  Jove's  designs  than  you;) 

— The  world's  mad  business  now  is  o'er, 

And  I  resent  these  pranks  no  more.  20 

— I  to  such  blockheads  set  my  wit! 

I  damn  such  fools! — Go,  go,  you're  bit." 

1672-1719 

ODE.  "THE    SPACIOUS    FIRMAMENT" 

(From  the  Spectator,  No.  465,  1712) 
The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky. 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim: 
The  unwearied  sun  from  day  to  day         5 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 
1  A  distinguished  physician,  and  friend  of  Swift,  Pope, 
etc.    See  Pope's  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  p.  304. 


Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale,    10 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth; 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets,  in  their  turn. 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll,  15 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball? 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found?  20 

In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
For  ever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
"The  hand  that  made  us  is  Divine." 


CATO'S  SOLILOQUY 

(From  Cato,  1713) 

Cato.     It  must  be  so — Plato,  thou  reason'st 

well!— 
Else,  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality? 
Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward  horror. 
Of  falling  into  naught?    Why  shrinks  the  soul  5 
Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction? 
'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us; 
'Tis  heaven  itself,  that  points  out  an  hereafter, 
And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 
Eternity!  thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought!     10 
Through  what  variety  of  untried  being. 
Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we 

pass! 
The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before 

me; 
But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 
Here  Willi  hold.    If  there's  a  power  above  us  15 
(And  that  there  is  all  nature  cries  aloud 
Through  all  her  works),  he  must  delight  in 

virtue; 
And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy. 
But  when?  or  where?— This  world  was  made  for 

Caesar.  19 

I'm  weary  of  conjectures — This  must  end  'em. 
Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 

Thus  am  I  doubly  armed:  my  death  and  life, 
My  bane  and  antidote  are  both  before  me: 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an  end; 
But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 
The  soul,  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles        25 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years. 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth. 
Unhurt  amidst  the  war  of  elements,  30 

The  wrecks  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds. 

What  means  this  heaviness  that  hangs  upon 
me? 
This  lethargy  that  creeps  through  all  my  senses? 
Nature,    oppressed    and    harassed    out    with 

care, 
Sinks  down  to  rest.     This  once  I'll  favour 
her,  35 


296 


DRYDEN   TO   THE   DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


That  my  awakened  soul  may  take  her  flight. 
Renewed  in  all  her  strength,  and  fresh  with  life, 
An  offering  fit  for  heaven.    Let  guilt  or  fear 
Disturb  man's  rest:  Cato  knows  neither  of  'em. 
Indifferent  in  his  choice  to  sleep  or  die.  40 

aHeranuer  ^ope 

1688-1744 

THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCRi 

(Final  version  published  1717) 

Canto  I 

What  dire  offence  from  am'rous  causes  springs, 
What  mighty  contests  rise  from  trivial  things, 
I  sing.— This  verse  to  Gary  11,  Muse!  is  due; 
This,  ev'n  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view; 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise,         5 
If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays. 
Say  what  strange  motive,  goddess!  could  com- 
pel 
A  well-bred  lord  t'  assault  a  gentle  belle? 
O  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unexplored, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord?  10 

In  tasks  so  bold,  can  little  men  engage. 
And  in  soft  bosoms,  dwells  such  mighty  rage? 
Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a  tim'rous 
ray, 
And  op'd  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the  day; 
Now    lap-dogs    give   themselves   the   rousing 
shake,  15 

And  sleepless  lovers,  just  at  twelve,  awake: 
Thrice  rung  the  bell,  the  slipper  knock'd  the 

ground. 
And  the  pressed  watch  returned  a  silver  sound. 
Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  pressed. 
Her  guardian  sylph  prolonged  the  balmy  rest: 
'Twas  he  had  summoned  to  her  silent  bed  2 1 
The  morning  dream  that  hovered  o'er  her  head, 
A  youth  more  glitt'ring  than  a  birth-night^ 

beau, 
(That  ev'n  in  slumber  caused  her  cheek  to  glow) 
Seemed  to  her  ear  his  winning  lips  to  lay,         25 
And  thus  in  whispers  said,  or  seemed  to  say. 

"Fairest  of  mortals,  thou  distinguished  care 
Of  thousand  bright  inhabitants  of  air! 
If  e'er  one  vision  touched  thy  infant  thought, 
Of  all  the  nurse  and  all  the  priest  have  taught; 
Of  airy  elves  by  moonlight  shadows  seen,       31 
The  silver  token,  and  the  circled  green, 
Or  virgins  visited  by  angel-pow'rs. 
With  golden  crowns  and  wreaths  of  heav'nly 
flow'rs;  ^  34 

Hear  and  believe!  thy  own  importance  know, 
Nor  bound  thy  narrow  views  to  things  below. 

'  This  poem  was  written  at  the  request  of  a  Mr.  Caryl. 
One  Lord  Petre  had  contrived  to  abstract  a  lock  of 
Mistress  Arabella  Fermor's  hair,  and  as  a  result,  the 
families  of  the  daring  lord  and  the  offended  beauty  had 
become  estranged.  Mr.  Caryl,  anxious  to  restore  iieace, 
asked  Pope  to  write  a  poem  which  should  suggest  to  both 
sides  the  absurdity  of  quarreling  over  so  trifling  an 
affair. 

*  The  dressing  at  the  court  balls  pven  to  celebrate  the 
birthdays  of  members  of  the  royal  family  was  unusually 
splendid. 


Some  secret  truths,  from  learned  pride  con- 
cealed, 
To  maids  alone  and  children  are  revealed. 
What  though  no  credit  doubting  wits  may 

give? 
The  fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe.        40 
Know  then,  unnumbered  spirits  round  thee  fly, 
The  light  militia  of  the  lower  sky: 
These,  though  unseen,  are  ever  on  the  wing, 
Hang  o'er  the  box,^  and  hover  round  the  ring. 
Think  what  an  equipage  thou  hast  in  air,        45 
And  view  with  scorn  two  pages  and  a  chair. 
As  now  your  own,  our  beings  were  of  old. 
And  once  inclosed  in  woman's  beauteous  mould ; 
Thence,  by  a  soft  transition,  we  repair 
From  earthly  vehicles  to  these  of  air.  50 

Think  not,  when  woman's  transient  breath  is 

fled. 
That  all  her  vanities  at  once  are  dead; 
Succeeding  vanities  she  still  regards. 
And  though  she  plays  no  more,  o'erlooks  the 

cards. 
Her  joy  in  gilded  chariots,  when  alive,  55 

And  love  of  ombre,  after  death  survive. 
For  when  the  fair  in  all  their  pride  expire, 
To  their  first  elements,  their  souls  retire: 
The  sprites  of  fiery  termagants  in  flame 
Mount  up,  and  take  a  salamander's  name.     60 
Soft  yielding  minds  to  water  glide  away. 
And  sip,  with  nymphs,  their  elemental  tea. 
The  graver  prude  sinks  downward  to  a  gnome. 
In  search  of  mischief  still  on  earth  to  roam. 
The  light  coquettes  in  sylphs  aloft  repair,      65 
And  sport  and  flutter  in  the  fields  of  air. 

"Know  further  yet;  whoever  fair  and  chaste 
Rejects  mankind,  is  by  some  sylph  embraced: 
For  spirits,  freed  from  mortal  laws,  with  ease 
Assume   what  sexes  and   what  shapes  they 

please.  70 

What  guards  the  purity  of  melting  maids, 
In  courtly  balls,  and  midnight  masquerades, 
Safe  from  the  treach'rous  friend,  the  dariog 

spark. 
The  glance  by  day,  the  whisper  in  the  dark. 
When  kind  occasion  prompts  their  warm  dcj 

sires,  75 

When  music  softens,  and  when  dancing  fires? 

'Tis  but  their  sylph,  the  wise  celestials  know. 

Though  honour  is  the  word  with  men  below. 

Some  nymphs  there  are,  too  conscious  of 

their  face, 
For  life  predestined  to  the  gnomes'  embrace.  80 
These  swell  their  prospects  and  exalt  their 

pride. 
When  offers  are  disdained,  and  love  denied: 
Then  gay  ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 
While  peers,  and  dukes,  and  all  their  sweeping 

train. 
And  garters,  stars,  and  coronets  appear,        85 
And  in  soft  sounds,  'Your  Grace'  salutes  their 

ear. 
'Tis  these  that  early  taint  the  female  soul, 
Instruct  the  eyes  of  young  coquettes  to  roll, 

'  "  The  Box,  at  the  theatre,  and  the  Ring  in  Hyde  Park 
are  frequently  mentioned  as  the  two  principal  places  for 
the  display  of  beauty  and  fashion."    (Elwin). 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


29: 


Teach  infant-cheeks  a  bidden  blush  to  know, 

And  little  hearts  to  flutter  at  a  beau.  90 

"Off,  when  the  world  imagine  women  stray, 

The  sylphs  through  mystic  mazes  guide  their 

way; 
Through  all  the  giddy  circle  they  pursue, 
And  old  impertinence  expel  by  new. 
What  tender  maid  but  must  a  victim  fall        95 
To  one  man's  treat,  but  for  another's  ball? 
When  Florio  speaks  what  virgin  could  with- 
stand, 
If  gentle  Damon  did  not  squeeze  her  hand? 
With  varying  vanities,  from  ev'ry  part. 
They  shift  the  moving  toyshop  of  their  heart; 
Where  wigs  with  wigs,  with  sword-knots  sword- 
knots  strive,  101 
Beaus  banish  beaus,  and  coaches  coaches  drive. 
This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call; 
Oh  blind  to  truth!  the  sylphs  contrive  it  all. 

"Of  these  am  1,  who  thy  protection  claim,  105 
A  watchful  sprite,  and  Ariel  is  my  name. 
Late,  as  I  ranged  the  crystal  wilds  of  air, 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  thy  ruling  star 
1  saw,  alas!  some  dread  event  impend, 
Ere  to  the  main  this  morning  sun  descend.      110 
But  heaven  reveals  not  what,  or  how,  or  where: 
Warned  by  the  sylph,  oh  pious  maid,  beware! 
This  to  disclose  is  all  thy  guardian  can: 
Beware  of  all,  but  most  beware  of  man  I " 

He  said ;  when  Shock,  who  thought  she  slept 

too  long,  1 1 5 

Leaped  up,  and  waked  his  mistress  with  his 

tongue. 
'Twas  then,  Belinda,  if  report  say  true. 
Thy  eyes  first  opened  on  a  billet-doux; 
Wounds,  charms,  and  ardours,  were  no  sooner 

read, 
But  all  the  vision  vanished  from  thy  head.     120 
And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  dis- 
played, 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  rob'd  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores, 
With  head  uncover'd,  the  cosmetic  pow'rs. 
A  heaV'nly  image  in  the  glass  appears,  125 

To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears; 
'Th'  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side. 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  off 'rings  of  the  world  appear;     130 
From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil, 
And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glitt'ring  spoil. 
This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks. 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box, 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite,  135 

Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled  and  the 

white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puffs,  powders,  patches.  Bibles,  billets-doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms,     140 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  ev'ry  grace, 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face; 
Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise. 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care, 
These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide  the  hair, 


Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait  the 
gown;  147 

And  Betty's  praised  for  labors  not  her  own. 

Canto  II 
Not  with  more  glories,  in  th'  ethereal  plain. 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main, 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 
Fairy  nymphs,  and  well-dressed  youths  around 
her  shone,  5 

But  ev'ry  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those.       10 
Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike. 
And,  hke  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to 
hide;  I6 

If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall. 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  'em  all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind. 
Nourished    two    locks,    which   graceful   hung 
behind  20 

In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck, 
With  shining  ringlets,  the  smooth  iv'ry  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains. 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray,         25 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey. 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  insnare. 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 

Th'  advent'rous  baron  the  bright  locks  ad- 
mired ; 
He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  prize  aspired.    30 
Resolv'd  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way, 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray; 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends, 
Few  ask,  if  fraud  or  force  attained  his  ends. 

For  this,  ere  Phcebus  rose,  he  had  implored 
Propitious  heav'n,  and  ev'ry  pow'r  adored,    36 
But  chiefly  Love — to  Love  an  altar  built, 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of  gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves;         40 
With  tender  billets-doux  he  lights  the  pyre, 
And  breathes  three  am'rous  sighs  to  raise  the 

fire. 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent  eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize: 
The  pow'rs  gave  ear,  and  granted  half  his 
pray'r,  .        ^5 

The  rest,  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides. 
The  sun-beams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides: 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  softened  sounds  along  the  waters  die;      50 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently  play, 
Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 
ill  but  the  sylph— with  careful  thoughts  op- 


Th'  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 


298 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


He  summons  strait  his  denizens  of  air;  55 

The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  repair: 
Soft  o'er  the  shrouds  aerial  whispers  breathe, 
That  seemed  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  beneath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect-wings  unfold, 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold ;  GO 
Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal  sight, 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolv'd  in  light, 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew, 
Thin  glitt'ring  textures  of  the  filmy  dew, 
Dipped  m  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies,     65 
Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling  dyes; 
While  ev'ry  beam  new  transient  colours  flings. 
Colours  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their 

wings. 
Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast, 
Superior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  plac'd;        70 
His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun. 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun: 
"Ye  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  your  chief  give 

ear! 
Fays,  fairies,  genii,  elves,  and  demons,  hear! 
Ye  know  the  spheres  and  various  tasks  as- 
signed 75 
By  laws  eternal  to  th'  aerial  kind. 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  ether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day. 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs  on 

high. 
Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless  sky;  80 
Some  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  light 
Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the  night, 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below, 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow. 
Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry  main,  85 
Or  o'er  the  glebe  distil  the  kindly  rain. 
Others  on  earth  o'er  human  race  preside. 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions  guide: 
Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  own, 
And  guard  with  arms  divine  the  British  throne. 
"Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the  fair,  91 
Not  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious  care; 
To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale. 
Nor  let  th'  imprisoned  essences  exhale; 
To  draw  fresh  colours  from  the  vernal  flow'rs,  95 
To  steal  from  rainbows  ere  they  drop  in  show'rs 
A  brighter  wash  to  curl  their  waving  hairs, 
Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs; 
Nay,  oft,  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow, 
To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow .  l  oo 

"This  day,  black  omens  threat  the  brightest 

fair 
That  e'er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit's  care; 
Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force,  or  slight; 
But  what,  or  where,  the  fates  have  wrapped  in 

night. 
Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's  law. 
Or  some  frail  China  jar  receive  a  flaw;  106 

Or  stain  her  honour,  or  her  new  brocade; 
Forget  her  pray'rs,  or  miss  a  masquerade; 
Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace,  at  a  ball; 
Or  whether  heav'n  has  doom'd  that  Shock 

must  fall.  110 

Haste,  then,  ye  spirits!  to  your  charge  repair: 
The  flutt'ring  fan  be  Zephyretta's  care; 
The  drops  to  thee,  Brillante,  we  consign; 


And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine; 

Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  fav'rite  lock;    115 

Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock. 

"To  fifty  chosen  Sylphs,  of  special  note, 
We  trust  th'  important  charge,  the  petticoat: 
Oft  have  we  known  that  seven-fold  fence  to  fail. 
Though  stiff  with  hoops  and  armed  with  ribs  of 

whale; 
Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound,  121 
And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around. 

"Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge. 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large. 
Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o'ertake  his 
sins,  125 

Be  stopped  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with  pins; 
Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie. 
Or  wedged,  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye; 
Gums  and  pomatums  shall  his  flight  restrain, 
While  clogged  he  beats  his  silken  wings  in  vain; 
Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  pow'r,     131 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  ri veiled  flower; 
Or,  as  Ixion  fixed,  the  wretch  shall  feel 
The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill, 
In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow,     135 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below!" 

He  spoke;  the  spirits  from  the  sails  descend: 
Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  extend; 
Some  thrid  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair; 
Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her  ear;     140 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they  wait. 
Anxious,  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  fate. 

Canto  HI 
Close  by  those  meads,  for  ever  crowned  with 

flow'rs. 
Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his  rising 

tow'rs. 
There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame, 
Which  from  the  neighb'ring  Hampton*  takes 

its  name. 
Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants,  and  of  nymphs  at  home ;       6 
Here  thou,  great  Anna!  whom  three  realms 

obey, 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  sometimes 

tea. 
Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort. 
To  taste  a  while  the  pleasures  of  a  court;         10 
In  various  talk  th'  instructive  hours  they  passed ; 
Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last; 
One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  Queen, 
And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian  screen; 
A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyes;     15 
At  ev'ry  word  a  reputation  dies. 
Snuff,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of  chat, 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 

Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day, 
The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray;       20 
The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign. 
And  wretches  hang  that  jury-men  may  dine; 
The  merchant  from  th'  Exchange  returns  in 

peace,  \ 

And  the  long  labours  of  the  toilet  cease. 
Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites,     25 
Burns  to  encounter  two  advent'rous  knights, 
'  The  Royal  pa' ace  of  Hampton  C!ourt. 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


299 


At  ombre^  singly  to  decide  their  doom; 

And  swells  her  breast  with  conquests  yet  to 

come. 
Straight  the  three  bands  prepare  in  arms  to 

join, 
Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  nine.    30 
Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  th'  aerial  guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card: 
First  Ariel  perched  upon  a  Matadore, 
Then  each  according  to  the  rank  they  bore; 
For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient  race,  35 
Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of  place. 

Behold  four  kings  in  majesty  revered, 
With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forky  beard; 
And  four  fair  queens  whose  hands  sustain  a 

flow'r, 
Th'  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer  pow'r;  40 
Four  knaves  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty  band; 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their  hand; 
And  parti-coloured  troops,  a  shining  train, 
Draw  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 
The  skilful  nymph  reviews  her  force  with  care: 
Let  spades  be  trumps!  she  said,  and  trumps 

they  were.  46 

Now  move  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 
In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  lord! 
Led  off  two  captive  trumps,  and  swept  the 

board.  50 

As  many  more  Manillio  forced  to  yield, 
And  marched  a  victor  from  the  verdant  field. 
Him  Basto  followed,  but  his  fate  more  hard 
Gained  but  one  trump  and  one  plebeian  card. 
With  his  broad  sabre  next,  a  chief  in  years,     55 
The  hoary  majesty  of  spades  appears. 
Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  revealed. 
The  rest  his  many  coloured  robe  concealed. 
The  rebel  knave,  who  dares  his  prince  engage, 
Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage.  60 

Ev'n  mighty  Pam,"  that  kings  and  queens  o'er- 

threw, 
And  mowed  down  armies  in  the  fights  of  loo, 
Sad  chance  of  war!  now  destitute  of  aid. 
Falls  undistinguished  by  the  victor  spade! 

Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield;         65 
Now  to  the  baron  fate  inclines  the  field. 
His  warlike  Amazon  her  host  invades, 
Th'  imperial  consort  of  the  crown  of  spades. 
The  club's  black  tyrant  first  her  victim  died. 
Spite   of   his   haughty   mien,    and   barb'rous 

pride:  70 

What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head, 
His  giant  limbs,  in  state  unwieldy  spread; 
That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pom.pous  robe, 
And  of  all  monarchs  only  grasps  the  globe? 

The  baron  now  his  diamonds  pours  apace!  75 
Th'  embroidered  king  who  shows  but  half  his 

face. 
And  his  refulgent  queen,  with  pow'rs  combined, 
Of  broken  troops,  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  diamonds,  hearts,  in  wild  disorder  seen. 
With  throngs  promiscuous  strew  the  level  green. 
»  A  game  of  cards  of  Spanish  origin  played  by  three 
persons,  the  one  naming  the  trump  being  opposed  to  the 
other  two.  The  names  of  some  of  the  cards  are  given  in 
the  passage  following. 

'^  The  highest  card  in  the  game  of  Loo. 


Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs,     81 
Of  Asia's  troops,  and  Afric's  sable  sons. 
With  like  confusion  different  nations  fly. 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye; 
The  pierced  battalions  disunited  fall,  85 

In  heaps  on  heaps;  one  fate  o'erwhelms  them 

all. 
The  knave  of  diamonds  tries  his  wily  arts, 
And  wins  (oh  shameful  chance!)  the  queen  of 

hearts. 
At  this,  the  blood  the  virgin's  cheek  forsook, 
A  livid  paleness  spreads  o'er  all  her  look ;        90 
She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th'  approaching  ill. 
Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codille.^ 
And  now  (as  oft  in  some  distempered  state) 
On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  gen'ral  fate: 
An  ace  of  hearts  steps  forth :  the  king  unseen    95 
Lurked  in  her  hand,  an(i  mourned  his  captive 

queen: 
He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager  pace, 
And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate  ace. 
The  nymph  exulting  fills  with  shouts  the  sky; 
The  walls,  the  woods,  and  long  canals  reply.  lOO 
Oh  thoughtless  mortals!  ever  blind  to  fate. 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 
Sudden  these  honours  shall  be  snatched  away. 
And  cursed  for  ever  this  victorious  day. 

For  lo!  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is 

crowned,  105 

The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns  round; 
On  shining  altars  of  japan  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze: 
From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide. 
While    China's    earth    receives    the    smoking 

tide:  no 

At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste, 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band; 
Some,  as  she  sipped,  the  fuming  liquor  fanned. 
Some  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  dis- 
played, 115 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade. 
Coffee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise, 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half-shut 

eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapours  to  the  baron's  brain 
New  stratagems,  the  radiant  lock  to  gain.     120 
Ah  cease,  rash  youth!  desist  ere  'tis  too  late, 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate! 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair! 

But  when  "to  mischief  mortals  bend  their 

will, 
How  soon  they  find  fit  instrument  of  ill !         1  2G 
Just  then,  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting  grace 
A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining  case: 
So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight, 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight.  130 
He  takes  the  gift  with  rev'rence,  and  extends 
The  little  engine  on  his  fingers'  ends; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread, 
As  o'er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her  head. 
Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair;     135 
A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back  the 

hair; 

'  Failure  to  secure  the  requisite  tricks. 


300 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


And  thrice  they  twitched  the  diamond  in  her 

ear; 
Thrice  she  looked  back,  and  thrice  the  foe 

drew  near. 
Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought;     140 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined,. 
He  watched  th'  ideas  rising  in  her  mind. 
Sudden  he  viewed  in  spite  of  all  her  art. 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  pow'r  expired. 
Resigned  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired.     146 
The  peer  now  spreads  the  glitt'ring  forfex 

wide 
T'  inclose  the  lock;  now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
Ev'n  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed;       150 
Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in 

twain, 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again,) 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 
From  the  fair  head,  for  ever,  and  for  ever! 
Then  flashed  the  Hving  hghtning  from  her 

eyes,  155 

And  screams  of  horror  rend  th'  affrighted  skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  heav'n  are  cast. 
When    husbands,   or  when   lap-dogs   breathe 

their  last; 
Or  when  rich  China  vessels  fall'n  from  high, 
In  glitt'ring  dust,  and  painted  fragments  lie!  160 
"Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  my  temples 

twine," 
(The  victor  cried,)  "the  glorious  prize  is  mine! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air, 
Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair, 
As  long  as  Atalantis^  shall  be  read,  165 

Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed, 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days. 
When  num'rous  wax-lights  in  bright  order  blaze, 
While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations  give. 
So  long  my  honour,  name,  and  praise  shall 

live!"  170 

What  time  would  spare,  from  steel  receives 

its  date, 
And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate! 
Steel  could  the  labour  of  the  gods  destroy, 
And  strike  to  dust  th'  imperial  tow'rs  of  Troy; 
Steel  could   the  works  of  mortal  pride  con- 
found. 
And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground.     176 
WTiat  wonder  then,  fair  nymph!  thy  hair  should 

feel 
The  conqu'ring  force  of  unresisted  steel? 

Canto   IV 
But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph  oppressed, 
And  secret  passions  laboured  in  her  breast. 
Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive, 
Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  survive. 
Not  ardent  lovers  robbed  of  all  their  bliss,      5 
Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a  kiss, 
Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die, 
Not  Cynthia  when  her  manteau's  pinned  awry. 
E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  despair, 
As  thou,  sad  virgin!  for  thy  ravished  hair.     10 
«  A  popular  book  of  the  day. 


For,  that  sad  moment,  when  the  sylphs  with- 
drew. 
And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 
Umbriel,  a  dusky,  melancholy  sprite, 
As  ever  suHied  the  fair  face  of  light, 
Down  to  the  central  earth,  his  proper  scene,  15 
Repaired  to  search  the  gloomy  cave  of  Spleen. 
Swift  on  his  sooty  pinions  flits  the  gnome, 
And  in  a  vapour  reached  the  dismal  dome. 
No  cheerful  breeze  this  sullen  region  knows, 
The  dreaded  east  is  all  the  wind  that  blows,  20 
Here  in  a  grotto,  sheltered  close  from  air. 
And  screened  in  shades  from  day's  detested 

glare. 
She  sighs  for  ever  on  her  pensive  bed, 
Pain  at  her  side,  and  Megrim  at  her  head. 
Two  handmaids  wait  the  throne;  alike  in 
place,  25 

But  diff'ring  far  in  figure  and  in  face. 
Here  stood  Ill-nature  like  an  ancient  maid. 
Her  wrinkled  form  in  black  and  white  arrayed; 
With  store  of  pray'rs,  for  mornings,  nights,  and 

noons. 
Her  hand  is  filled;  her  bosom  with  lampoons.  30 

There  Affectation,  with  a  sickly  mien. 
Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen, 
Practised  to  lisp  and  hang  the  head  aside. 
Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride, 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  woe,    35 
Wrapt  in  a  gown,  for  sickness,  and  for  show. 
The  fair  ones  feel  such  maladies  as  these, 
When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a  new  disease. 

A  constant  vapour  o'er  the  palace  flies; 
Strange  phantoms  rising  as  the  mists  arise;    40 
Dreadful,  as  hermit's  dreams  in  haunted  shades. 
Or  bright,  as  visions  of  expiring  maids. 
Now   glaring   fiends,    and   snakes   on   rolling 

spires. 
Pale  spectres,  gaping  tombs,  and  purple  fires; 
Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes,        45 
And  crystal  domes,  and  angels  in  machines. 
Unnumbered  throngs  on  ev'ry  side  are  seen, 
Of  bodies  changed  to  various  forms  by  Spleen. 
Here    living   tea-pots    stand,  .one   arm    held 

out, 
One  bent;  the  handle  this,  and  that  the  spout; 
A  pipkin  there,  like  Homer's  tripod  walks;  51 
Here  sighs  a  jar,  and  there  a  goose-pye  talks; 
Men  prove  with  child,  as  pow'rful  fancy  works, 
And  maids  turned  bottles  call  aloud  for  corks. 
Safe  past  the  gnome  through  this  fantastic 
band,  55 

A  branch  of  healing  spleen  wort  in  his  hand. 
Then  thus  addressed  the  pow'r — "Hail,  way- 
ward queen! 
Who  rule  the  sex  to  fifty  from  fifteen; 
Parent  of  vapours  and  of  female  wit, 
Who  give  th'  hysteric,  or  poetic  fit,  60 

On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways, 
Make  some  take  physic,  others  scribble  plays; 
Who  cause  the  proud  their  visits  to  delay. 
And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray; 
A  nymph  there  is,  that  all  thy  pow'r  disdains,  65 
And  thousands  more  in  equal  mirth  maintains. 
But,  oh!  if  e'er  thy  gnome  could  spoil  a  grace- 
Or  raise  a  pimple  on  a  beauteous  face, 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


301 


Like  citron- waters^  matrons'  cheeks  inflame, 
Or  change  complexions  at  a  losing  game;  .... 
Or  caus'd  suspicion  when  no  soul  was  rude,     73 
Or  discompos'd  the  head-dress  of  a  prude, 
Or  e'er  to  costive  lapdog  gave  disease,  75 

Which  not  the  tears  of  brightest  eyes  could 

ease, 
Hear  me,  and  touch  Belinda  with  chagrin, 
That  single  act  gives  half  the  world  the  spleen." 

The  goddess  with  a  discontented  air 
Seems  to  reject  him,  though  she  grants  his 
,    pray'r.  80 

A  wond'rous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she 

binds, 
Like  that  where  once  Ulysses  held  the  winds; 
There  she  collects  the  force  of  female  lungs, 
Sighs,   sobs,   and   passions,   and   the  war  of 

tongues, 
A  phial  next  she  fills  with  fainting  fears,         85 
Soft  sorrows,  melting  griefs,  and  rlowing  tears. 
The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away. 
Spreads  his  black  wings,  and  slowly  mounts  to 

day. 
Sunk   in   Thalestris'   arms   the  nymph  he 

found- 
Her  eyes  dejected,  and  her  hair  unbound.      90 
Full  o'er  their  heads  the  swelling  bag  he  rent, 
And  all  the  furies  issued  at  the  vent. 
Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire, 
And  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fire. 
*'0  wretched  maid!"  she  spread  her  hands,  and 

cried,  95 

(While  Hampton's  echoes  "Wretched  maid!" 

replied,) 
"Was  it  for  this  you  took  such  constant  care 
The  bodkin,  comb,  and  essence  to  prepare? 
For  this  your  locks  in  paper  durance  bound? 
For  this  with  tort'ring  irons  wreathed  around? 
For    this   with    fillets    strained   your    tender 

head. 
And  bravely  bore  the  double  loads  of  lead?  102 
Gods!  shall  the  ravisher  display  your  hair. 
While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies  stare! 
Honour  forbid!  at  whose  unrivalled  shrine     105 
Ease,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign. 
Methinks  already  I  your  tears  survey, 
Already  hear  the  horrid  things  they  say, 
Already  see  you  a  degraded  toast, 
And  all  your  honour  in  a  whisper  lost!  no 

How  shall  I,  then,  your  helpless  fame  defend? 
'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend! 
And  shall  this  prize,  th'  inestimable  prize. 
Exposed  through  crystal  to  the  gazing  eyes, 
And  heightened  by  the  diamond's  circling  rays. 
On  that  rapacious  hand  for  ever  blaze?  1X6 

Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  Park  Circus  grow. 
And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of  Bow;^° 
Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall, 
Men,  monkeys,  lap-dogs,  parrots,  perish  all!" 
She  said;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  repairs,  121 
And  bids  her  beau  demand  the  precious  hairs: 

^  A  drink  composed  of  wine  with  the  rind  of  lemons  and 
citrons  in  it. 

">  i.  e.,  within  the  sound  of  the  bells  of  St.  Mary  le  Bow, 
an  old  and  famous  church  in  the  heart  of  London.  In 
Pope's  time  the  old  part  of  London  in  the  vicinity  of  this 
church  was  avoided  by  fashion  and  the  "wits." 


(Sir  Plume,"  of  amber  snufif-box  justly  vain, 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cane) 
With  earnest  eyes,  and  round  unthinking  face, 
He  first  the  snuff-box  opened,  then  the  case,  126 
And  thus  broke  out — "My  Lord,  why,  what 

the  devil! 
Zounds!  damn  the  lock!  'fore  Gad,  you  must  b& 

civil. 
Plague  on  't!  'tis  past  a  jest — nay  prithee,  pox! 
Give  her  the  hair" — ^he  spoke,  and  rapped  his 

box.  130 

"It  grieves  me  much,"  replied  the  peer 

again, 
"Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak  in  vain, 
But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock  I  swear, 
(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted  hair; 
Which  never  more  its  honours  shall  renew,  135 
Clipped  from  the  lovely  head  where  late  it  grew) 
That,  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air. 
This  hand,  which  won  it,  shall  for  ever  wear." 
He  spoke,  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph 

spread. 
The  long-contended  honours  of  her  head.  140 
But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome!  forbears  not  so; 
He  breaks  the  phial  whence  the  sorrows  flow. 
Then  see!  the  nymph  in  beauteous  grief  appears, 
Her    eyes   half-languishing,    half-drowned    in 

tears; 
On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping  head, 
Which,  with  a  sigh,  she  raised;  and  thus  she  said. 
"For  ever  cursed  be  this  detested  day,         147 
Which  snatched  my  best,  my  fav'rite  curl 

away! 
Happy!  ah  ten  times  happy  had  I  been. 
If  Hampton-Court  these  eyes  had  never  seen! 
Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid,  151 

By  love  of  courts  to  num'rous  ills  betrayed. 
Oh  had  I  rather  unadmired  remained 
In  some  lone  isle,  or  distant  northern  land. 
Where  the  gilt  chariot  never  marks  the  way,  155 
Where   none   learn   ombre,    none   e'er   taste 

boheal^^ 
There  kept  my  charms  concealed  from  mortal 

eye. 
Like  roses,  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 
What  moved  my  mind  with  youthful  lords  to 

roam? 
Oh  had  I  stayed,  and  said  my  pray'rs  at  home! 
'Twas  this,  the  morning  omens  seemed  to  tell. 
Thrice  from  my  trembling  hand  the  patch-box 

fell;  .  ^    162 

The  tott'ring  china  shook  without  a  wind, 
Nay,  Poll  sat  mute,  and  Shock  was  most  un- 
kind! 
A  sylph  too  warned  me  of  the  threats  of  fate,  165 
In  mystic  visions,  now  beheved  too  late! 
See  the  poor  remnants  of  these  slighted  hairs! 
My  hands  shall  rend  what  ev'n  thy  rapine 

spares: 
These  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to  break. 
Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy  neck;  170 
The  sister-lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone. 
And  in  its  fellows'  fate  foresees  its  own; 

11  Sir  George  Brown.  ...  ^ 

12  The  name  given  to  the  finest  tea  of  that  timei    Frc 
novinced  Bohay,  as  tea  was  pronounced  tay. 


302 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


Uncurled  it  hangs,  the  fatal  shears  demands. 
And  tempts,  once  more,  thy  sacrilegious  hands, 
Oh  hadst  thou,  cruel!  been  content  to  seize  175 
Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  these!" 

Canto  V 
She  said:  the  pitying  audience  melt  in  tears, 
But  fate  and  Jove  had  stopped  the  baron's  ears. 
In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails, 
For  who  can  move  when  fair  Belinda  fails? 
Not  half  so  fixed  the  Trojan  could  remain,      5 
While  Anna  begged  and  Dido  raged  in  vain. 
Then  grave  Clarissa  graceful  waved  her  fan; 
Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  began : 
^"Say,  why  are  beauties  praised  and  honoured 

most, 
The  wise  man's  passion,  and  the  vain  man's 
toast?  10 

Why  decked  with  all  that  land  and  sea  afford, 
Why  angels  called,  and  angel-like  adored? 
Why  round  our  coaches  crowd  the  white- 
gloved  beaux, 
Why  bows  the  side-box  from"  its  inmost  rows? 
How  vain  are  all  these  glories,  all  our  pains,  _  15 
Unless  good  sense  preserve  what  beauty  gains; 
That  men  may  say,  when  we  the  front  box 

grace. 
Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in  face! 
Oh!  if  to  dance  all  night,  and  dress  all  day, 
Charmed   the   small-pox,   or   chased   old   age 
away ;  20 

Who  would  not  scorn  what  housewife's  cares 

produce, 
Or  who  would  learn  one  earthly  thing  of  use? 
To  patch,  nay  ogle,  might  becom.e  a  saint, 
Nor  could  it  sure  be  such  a  sin  to  paint. 
But  since,  alas!  frail  beauty  must  decay,         25 
Curled  or  uncurled,  since  locks  will  turn  to  gray; 
Since  painted,  or  not  painted,  all  shall  fade. 
And  she  who  scorns  a  man,  must  die  a  maid; 
What  then  remains  but  well  our  pow'r  to  use, 
And  keep  good-humour,  still  whate'er  we  lose? 
And  trust  me,  dear!  good-humour  can  prevail. 
When  airs,  and  flights,  and  screams,  and  scold- 
ing fail,  .32 
Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may  roll; 
Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins  the 
soul." 
So  spoke  the  dame,  but  no  applause  ensued; 
Belinda  frowned,  Thalestris  called  her  prude.  36 
"To  arms,  to  arms! "  the  fierce  virago  cries. 
And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 
All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th'  attack; 
Fans  clap,  silks  rustle,  and  tough  whalebones 
crack;                                                           40 
Heroes'  and  heroines'  shouts  confus'dly  rise. 
And  base  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 
No  common  weapons  in  their  hands  are  found. 
Like  gods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a  mortal  wound. 
So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  en- 
gage,                                                                45 
And  heav'nly  breasts  with  human  passions  rage; 
'Gainst  Pallas,  Mars;  Latona,  Hermes  arms; 
And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms: 

"  In  the  theatres  the  gentlemen  occupied  the  side,  and 
the  ladies,  the  front  boxes. 


Jove's    thunder    roars,    heav'n    trembles    all 

around. 
Blue  Neptune  storms,  the  bellowing  deeps  re- 
sound: 50 
Earth  shakes  her  nodding  tow'rs,  the  ground 

gives  way. 
And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of  day! 

Triumphant  Umbriel  on  a  sconce's  height 
Clapped  his  glad  wings,  and  sate  to  view  the 

fight. 
Propped  on  their  bodkin  spears,  the  sprites 
survey  55 

The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray. 

While  through  the  press  enraged  Thalestris 
flies. 
And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her  eyes, 
A  beau  and  witling  perished  in  the  throng. 
One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song.  oo 

"O  cruel  nymph!  a  living  death  I  bear," 
Cried  Dapperwit,  and  sunk  beside  his  chair. 
A  mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upward  cast, 
"Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing" — was  his 

last. 
Thus  on  Meander's  flow'ry  margin  lies  05 

Th'  expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he  dies. 

When  bold  Sir  Plume  had  drawn  Clarissa 
down, 
Chloe  stepped  in,  and  killed  him  with  a  frown; 
She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 
But,  at  her  smile,  the  beau  revived  again.         70 

Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in  air. 
Weighs  the  men's  wits  against  the  lady's  hair; 
The  doubtful  beam  long  nods  from  side  to 

side; 
At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs  subside. 

See  fierce  Belinda  on  the  baron  flies,  75 

With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her  eyes: 
Nor  fear'd  the  chief  th'  unequal  fight  to  try. 
Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to  die. 
But  this  bold  lord  with  manly  strength  endued, 
She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  suJDdued ;     80 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils  drew, 
A  charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw; 
The  gnomes  direct,  to  ev'ry  atom  just. 
The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust. 
Sudden,  with  starting  tears  each  eye  o'erflows. 
And  the  high  dome  re-echoes  to  his  nose.      86 

"  Now  meet  thy  fate,"  incensed  Belinda  cried, 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 
(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck,      89 
Her  great-great-gran dsi re  wore  about  his  neck, 
In  three  seal-rings;  which  after,  melted  down, 
Formed  a  vast  buckle  for  his  widow's  gown:- 
Her  infant  grandame's  whistle  next  it  grew. 
The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  blew; 
Then  in  a  bodkin'*  graced  her  mother's  hairs,  95 
Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Belinda  wears.) 

"Boast  not  my  fall,"  he  cried,  "insulting  foe! 
Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as  low : 
Nor  think,  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind;  ^ 

All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind!         lOO 
Rather  than  so,  ah  let  me  still  survive. 
And  burn  in  Cupid's  flames — but  burn  alive." 

"Restore  the  lock!"  she  cries;  and  all  around 
"Restore  the  lock!"  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 

1*  A  large  ornamental  hairpin. 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


303 


Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a  strain  105 

Roared  for  the  handkerchief  that  caused  his 

pain. 
But  see  how  oft'  ambitious  aims  are  crossed, 
And  chiefs  contend  till  all  the  prize  is  lost! 
The  lock,  obtained  with  guilt,  and  kept  with 

pain, 
In  ev'ry  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain:  no 
With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blest, 
So  heav'n  decrees:  with  heav'n  who  can  con- 
test? 
Some   thought   it   mounted    to    the   lunar 
sphere, 
Since  all  things  lost  on  earth  are  treasured 

there. 
There    heroes'    wits    are    kept    in    pond'roua 
vases,  115 

And  beaus'  in  snuff-boxes  and  tweezer-cases. 
There  broken  vows,  and  death-bed  alms  are 

found. 
And  lovers'  hearts  with  ends  of  ribbon  bound, 
The  courtier's  promises,  and  sick  man's  pray'rs. 
The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of  heirs,  120 
Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea. 
Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 
But  trust  the  Muse — she   saw  it   upward 
rise, 
Tho'  mark'd  by  none  but  quick,  poetic  eyes: 
(So  Rome's  great  founder  to  the  heav'ns  with- 
drew, 125 
To  Proculus  alone  confessed  in  view) 
A  sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air, 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 
Not  Berenice's  locks  first  rose  so  bright, 
The  heav'ns  bespangling  with  disheveled  light. 
The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies,  131 
And  pleased  pursue  its  progress  through  the 

skies. 
This  the  beau  monde  shall  from  the   Mall 

survey, 
And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray; 
This  the  bless'd  lover  shall  for  Venus  take,     135 
And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda's  lake;^^ 
This  Partridge^^  soon  shall  view  in  cloudless 

skies, 
When  next  he  looks  through  Galileo's  eyes; 
And  hence   th'   egregious  wizard   shall  fore- 
doom 
The  fate  of  Louis, ^^  and  the  fall  of  Rome.       140 
Then  cease,  bright  nymph!  to  mourn  thy 
ravished  hair. 
Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining  sphere! 
Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can  boast, 
Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  Lock  you  lost. 
For  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye,  145 

When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall  die; 
When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they 

must, 
And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust, 
This  lock,  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to  fame, 
And  'midst  the  stars  inscribe  Belinda's  name. 

15  A  "small  oblong  piece  of  water  near  the  Pimlico  gate 
of  St.  James'  Park."    Croker. 

w  John  Partridge,  an  almanac  maker  and  astrologer, 
noted  for  his  ridiculous  predictions;  v.  p.  321,  and  notes 
1  and  3. 

"  Louis  XIV,  King  of  France,  1643-1715. 


ELEGY  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  AN  UN- 
FORTUNATE LADY 

(1717) 

What  beck'ning  ghost,  along  the  moon-light 

shade 
Invites  my  steps,  and  points  to  yonder  glade? 
'Tis  she! — but  why  that  bleed ing'bosom  gored? 
Why  dimly  gleams  the  visionary  sword? 
Oh  ever  beauteous,  ever  friendly !  tell,  5 

Is  it,  in  heav'n,  a  crime  to  love  too  well? 
To  bear  too  tender,  or  too  firm  a  heart, 
To  act  a  lover's  or  a  Roman's  part? 
Is  there  no  bright  reversion  in  the  sky, 
For  those  who  greatly  think,  or  bravely  die?  10 
Why  bade  ye  else,  ye  pow'rs!  her  soul  aspire 
Above  the  vulgar  flight  of  low  desire? 
Ambition  first  sprung  from  your  blessed  abodes; 
The  glorious  fault  of  angels  and  of  gods: 
Thence  to  their  images  on  earth  it  flows,         15 
And  in  the  breasts  of  kings  and  heroes  glows. 
Most  souls,  'tis  true,  but  peep  out  once  an  age. 
Dull  sullen  pris'ners  in  the  body's  cage: 
Dim  lights  of  life,  that  burn  a  length  of  years 
Useless,  unseen,  as  lamps  in  sepulchres;         20 
Like  Eastern  kings  a  lazy  state  they  keep. 
And,  close  confined  to  their  own  palace,  sleep). 
From  these  perhaps  (ere  nature  bade  her 

die) 
Fate  snatched  her  early  to  the  pitying  sky. 
As  into  air  the  purer  spirits  flow,  25 

And  sep'rate  from  their  kindred  dregs  below; 
So  flew  the  soul  to  its  congenial  place, 
Nor  left  one  virtue  to  redeem  her  race. 

But  thou,  false  guardian  of  a  charge  too  good, 
Thou  mean  deserter  of  thy  brother's  blood !  30 
See  on  these  ruby  lips  the  trembling  breath, 
These  cheeks  now  fading  at  the  blast  of  death; 
Cold  is  that  breast  which  warmed  the  world  be- 
fore. 
And  those  love-darting  eyes  must  roll  no  more. 
Thus,  if  eternal  justice  rules  the  ball,  35 

Thus  shall  your  wives,  and  thus  your  children 

fall: 
On  all  the  line  a  sudden  vengeance  waits, 
And  frequent  hearses  shall  besiege  your  gates; 
Their  passengers  shall  stand,  and  pointing  say, 
(While  the  long  fun'rals  blacken  all  the  way)  40 
"Lo!  these  were  they,  whose  souls  the  furies 

steeled, 
"And  cursed  with  hearts  unknowing  how  to 

yield." 
Thus  unlamented  pass  the  proud  away, 
The  gaze  of  fools,  and  pageant  of  a  day! 
So  perish  all,  whose  breast  ne'er  learned  to  glow 
For  others'  good,  or  melt  at  others'  woe.        46 

What  can  atone,  oh  ever-injured  shade! 
Thy  fate  unpitied,  and  thy  rites  unpaid? 
No  friend's  complaint,  no  kind  domestic  tear 
Pleased  thy  pale  ghost,  or  graced  thy  mournful 

bier.  -"^O 

By  foreign  hands  thy  dying  eyes  were  closed. 
By  foreign  hands  thy  decent  limbs  composed, 
By  foreign  hands  thy  humble  grave  adorned, 
By    strangers    honoured    and    by    strangers 

mourned ! 


304 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


What  though  no  friends  in  sable  weeds  appear, 
Grieve  for  an  hour,  perhaps,  then  mourn  a  year. 
And  bear  about  the  mockery  of  woe  57 

To  midnight  dances,  and  the  public  show? 
What    though    no    weeping   loves   thy   ashes 

grace. 
Nor  polished  marble  emulate  thy  face?  60 

What  though  no  sacred  earth  allow  thee  room, 
Nor  hallowed  dirge  be  muttered  o'er  thy  tomb? 
Yet  shall  thy  grave  with  rising  flowers  be 

dressed. 
And  the  green  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy  breast: 
There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears  bestow, 
There  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall  blow ;  66 
While  angels  with  their  silver  wings  o'ershade 
The  ground,  now  sacred  by  thy  reliques  made. 
So  peaceful  rests,  without  a  stone,  a  name, 
What  once  had  beauty,   titles,   wealth,   and 

fame.  70 

How  loved,  how  honoured  once,  avails  thee  not, 
To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot; 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee; 
'Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  be! 
Poets  themselves  must  fall  like  those  they 

sung,  75 

Deaf  the  praised  ear,  and  mute  the  tuneful 

tongue. 
Ev'n  he,  whose  soul  now  melts  in  mournful  lays, 
iShall  shortly  want  the  gen'rous  tear  he  pays; 
Then  from  his  closing  eyes  thy  form  shall  part, 
And  the  last  pang  shall  tear  thee  from  his  heart, 
Life's  idle  business  at  one  gasp  be  o'er,  81 

The  muse  forgot,  and  thou  beloved  no  more! 


UNIVERSAL  PRAYER 

(Published  1738) 

Father  of  all!  in  ev'ry  age, 

In  ev'ry  clime  adored. 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord ! 

Thou  Great  First  Cause,  least  understood!  5 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  Thou  art  good. 

And  that  myself  am  blind; 

Yet  gave  me  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill:  10 

And  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do. 
This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun,        15 

That,  more  than  heav'n  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives 

Let  me  not  cast  away; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives: 

T'  enjoy  is  to  obey.  20 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 

Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 
Or  think  Thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 

When  thousand  worlds  are  round: 


Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand        25 

Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw. 
And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 

On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay:  30 

If  I  am  wrong,  oh  teach  my  heart 
To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied,  35 

Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me.  40 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so. 
Since  quickened  by  thy  breath : 

Oh  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go, 
Through  this  day's  life  or  death. 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot:      45 

All  else  beneath  the  sun. 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not. 

And  let  thy  will  be  done. 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space. 

Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies,  50 

One  chorus  let  all  being  raise; 
All  nature's  incense  rise! 

EPISTLE  TO   DR.  ARBUTHNOTi 

BEING   THE    PROLOGDE   TO   THE    SATIRES 

(Published  1735) 

P.  Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John!^  fatigued  I 

said: 
Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I'm  sick,  I'm  dead. 
The  Dog-star  rages!  nay,  'tis  past  a  doubt. 
All  Bedlam,  or  Parnassus  is  let  out: 
Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each  hand,      5 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 
What  walls  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades  can 

hide? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my  grot^  they 

glide. 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge, 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the 

barge.  10 

No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free, 
Ev'n  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath-day  to  me: 
Then  from  the  Mint^  walks  forth  the  man  of 

rhyme, 
Happy!  to  catch  me,  just  at  dinner-time. 

'  A  Scotch  physician,  wit.  and  author,  who  had  become 
physician  in  ordinary  to  the  Queen.  He  was  one  of  the 
inner  circle  of  London  wits,  intimate  with  Pope.  Swift, 
Gay.  and  others.  As  the  poem  intimates,  he  was  Pope's 
own  physician. 

2  Pope's  faithful  servant,  John  Searle, 

3  Pope's  famous  grotto  at  Twickenham  was  really  a 
tunnel,  adorned  with  pieces  of  spar,  mirrors,  etc.,  iea(iing 
under  a  public  road  that  intersected  the  poet's  grounds. 

*  A  district  in  Southwark,  so  called  from  a  Mint  estab- 
lished there  by  Henry  VIII.  As  persons  were  exempt  from 
arrest  within  this  district,  it  became  a  refuge  for  insolvent 
debtors,  criminals  and  poor  authors. 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


305 


Is  there  a  parson,  much  be-mus'd^  in  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer;  16 

A  clerk,  foredoomed  his  father's  soul  to  cross, 
Who  pens  a  stanza,  when  he  should  engross? 
Is  there,   who,   locked  from  ink  and  paper, 

scrawls 
With  desperate  charcoal  round  his  darkened 

walls!  20 

All  fly  to  Twit'nam,  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me,  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
Arthur,^  whose  giddy  son  neglects  the  laws, 
Imputes  to  me  and  my  damned  works  the 

cause: 
Poor  Cornus^  sees  his  frantic  wife  elope,  25 

And  curses  wit,  and  poetry,  and  Pope. 

Friend  to  my  life!  (which  did  not  you  pro- 
long, 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song), 
What  drop  or  nostrum  can  this  plague  remove? 
Cr  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath  or  love?  30 
A  dire  dilemma!  either  way  I'm  sped,^ 
If  foes,  they  write,  if  friends,  they  read  me  dead. 
Seized  and  tied  down  to  judge,  how  wretched  I! 
Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie: 
To  laugh,  were  want  of  goodness  and  of  grace,  35 
And  to  be  grave,  exceeds  all  power  of  face. 
I  sit  with  sad  civility,  I  read 
With  honest  anguish,  and  an  aching  head; 
And  drop  at  last,  but  in  unwilling  ears. 
This  saving  counsel — "Keep  your  piece  nine 

years."  40 

"Nine  years!"  cried  he,  who,  high  in  Drury 

Lane,^ 
Lulled  by  soft  zephyrs  through  the  broken 

pane, 
Rhymes  ere  he  wakes,  and  prints  before  Term 

ends,^° 
Obliged  by  hunger  and  request  of  friends: 
"The  piece  you  think  is  incorrect?  why  take 

it;  45 

I'm  all  submission;  what  you'd  have  it,  make 

it." 
Three  things  another's  modest  wishes  bound. 
My  friendship,  and  a  prologue,  and  ten  pound. 
Pitholeon^^  sends  to  me:   "You  know  his 

grace, 
I  want  a  patron;  ask  him  for  a  place."  50 

Pitholeon  libelled  me — "but  here's  a  letter 
Informs  you,  sir,  'twas  when  he  knew  no  better. 
Dare  you  refuse  him?  CurlP^  invites  to  dine; 
J^e'll  write  a  journal,  or  he'll  turn  divine." 

Bless  me!  a  packet.  " 'Tis  a  stranger  sues,  55 
A  virgin  tragedy,  an  orphan  Muse." 

6  Befogged,  muddled. 

*  Arthur  Moore,  a  prominent  man  in  politics  and 
society.  His  son  was  a  dissipated  fop  who  had  excited 
Pope's  resentment. 

^  Presumably.  Lord  Robert  Walpole. 

8  Ruined,  undone. 

»  A  fashionable  quarter  in  the  days  of  the  Stuarts,  it 
bad  become  the  abode  of  vice,  poverty,  and  poor  authors 
even  before  Pope's  lime. 

"0  i.  e.,  before  the  end  of  the  Trinity  Term  of  the  Lon- 
don Courts,  which  about  coincided  with  the  end  of  the 
London  Season. 

"  Referred  to  by  Horace  as  a  poet  who  gloried  in  mix- 
ing Greek  and  Latin  in  his  epigrams. 

12  A  bookseller  with  whom  Pope  was  on  bad  terms  for 
■twenty  years. 


If  I  dislike  it,  "Furies,  death,  and  rage!" 
If  I  approve,  "Commend  it  to  the  stage." 
There  (thank  my  stars)  my  whole  commission 

ends. 
The  players  and  I  are,  luckily,  no  friends.        60 
Fired  that  the  house  reject  him,  "'Sdeath  I'll 

print  it. 

And  shame  the  fools — your  interest,  sir,  with 
Lintot."i3 

Lintot,  dull  rogue,  will  think  your  price  too 

much: 
"Not,  sir,  if  you  revise  it,  and  retouch." 
All  my  demurs  but  double  his  attacks:  65' 

At  last  he  whispers,  "Do;  and  we  go  snacks." 
Glad  of  a  quarrel,  straight  I  clap  the  door:  67 
"Sir,   let   me    see   your   works   and  you    no 

more."  .  .  . 
One  dedicates  in  high  heroic  prose,  1 09 

And  ridicules  beyond  a  hundred  foes: 
One  from  all  Grub  Street^*  will  my  fame  defend. 
And,  more  abusive,  calls  himself  my  friend. 
This  prints  my  letters,  that  expects  a  bribe. 
And  others  roar  aloud,  "Subscribe,  subscribe!" 
There  are  who  to  my  person  pay  their  court: 
I  cough  like  Horace,  and,  though  lean,  am 

short. 
Ammon's  great  son^^  one  shoulder  had  too 

high, —  117 

Such  Ovid's  nose, — and,  "sir,  you  have  an  eye." 
Go  on,  obliging  creatures,  make  me  see 
All  that  disgraced  my  betters  met  in  me.      120 
Say,  for  my  comfort,  languishing  in  bed, 
"Just  so  immortal  Maro^^  held  his  head:" 
And,  when  I  die,  be  sure  you  let  me  know 
Great  Homer  died  three  thousand  years  ago. 
Why  did  I  write?  what  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipped  me  in  ink,  my  parents',  or  my  own?  126 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came. 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade, 
No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed:  130 

The  muse  but  served  to  ease  some  friend,  not 

wife. 
To  help  me  through  this  long  disease,  my  life; 
To  second,  Arbuthnot!  thy  art  and  care,        133 
And     teach    the    being    you    preserved    to 

bear.  .  .  . 
Soft  were  my  numbers;  who  could  take 

offence  147 

While    pure    description    held    the    place    of 

sense?  .  .  . 
Did  some  more  sober  critic  come  abroad —     157 
If  wrong,  I  smiled;  if  right,  I  kissed  the  rod. 
Pains,  reading,  study,  are  their  just  pretence. 
And  all  they  want  is  spirit,  taste,  and  sense.  160 
Commas  and  points  they  set  exactly  right. 
And 't  were  a  sin  to  rob  them  of  their  mite.  .  .  . 
Were  others  angry — I  excused  them  too;  173 
Well  might  they  rage,  I  gave  them  but  their 

due. 
A  man's  true  merit  'tis  not  hard  to  find;       175 
But  each  man's  secret  standard  in  his  mind, 

"  Bernard  Lintot.  a  leading  bookseller,  whom  Pope  at- 
tacks in  the  Dunciad. 

i<  A  street  frequented  by  obscure  authors. 

"5  Alexander  the  Great,  who  boasted  that  he  was  son 
of  the  Egyptian  god  Ammon.  "Virgil. 


306 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


That  casting-weight  pride  adds  to  emptiness, 
This,  who  can  gratify,  for  who  can  guess? 
The  bard^^  whom  pilfered  Pastorals  renown, 
Who  turns  a  Persian  tale  for  half-a-crown,     180 
Just  writes  to  make  his  barrenness  appear. 
And  strains  from  hard-bound  brains,  eight  lines 

a-year; 
He,  who  still  wanting,  though  he  lives  on  theft, 
Steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing  left: 
And  he,  who  now  to  sense,  now  nonsense  lean- 
ing, 185 
Means  not,  but  blunders  round  about  a  mean- 
ing; 
And  he,  whose  fustian's  so  sublimely  bad, 
It  is  not  poetry  but  prose  run  mad: 
All  these,  my  modest  satire  bade  translate. 
And  owned  that  nine  such  poets  made  a  Tate.^* 
How  did  they  fume,  and  stamp,  and  roar,  and 
chafe!  191 
And  swear,  not  Addison^^  himself  was  safe. 
Peace  to  all  such!  but  were  there  one  whose 
fires 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires; 
Blest  with  each  talent,  and  each  art  to  please, 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease: 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone,     197 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near  the  throne, 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes, 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise;  200 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 
And  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike. 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike. 
Alike  reserved  to  blame,  or  to  commend,       205 
A  timorous  foe,  and  a  suspicious  friend; 
Dreading  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged. 
And  so  obliging,  that  he  ne'er  obliged; 
Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws. 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause;         210 
While  wits  and  templars  every  sentence  raise. 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise — 
Who  but  must  laugh,  if  such  a  man  there  be? 
Who  would  not  weep,  if  Atticus  where  he? 

"IN  VAIN,   IN  VAIN" 

(From  The  Dunciad,^  Bk.  IV.,  1742) 

In  vain,  in  vain,  the  all-composing  Hour 
Resistless  falls:  the  Muse  obeys  the  Pow'r. 
She  comes!  she  comes!  the  sable  Throne  behold 
Of  Night  primaeval  and  of  Chaos  old!  630 

Before  her.  Fancy's  gilded  clouds  decay. 
And  all  its  varying  Rain-bows  die  away. 
Wit  shoots  in  vain  its  momentary  fires. 
The  meteor  drops,  and  in  a  flash  expires. 

"  i.  e.,  Ambrose  Philips  (1675?-1749),  a  poet,  and  one 
of  Pope's  many  enemies. 

isNahum  Tate  (1652-1715),  succeeded  Shadwell  as 
poet  laureate  in  1692. 

i»  This  concluding  passage  refers  to  Addison. 


1  Pope  made  many  enemies,  and  while  the  Dunciad,  or 
epic  of  Dunces,  is  one  of  the  most  famous  and  brilliant  of 
English  satires,  it  is  also  a  malicious  and  too  often  un- 
worthy attack  upon  Pope's  literary  contemporaries.  In 
the  first  three  books  (1728),  the  prize  for  dullness  is  given 
to  Lewis  Theobald,  an  early  editor  of  Shakespeare,  but  in 
a  fourth  book,  added  in  1742,  Pope's  anger  led  him  to  de- 
pose Theobald  and  put  Colley  Gibber  in  his  place. 


As  one  by  one,  at  dread  Medea's  strain,    635 
The  sick'ning  stars  fade  off  th'ethereal  plain; 
As  Argus'   eyes  by   Hermes'   wand   opprest, 
Clos'd  one  by  one  to  everlasting  rest; 
Thus  at  her  felt  approach,  and  secret  might. 
Art  after  Art  goes  out,  and  all  is  Night.        640 
See  skulking  Truth  to  her  old  cavern  fled. 
Mountains  of  Casuistry  heap'd  o'er  her  head! 
Philosophy,  that  lean'd  on  Heav'n  before. 
Shrinks  to  her  second  cause,  and  is  no  more. 
Physic  of  Metaphysic  begs  defense,  645 

And  Metaphysic  calls  for  aid  on  Sense! 
See  Mystery  to  Mathematics  fly ! 
In  vain!  they  gaze,  turn  giddy,  rave,  and  die. 
Religion  blushing  veils  her  sacred  fires. 
And  unawares  Morality  expires.  650 

For  public  Flame,  nor  private,  dares  to  shine; 
Nor  human  Spark  is  left,  nor  Glimpse  divine! 
Lo!  thy  dread  Empire,  CHAOS!  is  restor'd; 
Light  dies  before  thy  uncreating  word; 
Thy  hand,  great  Anarch!  lets  the  curtain  faU  655 
And  universal  Darkness  buries  All! 


AN  ESSAY  ON  MAN,i 

IN   FOUR  EPISTLES 

TO 

HENRY   ST.   JOHN,    LORD   BOLINGBROKE 

(Selections) 

Written  in  the  Year  1732 

Epistle  I 

Awake,  my  St.  John!  leave  all  meaner  things 
To  low  ambition  and  the  pride  of  kings. 
Let  us,  since  life  can  little  more  supply 
Than  just  to  look  about  us  and  to  die, 
Expatiate  free  o'er  all  this  scene  of  man;         5 
A  mighty  maze!  but  not  without  a  plan; 
A  wild,  where  weeds  and  flowers  promiscuous 

shoot; 
Or  garden  tempting  with  forbidden  fruit. 
Together  let  us  beat  this -ample  field, 
Try  what  the  open,  what  the  covert  yield;     10 
The  latent  tracts,  the  giddy  heights,  explore, 
Of  all  who  blindly  creep,  or  sightless  soar; 
Eye  Nature's  walks,  shoot  Folly  as  it  flies. 
And  catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise; 
Laugh  where  we  must,  be  candid  where  we  can; 
But  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man.  16 

Say  first,  of  God  above  or  man  below. 
What  can  we  reason  but  from  what  we  know? 
Of  man,  what  see  we  but  his  station  here. 
From  which  to  reason,  or  to  which  refer?       20 
Through  worlds  unnumbered  though  the  God 

be  known, 
'Tis  ours  to  trace  Him  only  in  our  own. 
He,  who  through  vast  immensity  can  pierce, 
See  worlds  on  worlds  compose  one  universe,      \ 

^The  Essay  on  Man  is  a  versified  treatise  in  four 
Epistles,  on  the  moral  order  of  the  world.  "The  argument 
is  supposed  to  have  been  supphed  to  Pope  by  his  friend 
Lord  Bolingbroke,  to  whom  the  work  is  addressed. 


ALEXANDER  POPE 


307 


Observe  how  system  into  system  runs,  25 

What  other  planets  circle  other  suns, 
What  varied  being  peoples  every  star, 
May  tell  why  Heaven  has  made  us  as  we  are. 
But  of  this  frame,  the  bearings  and  the  ties, 
The  strong  connections,  nice  dependencies,    30 
Gradations  just,  has  thy  pervading  soul 
Looked  through,  or  can  a  part  contain  the 
whole? 
Is  the  great  chain  that  draws  all  to  agree. 
And  drawn  supports,  upheld  by  God  or  thee? 

Presumptuous    man!    the    reason    wouldst 
thou  find,  35 

Why  formed  so  weak,  so  little,  and  so  blind? 
First,  if  thou  canst,  the  harder  reason  guess. 
Why  formed  no  weaker,  blinder,  and  no  less? 
Ask  of  thy  mother  earth,  why  oaks  are  made 
Taller  or  stronger  than  the  weeds  they  shade!  40 
Or  ask  of  yonder  argent  fields  above 
Why  Jove's  satellites  are  less  than  Jove! 

Of  systems  possible,  if  'tis  confessed 
That  wisdom  infinite  must  form  the  best. 
Where  all  must  full  or  not  coherent  be,  45 

And  all  that  rises  rise  in  due  degree, 
Then,  in  the  scale  of  reasoning  life,  'tis  plain 
There  must  be  somewhere  such  a  rank  as  man: 
And  all  the  question  (wrangle  e'er  so  long) 
Is  only  this,  if  God  has  placed  him  wrong.     50 

Respecting  man,  whatever  wrong  we  call. 
May,  must  be  right,  as  relative  to  all. 
In   human  works,    though   labored   on   with 

pain, 
A  thousand  movements  scarce  one  purpose 

gain; 
In  God's,  one  single  can  its  end  produce;        55 
Yet  serves  to  second  too  some  other  use. 
So  man,  who  here  seems  principal  alone. 
Perhaps  acts  second  to  some  sphere  unknown. 
Touches  some  wheel,  or  verges  to  some  goal; 
'Tis  but  a  part  we  see,  and  not  a  whole.  60 

When  the  proud  steed  shall  know  why  man 
restrains 
His  fiery  course,  or  drives  him  o'er  the  plains; 
When  the  dull  ox,  why  now  he  breaks  the 

clod. 
Is  now  a  victim,  and  now  Egypt's  god; 
Then  shall  man's  pride  and  dullness  compre- 
hend 65 
His  actions,'  passions',  being's,  use  and  end; 
Why  doing,  suff'ring,  checked,  impelled;  and 

why 
This  hour  a  slave,  the  next  a  deity. 

Then  say  not  man's  imperfect,  Heaven  in 
fault; 
Say  rather  man's  as  perfect  as  he  ought:        70 
His  knowledge  measured  to  his  state  and  place. 
His  time  a  moment,  and  a  point  his  space. 
If  to  be  perfect  in  a  certain  sphere. 
What  matter,  soon  or  late,  or  here  or  there? 
The  blest  to-day  is  as  completely  so,  75 

As  who  began  a  thousand  years  ago. 

Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of 
fate, 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state; 


From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits 

know; 
Or  who  could  sufifer  being  here  below?  80 

The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day. 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food. 
And  hcks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 
Oh  blindness  to  the  future!  kindly  given,       85 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by  Heaven : 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall, 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled. 
And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world.    90 
Hope  humbly  then;  with  trembling  pinions 
soar; 
Wait  the  great  teacher  Death,  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss  He  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hoj^e  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast;      95 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be,  blest. 
The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confined  from  home. 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 

Lo!  the  poor  Indian,  whose  untutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind;  lOO 
His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk  or  milky  way; 
Yet  simple  Nature  to  his  hope  has  given. 
Behind    the    cloud-topped    hill,    an    humbler 

heaven; 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embraced. 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste.       106 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  be- 
hold. 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for 

gold. 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire; 
He  asks  no  angel's  wings,  no  seraph's  fire;     lio 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky. 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 

Go,  wiser  thou!  and  in  thy  scale  of  sense, 
Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence; 
Call  imperfection  what  thou  fanciest  such,  115 
Say,  Here  He  gives  too  little,  there  too  much! 
Destroy  all  creatures  for  thy  sport  or  gust. 
Yet  cry.  If  man's  unhappy,  God's  unjust; 
If  man  alone  engross  not  Heaven's  high  care. 
Alone  made  perfect  here,  immortal  there:     120 
Snatch  from  His  hand  the  balance  and  the  rod, 
Re-judge  His  justice,  be  the  god  of  God. 
In  pride,  in  reasoning  pride,  our  error  lies; 
All  quit  their  sphere  and  rush  into  the  skies! 
Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  blest  abodes,        125 
Men  would  be  angels,  angels  would  be  gods. 
Aspiring  to  be  gods  if  angels  fell, 
Aspiring  to  be  angels  men  rebel: 
And  who  but  wishes  to  invert  the  laws 
Of  order,  sins  against  the  Eternal  Cause.      130 

Ask  for  what  end  the  heavenly  bodies  shine, 
Earth  for  whose  use?  Pride  answers,  "'Tis  for 

mine! 
For  me  kind  Nature  wakes  her  genial  power. 
Suckles  each  herb,  and  spreads  out  every  flower; 
Annual  for  me,  the  grape,  the  rose  renew,       135 
The  juice  nectareous  and  the  balmy  dew; 


308 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


For  me  the  mine  a  thousand  treasures  brings; 
For  me  health  gushes  from  a  thousand  springs; 
Seas  roll  to  waft  me,  suns  to  Hght  me  rise; 
My  footstool  earth,  my  canopy  the  skies! "     140 

But  errs  not  Nature  from  this  gracious  end, 
From  burning  suns  when  livid  deaths  descend, 
When  earthquakes  swallow,  or  when  tempests 

sweep 
Towns  to  one  grave,  whole  nations  to  the  deep? 
"No,"  'tis  replied,  "thefirst  Almighty  Cause 
Acts  not  by  partial  but  by  general  laws:       146 
The  exceptions  few;  some  change  since  all 

began; 
And  what  created  perfect?" — Why  then  man? 
If  the  great  end  be  human  happiness, 
Then  Nature  deviates;  and  can  man  do  less?  150 
As  much  that  end  a  constant  course  requires 
Of  showers  and  sunshine,  as  of  man's  desires: 
As  much  eternal  springs  and  cloudless  skies, 
As  men  forever  temperate,  calm,  and  wise. 
If  plagues  or  earthquakes  break  not  Heaven's 

design,  155 

Why  then  a  Borgia^  or  a  Catiline?^ 
Who  knows  but  He,  whose  hand  the  lightning 

forms. 
Who  heaves  old  ocean,  and  who  wings  the 

storms, 
Pours  fierce  ambition  in  a  Caesar's  mind, 
Or  turns  young  Ammon*  loose  to  scourge  man- 
kind? 160 
From  pride,  from  pride  our  very  reasoning 

springs; 
Account  for  moral,  as  for  natural  things: 
Why  charge  we  Heaven  in  those,   in  these 

acquit? 
In  both  to  reason  right  is  to  submit. 

Better  for  us,  perhaps,  it  might  appear,      165 
Were  there  all  harmony,  all  virtue  here; 
That  never  air  or  ocean  felt  the  wind;  ^ 
That  never  passion  discomposed  the  mind. 
But  all  subsists  by  elemental  strife; 
And  passions  are  the  elements  of  life.  170 

The  general  order,  since  the  whole  began. 
Is  kept  in  nature,  and  is  kept  in  man. 

What  would  this  man?   Now  upward  will  he 
soar. 
And  httle  less  than  angel,  would  be  more! 
Now  looking  downwards,  Just  as  grieved  ap- 
pears 175 
To  want  the  strength  of  bulls,  the  fur  of  bears. 
Made  for  his  use,  all  creatures  if  he  call. 
Say  what  their  use,  had  he  the  powers  of  all: 
Nature  to  these  without  profusion  kind. 
The  proper  organs,  proper  powers  assigned ;  180 
Each  seeming  want  compensated  of  course. 
Here  with  degrees  of  swiftness,  there  of  force: 
All  in  exact  proportion  to  the  state; 
Nothing  to  add,  and  nothing  to  abate: 
Each  beast,  each  insect  happy  in  its  own:     185 
Is  Heaven  unkind  to  man,  and  man  alone? 


2  Caesar  Borgia,  son  of  Pope  Alexander  VI. 
a  monster  of  wickedness. 

3  A  well-known  conspirator. 

4  Alexander  the  Great.    Cf.  p.  305,  n.  15. 


He  was 


Shall  he  alone,  whom  rational  we  call, 
Be  pleased  with  nothing,  if  not  blessed  with  all? 
The  bliss  of  man  (could  oride  that  blessing 
find). 
Is  not  to  act  or  think  beyond  mankind;         190 
No  powers  of  body  or  of  soul  to  share, 
But  what  his  nature  and  his  state  can  bear. 
Why  has  not  man  a  microscopic  eye? 
For  this  plain  reason,  man  is  not  a  fly. 
Say  what  the  use,  were  finer  optics  given,     195 
To  inspect  a  mite,  not  comprehend  the  heaven? 
Or  touch,  if  tremblingly  alive  all  o'er, 
To  smart  and  agonize  at  every  pore? 
Or  quick  effluvia  darting  through  the  brain. 
Die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain?  200 

If  Nature  thundered  in  his  opening  ears, 
And  stunned  him  with  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
How  would  he  wish  that  Heaven  had  left  him 

still 
The  whispering  zephyr  and  the  purling  rill! 
Who  finds  not  Providence  all  good  and  wise,  205 
Alike  in  what  it  gives,  and  what  denies? 

Far  as  creation's  ample  range  extends, 
The  scale  of  sensual,  mental  powers  ascends. 
Mark  how  it  mounts  to  man's  imperial  race, 
From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass; 
What  modes  of  sight  betwixt  each  wide  extreme. 
The  mole's  dim  curtain,  and  the  lynx's  beam: 
Of  smell,  the  headlong  lioness  between,  213 

And  hound  sagacious  on  the  tainted  green: 
Of  hearing,  from  the  life  that  fills  the  flood,  215 
To  that  which  warbles  through  the  vernal  wood! 
The  spider's  touch  how  exquisitely  fine! 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line: 
In  the  nice  bee,  what  sense  so  subtly  true 
From  poisonous  herbs  extracts  the  healing  dew? 
How  instinct  varies  in  the  groveling  swine,     221 
Compared,  half-reasoning  elephant,  with  thine! 
'Twixt  that  and  reason,  what  a  nice  barrier! 
Forever  separate,  yet  for  ever  near! 
Remembrance  and  reflection,  how  allied;     225 
What  thin  partitions  sense  from  thought  divide; 
And  middle  natures,  how  they  long  to  join. 
Yet  never  pass  the  insuperable  line! 
Without  this  just  gradation,  could  they  be 
Subjected,  these  to  those,  or  all  to  thee?      230 
The  powers  of  all  subdued  by  thee  alone, 
Is  not  thy  reason  all  these  powers  in  one? 

See,  through  this  air,  this  ocean,  ard  this 
earth. 
All  matter  quick,  and  bursting  into  birth. 
Above,  how  high  progressive  life  may  go!     235 
Around,  how  wide!  how  deep  extend  below! 
Vast  chain  of  being!  which  from  God  began. 
Natures  ethereal,  human,  angel,  man. 
Beast,  bird,  fish,  insect,  what  no  eye  can  see, 
No  glass  can  reach ;  from  infinite  to  thee,         240 
From  thee  to  nothing.    On  superior  powers 
Were  we  to  press,  inferior  might  on  ours:  \ 

Or  in  the  full  creation  leave  a  void. 
Where,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale's  de- 
stroyed : 
From  Nature's  chain  whatever  link  you  strike, 
Tenth  or  ten  thousandth,  breaks  the  chain  alike. 


JOHN  GAY 


309 


And  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll  247 

Alike  essential  to  the  anaazing  whole, 
The  least  confusion  but  in  one,  not  all 
That  system  only,  but  the  whole  must  fall.  250 
Let  earth  unbalanced  from  her  orbit  fly. 
Planets  and  suns  run  lawless  through  the  sky; 
Let  ruling  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurled, 
Being  on  being  wrecked,  and  world  on  world; 
Heaven's  whole  foundations  to  their  center  nod, 
And  Nature  tremble  to  the  throne  of  God!     256 
All  this  dread  order  break — for  whom?  for  thee? 
Vile  worm! — Oh!  madness!  pride!  impiety! 

What  if  the  foot,  ordained  the  dust  to  tread. 
Or  hand,  to  toil,  aspired  to  be  the  head?         260 
What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  repined  ' 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind? 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another  in  this  general  frame; 
Just  as  absurd  to  mourn  the  tasks  or  pains  265 
The  great  directing  Mind  of  all  ordains. 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  Nature  is,  and  God  the  soul; 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the 

same, 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  the  ethereal  frame,    270 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze. 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees. 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent; 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part, 
As  full,  as  perfect  in  a  hair  as  heart;  276 

As  full,  as  perfect  in  vile  man  that  mourns, 
As  the  rapt  seraph  that  adores  and  burns: 
To  Him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small; 
He  fills.  He  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all.  280 

Cease  then,  nor  Order  imperfection  name: 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point:  this  kind,  this  due  degree 
Of  blindness,  weakness,  Heaven  bestows  on 

thee. 
Submit:  in  this  or  any  other  sphere,  285 

Secure  to  be  as  blessed  as  thou  canst  bear; 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Power, 
Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art  unknown  to  thee; 
All  chance,  direction  which  thou  cast  not  see; 
All  discord,  harmony  not  understood;  291 

All  partial  evil,  universal  good; 
And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite. 
One  truth  is  clear,  Whatever  is,  is  right. 

1688-1732 
FABLE  XVni 

THE   PAINTER    WHO    PLEASED    NOBODT   AND 
EVERYBODY 

(From  Fables,  1727) 

Lest  men  suspect  your  tale  untrue. 
Keep  probability  in  view. 
The  traveller  leaping  o'er  those  bounds. 
The  credit  of  his  book  confounds. 


Who  with  his  tongue  hath  armies  routed,    5 
Makes  ev'n  his  real  courage  doubted. 
But  flattery  never  seems  absurd; 
The  flatter'd  always  take  your  word: 
Impossibilities  seem  just: 
They  take  the  strongest  praise  on  trust,     lo 
Hyperboles,  though  ne'er  so  great. 
Will  still  come  short  of  self-conceit. 

So  very  like  a  Painter  drew. 
That  every  eye  the  picture  knew; 
He  hit  complexion,  feature,  air,       ,  is 

So  just,  the  life  itself  was  there. 
No  flattery  with  his  colours  laid. 
To  bloom  restor'd  the  faded  maid; 
He  gave  each  muscle  all  its  strength; 
The  mouth,  the  chin,  the  nose's  length;      20 
His  honest  pencil  touch'd  with  truth, 
And  mark'd  the  date  of  age  and  youth. 

He  lost  his  friends,  his  practice  fail'd; 
Truth  should  not  always  be  reveal'd; 
In  dusty  piles  his  pictures  lay,  25 

For  no  one  sent  the  second  pay. 
Two  bustos,^  fraught  with  every  grace, 
A  Venus'  and  Apollo's  face, 
He  plac'd  in  view;  resolv'd  to  please. 
Who  ever  sat  he  drew  from  these,  30 

From  these  corrected  every  feature. 
And  spirited  each  awkward  creature. 

All  things  were  set;  the  hour  was  come. 
His  palette  ready  o'er  his  thumb; 
My  Lord  appear'd;  and,  seated  right,         35 
In  proper  attitude  and  light, 
The  Painter  look'd,  he  sketch'd  the  piece. 
Then  dipt  his  pencil,  talk'd  of  Greece, 
Of  Titian's  tints,  of  Guido's  air; 
"Those  eyes,  my  Lord,  the  spirit  there,      40 
Might  well  a  Raphael's  hand  require, 
To  give  them  all  the  native  fire; 
The  features,  fraught  with  sense  and  wit. 
You'll  grant  are  very  hard  to  hit: 
But  yet  with  patience  you  shall  view,         45 
As  much  as  paint  and  art  can  do." 

Observe  the  work.    My  Lord  replied, 
"Till  now  I  thought  my  mouth  was  wide; 
Besides,  my  nose  is  somewhat  long; 
Dear,  sir,  for  me,  'tis  far  too  young!"         50 

"Oh!  pardon  me,  (the  artist  cried) 
In  this  we  Painters  must  decide. 
The  piece  ev'n  common  eyes  must  strike, 
I  warrant  it  extremely  like." 

My  Lord  examin'd  it  a-new;  55 

No  looking-glass  seem'd  half  so  true. 

A  lady  came,  with  borrow'd  grace. 
He  froni  his  Venus  form'd  her  face. 
Her  lover  prais'd  the  Painter's  art; 
So  like  the  picture  in  his  heart!  60 

To  every  age  some  charm  he  lent; 
Ev'n  beauties  were  almost  content. 

Through  all  the  town  his  art  they  prais'd; 
His  custom  grew,  his  price  was  rais'd. 
Had  he  the  real  likeness  shown,  65 

Would  any  man  the  picture  own? 
But  when  thus  happily  he  wrought, 
Each  found  the  likeness  in  his  thought. 

i  Busts. 


310 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


ON  A  LAP  DOG 

Shock's  fate  I  mourn;  poor  Shock  is  now  no 

more! 
Ye  Muses!  mourn,  ye  Chambermaids!  deplore;:*. 
Unhappy  Shock!  Yet  more  unhappy  fair, 
Doom'd  to  survive  thy  joy  and  only  care. 
Thy  wretched  fingers  now  no  more  shall  deck,  5 
And  tie  the  favorite  ribband  round  his  neck; 
No  more  thy  hand  shall  smooth  his  glossy 

haii^, 
And  comb  the  wavings  of  his  pendent  ear. 
Let  cease  thy  flowing  grief,  forsaken  maid! 
All  mortal  pleasures  in  a  moment  fade:  10 

Our  surest  hope  is  in  an  hour  destroy'd. 
And  love,  best  gift  of  Heaven,  not  long  enjoy 'd. 

Methinks  I  see  her  frantic  with  despair, 
Her  streaming  eyes,  wrung  hands,  and  flowing 

hair; 
Her  Mechlin  pinners,^  rent,  the  floor  bestrow,  15 
And  her  torn  face  gives  real  signs  of  woe. 
Hence,  Superstition!  that  tormenting  guest, 
That  haunts  with  fancied  fears  the  coward 

breast; 
No  dread  events  upon  this  fate  attend. 
Stream  eyes  no  more,  no  more  thy  tresses  rend. 
Though  certain  omens  oft  forwarn  a  state,     21 
And  dying  lions  show  the  monarch's  fate. 
Why  should  such  fears  bid  Celia's  sorrow  rise? 
For  when  a  lap  dog  falls,  no  lover  dies. 

Cease,    Celia,    cease;   restrain   thy   flowing 

tears,  25 

Some  warmer  passion  will  dispel  thy  cares. 
In  man  you'll  find  a  more  substantial  bhss. 
More  grateful  toying  and  a  sweeter  kiss. 

He's  dead.    Oh !  lay  him  gently  in  the  ground ! 
And  may  his  tomb  be  by  this  verse  renown'd.  30 
Here  Shock,  the  pride  of  all  his  kind,  is  laid. 
Who  fawn'd  like  man,  but  ne'er  like  man  be- 

tray'd. 


BLACK  EYED  SUSAN 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 

When  Black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard, 
"Oh!  where  shall  I  my  true  love  find? 

Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true,  5 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew?'* 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 

Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard 

He  sighed  and  cast  his  eyes  below;  10 

The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing 
hands. 

And,  quick  as  lightning,  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air. 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast — 

If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear—        15 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest. 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 

Might  envy  WiUiam's  lips  those  kisses  sweet. 

^  The  long  flaps  belonging  to  a  lady's  headdress  of  that 
period.    They  hung  down  upon  either  side  of  the  face. 


"O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain;  20 

Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds!  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

"Believe  not  what  the  landsmen  say,  25 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind; 

They'll  teU  thee,  sailors,  when  away. 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find; 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 

For  thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go.  30 

"If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 
Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright; 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale. 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view,        35 

Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

"Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 
Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn; 

Though  cannons  roar,  yet,  safe  from  harms, 
William  shall  to  his  dear  return.  40 

Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 

Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's 
eye." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word; 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread; 
No  longer  must  she  stay  abroad;  45 

They  kissed — she  sighed — ^he  hung  his  head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land, 
'     "Adieu!"  she  cries,  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 


TRIVIA,   OR  THE   ART   OF   WALKING 

THE  STREETS  OF  LONDON 

Book  I.    Selections.    (1716) 

Through  winter  streets  to  steer  your  course, 

aright. 
How  to  walk  clean  by  day,  and  safe  by  night, 
How  jostling  crowds,  with  prudence  to  decline. 
When  to  assert^  the  wall,  and  when  resign, 
I  sing:  thou.  Trivia !2  goddess,  aid  my  song,      5 
Through  spacious  streets  conduct  thy  bajrd 

along; 
By  thee  transported,  I  securely  stray 
Where  winding  alleys  lead  the  doubtful  way, 
The  silent  court  and  opening  square  explore. 
And  long  perplexing  lanes  untrod  before.         10 
To  pave  thy  realm,  and  smooth  the  broken 

ways. 
Earth  from  her  womb  a  flinty  tribute  pays; 
For  thee  the  sturdy  paver  thumps  the  ground. 
Whilst  every  stroke  his  labouring  lungs  resound; 
For  thee  the  scavenger  bids  kennels  glide  15 
Within  their  bounds,  and  heaps  of  dirt  subside. 
My  youthful  bosom  burns  with  thirst  of  fame, 
From  the  great  theme  to  build  a  glorious  name, 

*  To  lay  claim  to;  i.  e.  to  take  the  best  part  of  the  walk 
next  to  the  houses  and  farthest  from  the  gutter. 

2  From  the  Latin  trivium,  crossroads.  Gay  addresses 
Trivia  as  the  goddess  either  of  the  streets  or  of  trimal 
things.  , 


JOHN  GAY 


311 


To  tread  in  paths  to  ancient  bards  unknown, 
And  bind  my  temples  with  a  civic  crown ;         20 
But  more,  my  country's  love  demands  the 

lays; 
My  country's  be  the  profit;  mine  the  prajse. 

The  changing  weather  certain  signs  reveal. 
Ere  winter  sheds   her   snow,   or   frosts  con- 
geal, 
You'll  see   the   coals   in   brighter   flame   as- 
pire, 25 
And  sulphur  tinge  with  blue  the  rising  fire; 
Your  tender  shins  the  scorching  heat  decline, 
And  at  the  dearth  of  coals  the  poor  repine; 
Before  her  kitchen  hearth  the  nodding  dame, 
In  flannel  mantle  wrapt,  enjoys  the  flame;     30 
Hovering  upon  her  feeble  knees  she  bends, 
And  all  around  the  grateful  warmth  ascends. 
Nor  do  less  certain  signs  the  Town  advise 
Of  milder  weather  and  serener  skies. 
The  ladies,  gaily  dress'd,  the  MalP  adorn        35 
With  various  dyes,  and  paint  the  sunny  mom; 
The    wanton    fawns    with    frisking    pleasure 

range. 
And    chirping    sparrows    greet    the   welcome 

change; 
Not  that  their  minds  with  greater  skill  are 

fraught. 
Endued  by  instinct,  or  by  reason  taught,        40 
The  seasons  operate  on  every  breast; 
'Tis  hence  that  fawns  are  brisk,  and  ladies 

drest. 
When  on  his  box  the  nodding  coachman  snores. 
And  dreams  of  fancied  fares;  when  tavern- 
doors  -  , 
The  chairmen  idly  crowd,  then  ne'er  refuse    45 
To  trust  thy  busy  steps  in  thinner  shoes. 
But  when  the  swinging  signs  your  ears  offend 
With  creaking   noise,  then  rainy  floods   im- 
pend; 
Soon    shall    the    kennels    swell   with    rapid 

streams. 
And  rush  in  muddy  torrents  to  the  Thames.  50 
The  bookseller,  whose  shop's  an  open  square. 
Foresees  the  tempest,  and  with  early  care 
Of  learning  strips  the  rails:  the  rowing  crew, 
To   tempt  a  fare,   clothe   all   their   tilts*  in 

blue. 
On  hosiers'  poles  depending  stockings  tied,     55 
Flag  with  the   slacken'd   gale   from   side  to 

side. 
Church-monuments  foretell  the  changing  air; 
Then  Niobe  dissolves  into  a  tear. 
And  sweats  with  secret  p;rief.    You'll  hear  the 

sounds 

Of  whistling  winds,  ere  krnnels  break  their 

bounds;  60 

Ungrateful    odours    common    sewers    diffuse. 

And     dropping     vaults    distil     unwholesome 

dews. 
Ere  the  tiles  rattle  with  the  smoking  shower, 
And  spouts  on  heedless  men   their  torrents 
pour. 

'  An  Avenue  on  the  north  of  St.  James'  Park,  London. 
*  Awnings  or  covers  which  the  watermen  placed  over 
their  boats  on  the  Thames. 


Book  II.    Selections 

Thus  far  the  Muse  has  trac'd,  in  useful  lays,  65 
The  proper  implements  for  wintry  ways; 
Has  taught  the  walker,  with  judicious  eyes 
To  read  the  various  warnings  of  the  skies. 
Now,  venture.  Muse!  from  home  to  range  the 

town. 
And  for  the  public  safety  risk  thine  own.        70 
For  ease  and  for  despatch  the  morning's 

best; 
No  tides  of  passengers  the  street  molest: 
You'll  see  a  draggled  damsel  here  and  there. 
From  Bilfingsgate^  her  fishy  traffic  bear: 
On   doors    the   sallow   milkmaid    chalks   her 

gains; 
Ah !  how  unlike  the  milkmaid  of  the  plains!     76 
Before  proud  gates  attending  asses^  bray. 
Or  arrogate  with  solemn  pace  the  way; 
These  grave  physicians,  with  their  milky  cheer, 
The  love-sick  maid  and  dwindling  beau  re- 
pair. 80 
Here   rows    of   drummers    stand    in   martial 

file. 
And  with   their  vellum   thunder    shake   the 

pile, 
To  greet  the  new-made  bride.    Are  sounds  like 

these 
The  proper  prelude  to  a  state  of  peace? 
Now  industry  awakes  her  busy  sons;  85 

Full  charg'd  with  news  the  breathless  hawker 

runs; 
Shops    open,    coaches   roll,    carts    shake    the 

ground. 
And  all  the  streets  with  passing  cries  resound. 
If   cloth'd    in   black  you   tread   the   busy 

town. 
Or  if  distinguished  by  the  reverend  gown,        90 
Three  trades  avoid.    Oft  in  the  mingling  press 
The  barber's  apron  soils  the  sable  dress: 
Shun  the  perfumer's  touch  with  cautious  eye; 
Nor  let  the  baker's  step  advance  too  high. 
Ye  walkers  too,  that  youthful  colours  wear,     95 
Three  sullying  trades  avoid  with  equal  care, 
The  little  chimney-sweeper  skulks  along, 
And   marks   with   sooty   stains   the  heedless 

throng; 
When  small-coal  murmurs  in  the  hoarser  throat, 
From  smutty  dangers  guard  thy  threaten' d 

coat;  100 

The  dust-man's  cart  offends  thy  clothes  and 

eyes. 
When  through  the  street  a  cloud  of  ashes 

flies; 
But  whether  black  or  lighter  dyes  are  worn, 
The  chandler's  basket,  on  his  shoulder  borne, 
With  tallow  spots  thy  coat;  resign  the  way,  105 
To  shun  the  surly  butcher's  greasy  tray; 
Butchers!  whose  hands  are  dy'd  with  blood's 

foul  stain. 
And  always  foremost  in  the  hangman's  train. 

Let  due  civilities  be  strictly  paid; 
The  wall  surrender  to  the  hooded  maid;         no 

*  A  district  in  London  along  the  Thames,  which  was  the 
centre  of  the  fish  trade. 

«  Asses'  milk  was  in  great  demand  in  the  early  18th  cen- 
tury. 


312  DRYDEN   TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 

Nor  let  thy  sturdy  elbow's  hasty  rage  SDaUtCl    WttOt 

Jostle  the  feeble  steps  of  trembling  age: 

And  when  the  porter  bends  beneath  his  load,  1659  (?)-1731 

And  pants  for  breath,  clear  thou  the  crowded 

„      road:                       .,,.,,.  ^A  TRUE  RELATION  OF  THE  APPARI- 

But,  above  all,  the  groping  blind  direct,         lis  "^                  TION  OF  MRS.  VEAL 

And  from  the  pressing  throng  the  lame  protect.  '              ' 

You'll  sometimes  meet  a  fop,  of  nicest  tread. 

Whose  mantling  peruke  veils  his  empty  head:  '^^^  ^ext  day  after  her  death,  to  mrs. 

At  every  step  he  dreads  the  wall  to  lose,  bargrave,  at  canterbury,  the  eighth 

And  risks,   to   save  a   coach,   his  red-heel'd  jq  .       of  September,  1705,  which  apparition 

shoes;                                                       120  recommends  the   perusal   of  drelin- 

Him,  like  the  miller,  pass  with  caution  by,  court's  book  op  consolations  against 

Lest  from  his  shoulder  clouds  of  powder  fly:  the  fears  of  death. 
But  when  the  bully,  with  assuming  pace, 

Cocks  his  broad  hat,  edg'd  round  with  tarnished  rp^^  Preface 

lace,                                                                ^^  . 

Yield  not  the  way;  defy  his  strutting  pride,     125  This  relation  is  matter  of  fact,  and  attended 

And  thrust  him  to  the  muddy  kennel's^  side:  with  such  circumstances  as  may  induce  any 

He  never  turns  again,  nor  dares  oppose,  reasonable  man  to  believe  it.    It  was  sent  by 

But  mutters  coward  curses  as  he  goes.  a  gentleman,  a  justice  of  peace  at  Maidstone, 
When  waggish  boys  the  stunted  besom  ply       ^^f.  ^7*'  f  ^  ,^  ^^^^  intelligent  person,  to  his 

To  rid  the  slabby  pavement,  pass  not  by         130  ^"^^d  in  London,  as  it  is  here  worded;  which 

Ere  thou  hast  held  their  hands;  some  heedless  discourse   is   attested   by   a   very   sober  and 

flirt  understanding   gentleman,   who  had  it  from 

Will  overspread  thy  calves  with  spattering  dirt,  his    kinswoman,    who    lives    in    Canterbury, 
Where  porters  hogsheads  roll  from  carts  aslope,  25  within  a  few  doors  of  the  house  in  which  the 

Or  brewers  down  steep  cellars  stretch  the  rope,  within-named  Mrs,  Bargrave  lived;  and  who 

Where  counted  billets  are  by  carmen  tosst,   135  jj^  believes  to  be  of  so  discerning  a  spirit,  as 

^^^itru^I  If  ^  step,  and  walk  without  the  post.  ^^^  ^^  ^^     ^^            ^             ^^^^           ^^  ^^^ 

What  though  the  gathering  mire  thy  feet  ...     ,     ^        *;  ,.    '' ..    :  .^       t  i         4.. 

besmear?               &             &                j  positively  assured  him  that  the  whole  matter 

The  voice  of  industry  is  always  near.  30  as  it  is  related  and  laid  down  is  really  true,  and 

Hark!  the  boy  calls  thee  to  his  destin'd  stand,      what  she  herself  had  in  the  same  words,  as 
And  the  shoe  shines  beneath  his  oily  hand.     140      near  as  may  be,  from  Mrs.  Bargrave's  own 

mouth,  who,  she  knows,  had  no  reason  to 
Now,  heav'n-born  Charity!  thy  blessing  shed,  invent  and  publish  such  a  story,  or  any  design 
Bid  meagre  Want  uprear  her  sickly  head:  35  to  forge  and  tell  a  He,  being  a  woman  of  much 
Bid  ^shnjering  limbs  be  warm;   let   Plenty  s     honesty  and  virtue,  and  her  whole  life  a  course. 

In  hum'ble  roofs  make  glad  the  needy  soul.  f  '^  Y^'^"?!  ?'!^^'    ^^!  ""fu"!^!?  ""'^  ''''?-^* 

See,  see!  the  heav'n-born  maid  her  blessings      to  make  of  it  is  to  consider  that  there  is  a  life 

shed;  145      to  come  after  this,  and  a  just  God  who  will 

Lo!  meagre  Want  uprears  her  sickly  head;      40  retribute  to  every  one  according  to  the  deeds 
Cloth'd  are  the  naked,  and  the  needy  glad,  done  in   the  body,   and   therefore   to  reflect 

While  selfish  Avarice  alone  is  sad.  upon  our  past  course  of  life  we  have  led  in 

Proud  coaches  pass  regardless  of  the  moan  the  world;  that  our  time  is  short  and  uncer- 
SruM^^I^  orphans  and  the  widow  s  groan,  150  ^ain;  and  that  if  we  would  escape  the  punish- 
While  charity  still  moves  the  walker  s  mind,      _         Irxu  ji         j         -au  1    e 

His  liberal  purse  relieves  the  lame  and  blind.      ^'  ^^^^  ^^ /^^  ^"^^^1^  and  receive  the  reward  of 
Judiciously  thy  halfpence  are  bestow'd,  the  righteous,  which  is  the  laying  hold  of  eter- 

Where  the  laborious  beggar  sweeps  the  road.  nal  life,  we  ought,  for  the  time  t^  come  to  re- 

Whate'er  you  give,  give  ever  at  demand,         155      turn  to  God  by  a  speedy  repentance,  ceasing 
Nor  let  old  age  long  stretch  his  palsied  hand.  to  do  evil,  and  learning  to  do  well;  to  seek  after 

Those  who  give  late  are  importun'd  each  day,  50  God  early,  if  haply  He  may  be  found  of  us. 
And  still  are  teas'd  because  they  still  delay.  and  lead  such  lives  for  the  future  as  may  be 

If  e'er  the  miser  durst  his  farthings  spare,  ^^jj  pleasing  in  His  sight. 

He  thinly  spreads  them  through  the  public  *-  » 

square,  160  A  Relation,  &c 

Where,  all  beside  the  rail,  rang'd  beggars  he,  rw^,  .     ,  .      .  .      „  . 

And  from  each  other  catch  the  doleful  cry;         55     This  thing  is  so  rare  in  all  its  circumstances, 
With  Heav'n,  for  two-pence,   cheaply  wipes      and  on  so  good  authority,  that  my  reading 

his  score,  and  conversation  have  not  given  me  anything 

Lifts  up  his  eyes,  and  hastes  to  beggar  more,      like  it.    It  is  fit  to  gratify  the  most  ingenious 

7  Gutter,  and  serious  inquirer.     Mrs.  Bargrave  is  the 


DANIEL  DEFOE  313 

person  to  whom  Mrs.  Veal  appeared  after  greee,  till  at  last  Mrs.  Bargrave  had  not  seen 
her  death;  she  is  my  intimate  friend,  and  I  can  her  in  two  years  and  a  half;  though  about  a 
avouch  for  her  reputation  for  these  last  fifteen  twelvemonth  of  the  time  Mrs.  Bargrave  had 
or  sixteen  years,  on  my  own  knowledge;  and  been  absent  from  Dover,  and  this  last  half- 
I  can  confirm  the  good  character  she  had  from  5  year  had  been  in  Canterbury  about  two  months 
her  youth  to  the  time  of  my  acquaintance;  of  the  time,  dwelling  in  a  house  of  her 
though  since  this  relation  she  is  calumniated      own. 

by  some  people  that  are  friends  to  the  brother  In  this  house,  on  the  8th  of  September,  1705, 
of  Mrs.  Veal  who  appeared,  who  think  the  she  was  sitting  alone,  in  the  forenoon,  thinking 
relation  of  this  appearance  to  be  a  reflection,  lo  over  her  unfortunate  life,  and  arguing  herself 
and  endeavour  what  they  can  to  blast  Mrs.  into  a  due  resignation  to  Providence,  though 
Bargrave's  reputation,  and  to  laugh  the  story  her  condition  seemed  hard.  "And,"  said  she, 
out  of  countenance.  But  by  the  circumstances  "I  have  been  provided  for  hitherto,  and  doubt 
thereof,  and  the  cheerful  disposition  of  Mrs.  not  but  I  shall  be  still;  and  am  well  satisfied 
Bargrave,  notwithstanding  the  ill-usage  of  a  15  that  my  afflictions  shall  end  when  it  is  most 
very  wicked  husband,  there  is  not  the  least  fit  for  me;"  and  then  took  up  her  sewing-work, 
sign  of  dejection  in  her  face;  nor  did  I  ever  which  she  had  no  sooner  done  but  she  hears  a 
hear  her  let  fall  a  desponding  or  murmuring  knocking  at  the  door.  She  went  to  see  who 
expression;  nay,  not  when  actually  under  her  was  there,  and  this  proved  to  be  Mrs.  Veal,  her 
husband's  barbarity,  which  I  have  been  wit- 20  old  friend,  who  was  in  a  riding-habit;  at  that 
ness  to,  and  several  other  persons  of  undoubted  moment  of  time  the  clock  struck  twelve  at 
reputation.  noon. 

Now  you  must  know  Mrs.  Veal  was  a  maiden  "Madam,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I  am  sur- 

gentle woman  of  about  thirty  .years  of  age,  prised  to  see  you,  you  have  been  so  long  a 
and  for  some  years  last  past  had  been  troubled  25 stranger;"  but  told  her  she  was  glad  to  see 
with  fits,  which  were  perceived  coming  on  by  her,  and  oflfered  to  salute  her,  which  Mrs. 
her  going  off  from  her  discourses  very  abruptly  Veal  complied  with,  till  their  hps  abnost 
to  some  impertinence.  She  was  maintained  touched;  and  then  Mrs.  Veal  drew  her  hand 
by  an  only  brother,  and  kept  his  house  in  across  her  own  eyes  and  said,  "I  am  not  very 
Dover.  She  was  a  very  pious  woman,  and  30  well,"  and  so  waived  it.  She  told  Mrs.  Bar- 
ber brother  a  very  sober  man,  to  all  appear-  grave  she  was  going  a  journey,  and  had  a 
ance;  but  now  he  does  all  he  can  to  null  or  great  mind  to  see  her  first.  "But,"  says  Mrs. 
quash  the  story.  Mrs.  Veal  was  intimately  Bargrave,  "how  came  you  to  take  a  journey 
acquainted  with  Mrs.  Bargrave  from  her  alone?  I  am  amazed  at  it,  because  I  know 
childhood.  Mrs.  Veal's  circumstances  were  35 you  have  a  good  brother."  "Oh,"  says  Mrs. 
then  mean;  her  father  did  not  take  care  of  Veal,  "I  gave  my  brother  the  slip,  and  came 
his  children  as  he  ought,  so  that  they  were  away,  because  I  had  so  great  a  desire  to  see 
exposed  to  hardships;  and  Mrs.  Bargrave  in  you  before  I  took  my  journey."  So  Mrs.  Bar- 
those  days  had  as  unkind  a  father,  though  she  grave  went  in  with  her  into  another  room 
wanted  neither  for  food  nor  clothing,  whilst  40  within  the  first,  and  Mrs.  Veal  set  her  down 
Mrs.  Veal  wanted  for  both,  insomuch  that  in  an  elbow-chair,  in  which  Mrs.  Bargrave 
she  would  often  say,  "Mrs.  Bargrave,  you  are  was  sitting  when  she  heard  Mrs.  Veal  knock, 
not  only  the  best,  but  the  only  friend  I  have  Then  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "My  dear  friend,  I  am 
in  the  world;  and  no  circumstance  in  life  shall  come  to  renew  our  old  friendship  again,  and 
ever  dissolve  my  friendship."  They  would  45  beg  your  pardon  for  my  breach  of  it;  and  if 
often  condole  each  other's  adverse  fortunes,  you  can  forgive  me,  you  are  the  best  of  women." 
and  read  together,  "Drelincourt  upon  Death," ^  "Oh,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "do  not  mention 
and  other  good  books;  and  so,  like  two  Chris-  such  a  thing.  I  have  not  had  an  uneasy 
tian  friends,  they  comforted  each  other  under  thought  about  it;  I  can  easily  forgive  it." 
their  sorrow.  50  "What  did  you  think  of  me?"  said  Mrs.  Veal. 

Some  time  after  Mr.  Veal's  friends  got  him  Says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I  thought  you  were 
a  place  in  the  custom-house  at  Dover,  which  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  that  prospeTity 
occasioned  Mrs.  Veal,  by  little  and  little,  to  had  made  you  forget  yourself  and  me."  Then 
fall  off  from  her  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Bargrave,  Mrs.  Veal  reminded  Mrs.  Bargrave  of  the 
though  there  never  was  any  such  thing  as  a  55  many  friendly  offices  she  did  in  her  former  days, 
quarrel;  but  an  indifferency  came  on  by  de-      and  much  of  the  conversation  they  had  with 

each  other  in  the  times  of  their  adversity; 

1  Consolations  against  the  Fear  of  Death,   an   English       what   books   they   read,    and   what   COmfort   in 

deTgtman.  "'  "  ^"'^  ''''  '^^'''''  Drelincourt.  a  French     ^^^^-^^^^^  they  received  from  "  Drelincourt's 


314  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

Book  of  Death,"  which  was  the  best,  she  said,  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "but  I  have  the  verses  of  my 
on  that  subject  ever  written.  She  also  men-  own  writing  out."  "Have  you?"  says  Mrs. 
tioned  Dr.  Sherlock,^  the  two  Dutch  books  Veal;  "then  fetch  them."  Which  she  did 
which  were  translated,  written  upon  Death,  from  above-stairs,  and  offered  them  to  Mrs. 
and  several  others;  but  Drelincourt,  she  said,  5  Veal  to  read,  who  refused,  and  waived  the 
had  the  clearest  notions  of  death  and  of  the  thing,  saying  holding  down  her  head  would 
future  state  of  any  who  had  handled  that  make  it  ache;  and  then  desired  Mrs.  Bargrave 
subject.  Then  she  asked  Mrs.  Bargrave  to  read  them  to  her,  which  she  did.  As  they 
whether  she  had  Drelincourt.  She  said,  were  admiring  "Friendship"  Mrs.  Veal  said, 
"Yes."  Says  Mrs.  Veal,  "Fetch  it."  And  10  "Dear  Mrs.  Bargrave,  I  shall  love  you  for 
so  Mrs.  Bargrave  goes  up  stairs  and  brings  it  ever."  In  these  verses  there  is  twice  used  the 
down.  Says  Mrs.  Veal,  "Dear  Mrs.  Bargrave,  word  Elysian.  "Ah!"  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "these 
if  the  eyes  of  our  faith  were  as  open  as  the  eyes  poets  have  such  names  for  heaven!"  She 
of  our  body,  we  should  see  numbers  of  angels  would  often  draw  her  hand  across  her  own 
about  us  for  our  guard.  The  notions  we  have  15 eyes  and  say,  "Mrs.  Bargrave,  do  not  you 
of  heaven  now  are  nothing  like  to  what  it  is,  think  I  am  mightily  impaired  by  my  fits?" 
as  Drelincourt  says.  Therefore  be  comforted  "No,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I  think  you  look 
under  your  afflictions,  and  believe  that  the  as  well  as  ever  I  knew  you." 
Almighty  has  a  particular  regard  to  you,  and  After  all  this  discourse,  which  the  appari- 
that  your  afflictions  are  marks  of  God's  favour;  20  tion  put  in  much  finer  words  than  Mrs.  Bar- 
and  when  they  have  done  the  business  they  grave  said  she  could  pretend  to,  and  as  much 
are  sent  for,  they  shall  be  removed  from  you.  more  than  she  can  remember,  for  it  cannot  be 
An  believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  believe  what  thought  that  an  hour  and  three-quarters'  con- 
I  s  y  to  you,  one  minute  of  future  happiness  versation  coul4  be  retained,  though  the  main 
will  infinitely  reward  you  for  all  your  suffer-  25  of  it  she  thinks  she  does,  she  said  to  Mrs.  Bar- 
ings; for  I  can  never  believe"  (and  claps  her  grave  she  would  have  her  write  a  letter  to  her 
hands  upon  her  knees  with  great  earnestness,  brother,  and  tell  him  she  would  have  him  give 
which  indeed  ran  through  most  of  her  discourse)  rings  to  such  and  such,  and  that  there  was  a 
"that  ever  God  will  suffer  you  to  spend  all  purse  of  gold  in  her  cabinet,  and  that  she  would 
your  days  in  this  afflicted  state;  but  be  as- 30  have  two  broad  pieces  given  to  her  cousin 
sured  that  your  afflictions  shall  leave  you,  or      Watson. 

you  them,  in  a  short  time."  She  spake  in  Talking  at  this  rate,  Mrs.  Bargrave  thought 
that  pathetical  and  heavenly  manner  that  that  a  fit  was  coming  upon  her,  and  so  placed 
Mrs.  Bargrave  wept  several  times,  she  was  herself  in  a  chair  just  before  her  knees,  to  keep 
so  deeply  affected  with  it.  35  her  from  falling  to  the  ground,  if  her  fits  should 

Then  Mrs.  Veal  mentioned  Dr.  Horneck's  occasion  it  (for  the  elbow-chair,  she  thought, 
"Ascetick,"'  at  the  end  of  which  he  gives  an  would  keep  her  from  falling  on  either  side); 
account  of  the  hves  of  the  primitive  Chris-  and  to  divert  Mrs.  Veal,  as  she  thought,  took 
tians.  Their  pattern  she  recommended  to  hold  of  her  gown-sleeve  several  times  and 
our  imitation,  and  said,  "Their  conversation  40  commended  it.  Mrs.  Veal  told  her  it  was  a 
was  not  like  this  of  our  age;  for  now,"  says  scoured  silk,  and  newly  made  up.  But  for 
she,  "there  is  nothing  but  frothy,  vain  dis-  all  this,  Mrs.  Veal  persisted  in  her  request, 
course,  which  is  far  different  from  theirs.  Theirs  and  told  Mrs.  Bargrave  that  she  must  not  deny 
was  to  edification,  and  to  build  one  another  her,  and  she  would  have  her  tell  her  brother  all 
up  in  faith;  so  that  they  were  not  as  we  are,  45  their  conversation  when  she  had  an  oppor- 
nor  are  we  as  they  were;  but,"  said  she,  "we  tunity.  "Dear  Mrs.  Veal,"  said  Mrs.  Bargrave, 
ought  to  do  as  they  did.  There  was  a  hearty  "this  seems  so  impertinent  that  I  cannot  tell 
friendship  among  them;  but  where  is  it  now  how  to  comply  with  it;  and  what  a  mortifying 
to  be  found?"  Says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "It  is  story  will  our  conversation  be  to  a  young 
hard  indeed  to  find  a  true  friend  in  these  days."  50  gentleman?  Why,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "it 
Says  Mrs.  Veal,  "Mr.  Norris  has  a  fine  copy  is  much  better,  methinks,  to  do  it  yourself." 
of  verses,  called  'Friendship  in  Perfection,'  "No,"  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "though  it  seems  im- 
which  I  wonderfully  admire.  Have  you  seen  pertinent  to  you  now,  you  will  see  more  reason 
the   book?"    says    Mrs.    Veal.      "No,"    says      for  it  hereafter."  Mrs.  Bargrave  then,  to  satisfy 

"William   Sherlock,    D.D.    (1641-1707),    author  of  55 her  importunity,  was  going  to  fetch  a  pen  and 

numerous  works  on  theological  and  political  questions,  :^u  u,,f  ytj,^  Vp^I  <saiH  "T,pf  if  nlnn^  nnw  Knf 
wrote  .4  Practical  Discourse  Concerning  Death;  A  Discourse  7^'  ^^^  ^^^^^'  ^  ^^^  ^^^"'  ^®^  ^^  ^^^^^  ^^^'  "^^ 
of  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul  and  Future  State  (1705),  and       do  it  when  I  am  gone;  but  yOU  must  be  SUre  to 

'""^f  w^p'^^'TceiL^'b;  Anthony  Horneok,  D.  D.,  do  it; "  which  wa^  one  of  the  last  things  she  en- 
Ijond.  1681.  joined  her  at  parting.    So  she  promised  her. 


DANIEL  DEFOE  315 

Then  Mrs.  Veal  asked  for  Mrs.  Bargrave's  her  it  was  scoured.  Then  Mrs.  Watson  cried 
daughter.  She  said  she  was  not  at  home,  out,  "  You  have  seen  her  indeed,  for  none  knew 
"but  if  you  have  a  mind  to  see  her,"  says  but  Mrs.  Veal  and  myself  that  the  gown  was 
Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I'll  send  for  her."  "Do,"  scoured."  And  Mrs.  Watson  owned  that  she 
says  Mrs.  Veal.  On  which  she  left  her,  and  5 described  the  gown  exactly;  "for,"  said  she, 
went  to  a  neighbour's  to  see  for  her;  and  by  "I  helped  her  to  make  it  up."  This  Mrs.  Wat- 
the  time  Mrs.  Bargrave  was  returning,  Mrs.  son  blazed  all  about  the  town,  and  avouched 
Veal  was  got  without  the  door  into  the  street,  the  demonstration  of  the  truth  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
in  the  face  of  the  beast-market,  on  a  Saturday  grave's  seeing  Mrs.  Veal's  apparition;  and 
(which  is  market-day),  and  stood  ready  to  10  Captain  Watson  carried  two  gentlemen  im- 
part. As  soon  as  Mrs.  Bargrave  came  to  her,  mediately  to  Mrs.  Bargrave's  house  to  hear 
she  asked  her  why  she  was  in  such  haste.  She  the  relation  from  her  own  mouth.  And  when 
said  she  must  be  going,  though  perhaps  she  it  spread  so  fast  that  gentlemen  and  persons 
might  not  go  her  journey  until  Monday;  and  of  quality,  the  judicious  and  sceptical  part  of 
told  Mrs.  Bargrave  she  hoped  she  should  see  15  the  world,  flocked  in  upon  her,  it  at  last  be- 
her  again  at  her  cousin  Watson's  before  she  came  such  a  task  that  she  was  forced  to  go  out 
went  whither  she  was  going.  Then  she  said  of  the  way;  for  they  were  in  general  extremely 
she  would  take  her  leave  of  her,  and  walked  well  satisfied  of  the  truth  of  the  thing,  and 
from  Mrs.  Bargrave  in  her  view,  till  a  turning  plainly  saw  that  Mrs.  Bargrave  was  no  hy- 
interrupted  the  sight  of  her,  which  was  three-  20  pochondriac,  for  she  always  appears  with  such 
quarters  after  one  in  the  afternoon.  a  cheerful  air  and  pleasing  mien,  that  she  has 

Mrs.  Veal  died  the  7th  of  September,  at  gained  the  favour  and  esteem  of  all  the  gentry, 
twelve  o'clock  at  noon,  of  her  fits,  and  had  and  it  is  thought  a  great  favour  if  they  can  but 
not  above  four  hours'  sense  before  death,  in  get  the  relation  from  her  own  mouth.  I  should 
which  time  she  received  the  sacrament.  The  25  have  told  you  before  that  Mrs.  Veal  told  Mrs. 
next  day  after  Mrs.  Veal's  appearing,  being  Bargrave  that  her  sister  and  brother-in-law 
Sunday,  Mrs.  Bargrave  was  so  mightily  indis-  were  just  come  down  from  London  to  see  her. 
posed  with  a  cold  and  a  sore  throat,  that  she  Says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "How  came  you  to  order 
could  not  go  out  that  day;  but  on  Monday  matters  so  strangely?"  "It  could  not  be 
morning  she  sent  a  person  to  Captain  Watson's  30  helped,"  said  Mrs.  Veal.  And  her  brother 
to  know  if  Mrs.  Veal  was  there.  They  won-  and  sister  did  come  to  see  her,  and  entered  the 
dered  at  Mrs.  Bargrave's  inquiry,  and  sent  her  town  of  Dover  just  as  Mrs.  Veal  was  expiring, 
word  that  she  was  not  there,  nor  was  expected.  Mrs.  Bargrave  asked  her  whether  she  would 
At  this  answer,  Mrs.  Bargrave  told  the  maid  drink  some  tea.  Says  Mrs.  Veal,  "I  do  not 
she  had  certainly  mistook  the  name  or  made  35  care  if  I  do;  but  I'll  warrant  you  this  mad 
some  blunder.  And  though  she  was  ill,  she  fellow"  (meaning  Mrs.  Bargrave's  husband) 
put  on  her  hood,  and  went  herself  to  Captain  "has  broken  all  your  trinkets."  "But,"  says 
Watson's,  though  she  knew  none  of  the  family,  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I'll  get  something  to  drink 
to  see  if  Mrs.  Veal  was  there  or  not.  They  in  for  all  that."  But  Mrs.  Veal  waived  it, 
said  they  wondered  at  her  asking,  for  that  she 40 and  said,  "It  is  no  matter;  let  it  alone;"  and 
had  not  been  in  town;  they  were  sure,  if  she      so  it  passed. 

had,  she  would  have  been  there.     Says  Mrs.  All  the  time  I  sat  with  Mrs.  Bargrave,  which 

Bargrave,  "I  am  sure  she  was  with  me  on  was  some  hours,  she  recollected  fresh  sayings 
Saturday  almost  two  hours."  They  said  it  of  Mrs.  Veal.  And  one  material  thing  more 
was  impossible;  for  they  must  have  seen  her,  45  she  told  Mrs.  Bargrave — that  old  Mr.  Breton 
if  she  had.  In  comes  Captain  Watson  while  allowed  Mrs.  Veal  ten  pounds  a  year,  which 
they  are  in  dispute,  and  said  that  Mrs.  Veal  was  was  a  secret,  and  unknown  to  Mrs.  Bargrave 
certainly  dead,  and  her  escutcheons^  were  till  Mrs.  Veal  told  it  her.  Mrs.  Bargrave 
making.  This  strangely  surprised  Mrs.  Bar-  never  varies  in  her  story,  which  puzzles  those 
grave,  when  she  sent  to  the  person  immediately  50  who  doubt  of  the  truth  or  are  unwilling  to 
who  had  the  care  of  them,  and  found  it  true,  believe  it.  A  servant  in  the  neighbour's  yard 
Then  she  related  the  whole  story  to  Captain  adjoining  to  Mrs.  Bargrave's  house  heard  her 
Watson's  family,  and  what  gown  she  had  talking  to  somebody  an  hour  of  the  time  Mrs. 
on,  and  how  striped,  and  that  Mrs.  Veal  told      Veal  was  with  her.     Mrs.  Bargrave  went  out 

55  to  her  next  neighbour's  the  very  moment  she 

«An  escutcheon  or  hatchment,   (see  Cent.   Diet.),   "an       parted    with    Mrs.    Veal,    and    told    her    what 

Scd'  SeveS't!"  :°.  "^T'sSu°a?e'  tSSet^'Z     ravishing  conversation  she  had  with  an  old 

diagonally  and  bearing  the  arms  of  a  deceased  person.       friend,  and  told  the  whole  of  it.     DrelmCOUrt  S 

S^hfch^rp'eJsonwe"."''""'^''^^^^^^  "Book   of   Doath"    is,    since   this  happened. 


316  DRYDEN  TO  THE   DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

bought  up  strangely.    And  it  is  to  be  observed  Now,  why  Mr.  Veal  should  think  this  rela- 

that,  notwithstanding  all  the  trouble  and  tion  a  reflection,  as  it  is  plain  he  does  by  his 
fatigue  Mrs.  Bargrave  has  undergone  upon  endeavouring  to  stifle  it,  I  cannot  imagine, 
this  account,  she  never  took  the  value  of  a  because  the  generality  believe  her  to  be  a  good 
farthing,  nor  suffered  her  daughter  to  take  5  spirit,  her  discourse  was  so  heavenly.  Her 
anything  of  anybody,  and  therefore  can  have  two  great  errands  were  to  comfort  Mrs.  Bar- 
no  interest  in  telling  the  story.  grave  in  her  affliction,  and  to  ask  her  forgive- 
But  Mr.  Veal  does  what  he  can  to  stifle  the  ness  for  the  breach  of  friendship,  and  with  a 
matter,  and  said  he  would  see  Mrs.  Bargrave;  pious  discourse  to  encourage  her.  So  that 
but  yet  it  is  certain  matter  of  fact  that  he  has  10  after  all  to  suppose  that  Mrs.  Bargrave  could 
been  at  Captain  Watson's  since  the  death  of  hatch  such  an  invention  as  this  from  Friday 
his  sister,  and  yet  never  went  near  Mrs.  Bar-  noon  to  Saturday  noon,  supposing  that  she 
grave;  and  some  of  his  friends  report  her  to  be  knew  of  Mrs.  Veal's  death  the  very  first  mo- 
a  liar,  and  that  she  knew  of  Mr.  Breton's  ten  ment,  without  jumbhng  circumstances,  and 
pounds  a  year.  But  the  person  who  pretends  15  without  any  interest  too,  she  must  be  more 
to  say  so  has  the  reputation  of  a  notorious  witty,  fortunate,  and  wicked  too  than  any  in- 
liar  among  persons  whom  I  know  to  be  of  different  person,  I  dare  say,  will  allow.  I 
undoubted  credit.  Now,  Mr.  Veal  is  more  of  asked  Mrs.  Bargrave  several  times  if  she  was 
a  gentleman  than  to  say  she  lies,  but  says  a  sure  she  felt  the  gown.  She  answered  modestly, 
bad  husband  has  crazed  her.  But  she  needs  20 ''If  my  senses  are  to  be  relied  on,  I  am  sure 
only  present  herseK  and  it  will  effectually  con-  of  it."  I  asked  her  if  she  heard  a  sound  when 
fute  that  pretence.  Mr.  Veal  says  he  asked  she  clapped  her  hands  upon  her  knees.  She 
his  sister  on  her  death-bed  whether  she  had  a  said  she  did  not  remember  she  did,  but  said 
mind  to  dispose  of  anything,  and  she  said  no.  she  appeared  to  be  as  much  a  substance  as  I 
Now,  the  things  that  Mrs.  Veal's  apparition  25  did,  who  talked  with  her.  "And  I  may,"  said 
would  have  disposed  of  were  so  trifling,  and  she,  "be  as  soon  persuaded  that  your  appari- 
nothing  of  justice  aimed  at  in  their  disposal,  tion  is  talking  to  me  now  as  that  I  did  not 
that  the  design  of  it  appears  to  me  to  be  only  really  see  her;  for  I  was  under  no  manner  of 
in  order  to  make  Mrs.  Bargrave  so  to  demon-  fear,  and  received  her  as  a  friend,  and  parted 
strate  the  truth  of  her  appearance,  as  to  satisfy  30  with  her  as  such.  I  would  not,"  says  she,  "give 
the  world  of  the  reahty  thereof  as  to  what  she  one  farthing  to  make  any  one  believe  it;  I 
had  seen  and  heard,  and  to  secure  her  reputa-  have  no  interest  in  it.  Nothing  but  trouble  is 
tion  among  the  reasonable  and  understanding  entailed  upon  me  for  a  long  time,  for  aught  I 
part  of  mankind.  And  then  again  Mr.  Veal  know;  and  had  it  not  come  to  light  by  acci- 
owns  that  there  was  a  purse  of  gold;  but  it  was  35  dent,  it  would  never  have  been  made  public." 
not  found  in  her  cabinet,  but  in  a  comb-box.  But  now  she  says  she  will  make  her  own  private 
This  looks  improbable;  for  that  Mrs.  Watson  use  of  it,  and  keep  herself  out  of  the  way  as 
owned  that  Mrs.  Veal  was  so  very  careful  of  much  as  she  can;  and  so  she  has  done  since, 
the  key  of  the  cabinet  that  she  would  trust  She  says  she  had  a  gentleman  who  came  thirty 
nobody  with  it;  and  if  so,  no  doubt  she  would  40  miles  to  her  to  hear  the  relation,  and  that  she 
not  trust  her  gold  out  of  it.  And  Mrs.  Veal's  told  it  to  a  room  full  of  people  at  a  time.  Sev- 
often  drawing  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  and  eral  particular  gentlemen  have  had  the  story 
asking  Mrs.  Bargrave  whether  her  fits  had  from  Mrs.  Bargrave's  own  mouth, 
not  impaired  her,  looks  to  me  as  if  she  did  it  This  thing  has  very  much  affected  me,  and 
on  purpose  to  remind  Mrs.  Bargrave  of  her  45 1  am  as  well  satisfied  as  I  am  of  the  best 
fits,  to  prepare  her  not  to  think  it  strange  that  grounded  matter  of  fact.  And  why  we  should 
she  should  put  her  upon  writing  to  her  brother  dispute  matter  of  fact  because  we  cannot  solve 
to  dispose  of  rings  and  gold,  which  looks  so  things  of  which  we  have  no  certain  or  demon- 
much  like  a  dying  person's  request;  and  it  strative  notions,  seems  strange  to  me.  Mrs. 
took  accordingly  with  Mrs.  Bargrave,  as  the  50  Bargrave's  authority  and  sincerity  alone  would 
effects  of  her  fits  coming  upon  her;  and  was  have  been  undoubted  in  any  other  case, 
one  of  the  many  instances  of  her  wonderful 

love  to  her  and  care  of  her  that  she  should  not  THE   PLAGUE   IN   LONDON 

be  affrighted,  which  indeed  appears  in  her  whole 

management,   particularly  in   her  coming  to  55    (From  A  Journal  of  the  Plague  Year, ^  1722) 
her  in  the  daytime,  waiving  the  salutation,  But  now  the  fury  of  the  distemper  increased 

and  when  she  was  alone,  and  then  the  manner  to  such  a  degree,  that  even  the  markets  were 
of  her  parting  to  prevent  a  second  attempt  to  but  very  thinly  furnished  with  provisions,  or 
salute  her.  i  The  full  title  of  De  Foe's  "  History  of  the  Plague,"  as 


DANIEL  DEFOE  317 

frequented   with  buyers,    compared   to   what     is  impossible  to  describe  the  variety  of  pos- 
they  were  before;  and  the  Lord  mayor  caused      tures  in  which  the  passions  of  the  poor  people 
the  country  people  who  brought  provisions,      would  express  themselves, 
to  be  stopped  in  the  streets  leading  into  the  Passing    through    Token    House    Yard,    in 

town,  and  to  sit  down  there  with  their  goods,  5  Lothbury,  of  a  sudden  a  casement  violently 
where  they  sold  what  they  brought,  and  went  opened  just  over  my  head,  and  a  woman  gave 
immediately  away;  and  this  encouraged  the  three  frightful  screeches,  and  then  cried,  ''Oh! 
country  people  greatly  to  do  so,  for  they  sold  death,  death,  death!"  in  a  most  inimitable 
their  provisions  at  the  very  entrances  into  the  tone,  and  which  struck  me  with  horror,  and  a 
town,  and  even  in  the  fields;  as,  particularly  10  chillness  in  my  very  blood.  There  was  nobody 
in  the  fields  beyond  Whitechapel,  in  Spital-  to  be  seen  in  the  whole  street,  neither  did  any 
fields.  Note,  those  streets,  now  called  Spital-  other  window  open,  for  people  had  no  curiosity 
fields,  were  then,  indeed,  open  fields:  also,  in  now  in  any  case,  nor  could  anybody  help 
St.  George's  Fields,  in  Southwark;  in  Bunhill  one  another;  so  I  went  on  to  pass  into  Bell 
Fields,  and  in  a  great  field,  called  Wood's  Close,  15  Alley.  ...  As  this  puts  me  upon  mention- 
near  Islington;  thither  the  lord  mayor,  alder-  ing  my  walking  the  streets  and  fields,  I  cannot 
men,  and  magistrates,  sent  their  officers  and  omit  taking  notice  what  a  desolate  place  the 
servants  to  buy  for  their  families,  themselves  city  was  at  that  time.  The  great  street  I  lived 
keeping  within  doors  as  much  as  possible,  and  in,  which  is  known  to  be  one  of  the  broadest  of 
the  like  did  many  other  people;  and  after  this  20  all  the  streets  of  London,  I  mean  of  the  sub- 
method  was  taken,  the  country  people  came  urbs  as  well  as  the  liberties,  ^  all  the  side  where 
with  great  cheerfulness,  and  brought  provi-  the  butchers  lived,  especially  without  the  bars, 
sions  of  all  sorts  and  very  seldom  got  any  harm;  was  more  like  a  green  field  than  a  paved  street, 
which  I  suppose  added  also  to  that  report  of  and  the  people  generally  went  in  the  middle 
their  being  miraculously  preserved.  25  with  the  horses  and  carts.    It  is  true,  that  the 

As  for  my  little  family,  having  thus,  as  I  farthest  end,  towards  Whitechapel  church, 
have  said,  laid  in  a  store  of  bread,  butter,  was  not  all  paved,  but  even  the  part  that  was 
cheese,  and  beer,  I  took  my  friend  and  physi-  paved  was  full  of  grass  also;  but  this  need  not 
cian's  advice,  and  locked  myself  up,  and  my  seem  strange,  since  the  great  streets  within 
family,  and  resolved  to  suffer  the  hardship  of  30  the  city,  such  as  Leadenhall  Street,  Bishops- 
living  a  few  months  without  fresh  meat,  rather  gate  Street,  Cornhill,  and  even  the  Exchange 
than  purchase  it  by  the  hazard  of  our  lives.  itself  had  grass  growing  in  them  in  several 

But,  though  I  confined  my  family,  I  could  places;  neither  cart  nor  coach  was  seen  in  the 
not  prevail  upon  my  unsatisfied  curiosity  to  streets  from  morning  till  evening,  except  some 
stay  within  entirely  myself;  and,  though  1 35  country  carts  to  bring  roots  and  beans,  or 
generally  came  frighted  and  terrified  home,  peas,  hay,  and  straw,  to  the  market,  and  those 
yet  I  could  not  restrain;  only,  that  indeed  I  but  very  few  compared  to  what  was  usual.  As 
did  not  do  it  so  frequently  as  at  first.  for  coaches,  they  were  scarce  used  but  to  carry 

I  had  some  little  obligations  indeed  upon  people  to  the  pest  house  and  to  other  hospitals, 
me,  to  go  to  my  brother's  house,  which  was  40  and  some  few  to  carry  physicians  to  such  places 
in  Coleman  Street  parish,  and  which  he  had  as  they  thought  fit  to  venture  to  visit;  for 
left  to  my  care;  and  I  went  at  first  every  day,  really  coaches  were  dangerous  things,  and 
but  afterwards  only  once  or  twice  a  week.  people  did  not  care  to  venture  into  them,  be- 

In  these  walks  I  had  many  dismal  scenes  cause  they  did  not  know  who  might  have  been 
before  my  eyes;  as,  particularly,  of  persons  45  carried  in  them  last;  and  sick  infected  people 
falling  dead  in  the  streets,  terrible  shrieks  and  were,  as  I  have  said,  ordinarily  carried  in 
screechings  of  women,  who,  in  their  agonies,  them  to  the  pest  houses,  and  sometimes  people 
would  throw  open  their  chamber  windows,  expired  in  them  as  they  went  along.  ...  As 
and  cry  out  in  a  dismal  surprising  manner.  It  the  desolation  was  greater  during  those  ter- 
,  .    .,  ,  u       *     oOrible  times,  so  the  amazement  of  the  people 

It  IS  often  called,  will  help  to  explain  Its  general  character.  .                       '                     +kr.„Qonfi      uTinppniintflhlp 

A  Journal  0/ the  Plague  Year,  being  observations  or  memo-  mcreased;      and      a      tfiOUSand      UnaCCOUniaDie 

rials  of  the  most  remarkable  occurrences,  as  well  Public  as  things  they  WOUld  do  in  the  Violence  of  their 

Private,  which  happened  in  London  during  the  last  Great  .   /=  -^  . ,.  ,     ,      oomo  in  +hf»  ao-nnip*!  of 

Visitation  in  i665~Written  by  a  citizen  who  continued  all  fright,  as  Others  did  the  same  m  tfie  agomes  01 
the  while  in  London.  Never  made  public  before.  their  distemper;  and  this  part  was  Very  aff ect- 

The  Plague  began  in  the  autumn  of  1664  (De  Foe  be-  G^r^o    won<-     ronrmo-      nnd     crvinff      and 

gins  his  journal  in  September  of  that  year),  and  while  it  o5  mg.       Some    went    roarmg,    ana    crying,    anu 

had  begun  to  abate  by  the  middle  of  September.  1665  wringing  their  hands  along  the  street;  some 
fL%.l/S;!'^J.rtS^'&Z!f^!£''ir^'^''B\p     wouM  go  praying  aad  lifting  up  their,  hands 

Plague  nearly  one  hundred  thousand  persons  are  said  to  ^q  heaven,  calling  upon  God  for  mercy.  i 
of^i^SdoL^'"^'  ""'  ^^""^  """^'^^^^  °^  ^^'  ^''^''^  population  ^ .  J^  ^^^,^  ^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^.^^  .^^^ 


318  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

cannot  say,  indeed,  whether  this  was  not  in  When  I  came  to  the  post-house,  as  I  went  to 
their  distraction;  but,  be  it  so,  it  was  still  an  put  in  my  letter,  I  saw  a  man  stand  in  one 
indication  of  a  more  serious  mind,  when  they  corner  of  the  yard  and  talking  to  another  at 
had  the  use  of  their  senses,  and  was  much  a  window,  and  a  third  had  opened  a  door 
better,  even  as  it  was,  than  the  frightful  yell-  5  belonging  to  the  oflBce.  In  the  middle  of  the 
ings  and  cryings  that  every  day,  and  especially  yard  lay  a  small  leather  purse,  with  two  keys 
in  the  evenings,  were  heard  in  some  streets,  hanging  at  it,  with  money  in  it,  but  nobody 
I  suppose  the  world  has  heard  of  the  famous  would  meddle  with  it.  I  asked  how  long  it 
Solomon  Eagle,  an  enthusiast;  he,  though  had  lain  there;  the  man  at  the  window  said  it 
not  infected  at  all,  but  in  his  head,  went  about,  10  had  lain  almost  an  hour,  but  they  had  not 
denouncing  of  judgment  upon  the  city  in  a  meddled  with  it,  because  they  did  not  know 
frightful  manner;  sometimes  quite  naked,  and  but  the  person  who  dropt  it  might  come  back 
with  a  pan  of  burning  charcoal  on  his  head,  to  look  for  it.  I  had  no  such  need  of  money. 
What  he  said  or  pretended,  indeed,  I  could  not  nor  was  the  sum  so  big,  that  I  had  any  inclina- 
learn.  l5tion  to  meddle  with  it,  or  to  get  the  money 

I  will  not  say  whether  the  clergyman  was  at  the  hazard  it  might  be  attended  with;  so 
distracted  or  not,  or  whether  he  did  it  out  of  I  seemed  to  go  away,^  when  the  man  who  had 
pure  zeal  for  the  poor  people,  who  went  every  opened  the  door  said  he  would  take  it  up;  but 
eveping  through  the  streets  of  Whitechapel,  so  that  if  the  right  owner  came  for  it  he  should 
and,  with  his  hands  lifted  up,  repeated  that  20  be  sure  to  have  it.  So  he  went  in  and  fetched 
part  of  the  liturgy  of  the  church,  continually,  a  pail  of  water,  and  set  it  down  hard  by  the 
"Spare  us,  good  Lord;  spare  thy  people  whom  purse,  then  went  again  and  fetched  some 
thou  hast  redeemed  with  thy  most  precious  gunpowder,  and  cast  a  good  deal  of  powder 
blood;"  I  say,  I  cannot  speak  positively  of  upon  the  purse,  and  then  made  a  train  from 
these  things,  because  these  were  only  the  dismal  25  that  which  he  had  thrown  loose  upon  the  purse; 
objects  which  represented  themselves  to  me  the  train  reached  about  two  yards;  after  this 
as  I  looked  through  my  chamber  windows,  for  he  goes  in  a  third  time,  and  fetches  out  a  pair 
I  seldom  opened  the  casements,  while  I  con-  of  tongs  red-hot,  and  which  he  had  prepared, 
fined  myself  within  doors  during  that  most  I  suppose,  on  purpose;  and  first  setting  fire  to 
violent  raging  of  the  pestilence,  when,  indeed,  30  the  train  of  powder,  that  singed  the  purse 
many  began  to  think,  and  even  to  say,  that  and  also  smoked  the  air  sufficiently.  But  he 
there  would  none  escape;  and,  indeed,  I  began  was  not  content  with  that,  but  he  then  takes 
to  think  so  too,  and,  therefore  kept  within  up  the  purse  with  the  tongs,  holding  it  so 
doors  for  about  a  fortnight,  and  never  stirred  long  till  the  tongs  burnt  through  the  purse, 
out.  But  I  could  not  hold  it.  Besides,  there  35  and  then  he  shook  the  money  out  into  the  pail 
were  some  people,  who,  notwithstanding  the  of  water,  so  he  carried  it  in.  The  money,  as 
danger,  did  not  omit  publicly  to  attend  the  I  remember,  was  about  thirteen  shillings,  and 
worship  of  God,  even  in  the  most  dangerous  some  smooth  groats  and  brass  farthings, 
times.  And,  though  it  is  true  that  a  great  Much  about  the  same  time,  I  walked  out 
many  of  the  clergy  did  shut  up  their  churches  40  into  the  fields  towards  Bow;  for  I  had  a  great 
and  fled,  as  other  people  did,  for  the  safety  mind  to  see  how  things  were  managed  in  the 
of  their  lives,  yet  all  did  not  do  so;  some  ven-  river  and  among  the  ships;  and  as  I  had  some 
tured  to  officiate,  and  keep  up  the  assemblies  concern  in  shipping,  I  had  a  notion  that  it 
of  the  people  by  constant  prayers,  and  some-  had  been  one  of  the  best  ways  of  securing  one's 
times  sermons  or  brief  exhortations  to  repent-  45  self  from  the  infection  to  have  retired  into  a 
ance  and  reformation;  and  this  as  long  as  they  ship;  and,  musing  how  to  satisfy  my  curiosity 
would  hear  them.  And  dissenters  did  the  like  in  that  point,  I  turned  away  over  the  fields, 
also,  and  even  in  the  very  churches  where  the  from  Bow  to  Bromley  and  down  to  Blackwall, 
parish  ministers  were  either  dead  or  fled;  nor  to  the  stairs  that  are  there  for  landing  or 
was  there  any  room  for  making  any  difference  50  taking  water, 
at  such  a  time  as  this  was.  Here  I  saw  a  poor  man  walking  on  the  bank 

It  pleased  God  that  I  was  still  spared,  and  or  sea-wall,  as  they  call  it,  by  himself.  I 
very  hearty  and  sound  in  health,  but  very  walked  awhile  also  about,  seeing  the  houses 
impatient  of  being  pent  up  within  doors  with-  all  shut  up;  at  last  I  fell  into  some  talk,  at  a 
out  air,  as  I  had  been  for  fourteen  days  or  55  distance,  with  this  poor  man.  First  I  asked 
thereabouts;  and  I  could  not  restrain  myself,  how  people  did  thereabouts?  "Alas!  sir,"  says 
but  I  would  go  and  carry  a  letter  for  my  brother  he,  "almost  desolate,  all  dead  or  sick:  here 
to  the  post-house;  then  it  was,  indeed,  that  I  are  very  few  families  in  this  part,  or  in  that 
observed  a  profound  silence  in  the  streets.  » Pretended  to  go  away. 


DANIEL  DEFOE  319 

village,"  pointing  at  Poplar,  "where  half  of  anchor,"  pointing  down  the  river  a  good  way 
them  are  not  dead  already,  and  the  rest  sick."  below  the  town;  "and  do  you  see,"  says  he, 
Then  he,  pointing  to  one  house,  "They  are  "eight  or  ten  ships  lie  at  the  chain  there,  and 
all  dead,"  said  he,  "and  the  house  stands  open;  at  anchor  yonder,"  pointing  above  the  town, 
nobody  dares  go  into  it.  A  poor  thief,"  says  5  "All  those  ships  have  families  on  board,  of 
he,  "ventured  in  to  steal  something,  but  he  their  merchants  and  owners,  and  such-like, 
paid  dear  for  his  theft,  for  he  was  carried  to  who  have  locked  themselves  up,  and  live  on 
the  churchyard  too,  last  night."  Then  he  board,  close  shut  in,  for  fear  of  the  infection; 
pointed  to  several  other  houses.  "There,"  says  and  I  tend  on  them  to  fetch  things  for  them, 
he,  "they  are  all  dead,  the  man  and  his  wife  and  10  carry  letters,  and  do  what  is  absolutely  neces- 
five  children.  There,"  says  he,  "they  are  shut  sary,  that  they  may  not  be  obliged  to  come  on 
up;  you  see  a  watchman  at  the  door;"  and  shore;  and  every  night  1  fasten  my  boat  on 
so,  of  other  houses.  "Why,"  says  I,  "what  board  one  of  the  ship's  boats,  and  there  I  sleep 
lo  you  here  all  alone?"  "Why,"  says  he,  "I  by  myself,  and,  blessed  be  God,  I  am  preserved 
^,m  a  poor  desolate  man;  it  hath  pleased  God  1 15 hitherto." 

Jim  not  yet  visited,  though  my  family  is,  and  "Well,"  said  I,  "friend,  will  they  let  you 

one  of  my  children  dead."  "How  do  you  come  on  board  after  you  have  been  on  shore 
mean  then,"  said  I  "that  you  are  not  visited?"      here,  when  this  has  been  such  a  terrible  place, 

.Vhy,"  says  he  "that  is  my  house,"  pointing  and  so  infected  as  it  is?" 
^o  a  very  little,  low,  boarded  house,  "and  20  "Why,  as  to  that,"  said  he,  "I  very  seldom 
there  my  poor  wife  and  two  children  live,"  go  up  the  ship  side,  but  deliver  what  I  bring 
said  he,  "if  they  may  be  said  to  live;  for  my  to  their  boat,  or  lie  by  the  side  and  they  hoist 
wife  and  one  of  the  children  are  visited,  but  I  it  on  board :  if  I  did  I  think  they  are  in  no 
do  not  come  at  them."  And  with  that  word  danger  from  me,  for  I  never  go  into  any  house 
I  saw  the  tears  run  very  plentifully  down  his  25  on  shore,  or  touch  anybody,  no,  not  of  my 
face;  and  so  they  did  down  mine  too,  I  assure  own  family;  but  I  fetch  provisions  for  them." 
you.  "Nay,"  says  I,  "but  that  may  be  worse, 

"But,"  said  I,  "why  do  you  not  come  at  for  you  must  have  those  provisions  of  some- 
them?  How  can  you  abandon  your  own  flesh  body  or  other;  and  since  all  this  part  of  the 
and  blood?"  "Oh,  sir,"  says  he,  "the  Lord  30 town  is  so  infected,  it  is  dangerous  so  much  as 
forbid;  I  do  not  abandon  them;  I  work  for  to  speak  with  anybody;  for  the  village,"  said 
them  as  much  as  I  am  able;  and,  blessed  I,  "is  as  it  were  the  beginning  of  London, 
be  the  Lord,  I  keep  them  from  want."  And  though  it  be  at  some  distance  from  it." 
with  that  I  observed  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  "That  is  true,"  added  he,  "but  you  do  not 
to  heaven  with  a  countenance  that  presently  35  understand  me  right.  I  do  not  buy  provisions 
told  me  I  had  happened  on  a  man  that  was  for  them  here;  I  row  up  to  Greenwich,  and  buy 
no  hypocrite,  but  a  serious,  religious,  good  fresh  meat  there,  and  sometimes  I  row  down 
man;  and  his  ejaculation  was  an  expression  the  river  to  Woolwich  and  buy  there;  then  I 
of  thankfulness,  that  in  such  a  condition  as  go  to  single  farm  houses  on  the  Kentish  side, 
he  was  in,  he  should  be  able  to  say  his  family  40  where  I  am  known,  and  buy  fowls,  and  eggs 
did  not  want.  "Well,"  says  I,  "honest  man,  and  butter,  and  bring  to  the  ships  as  they 
that  is  a  great  mercy,  as  things  go  now  with  direct  me,  sometimes  one,  sometimes  the  other, 
the  poor.  But  how  do  you  live  then,  and  how  I  seldom  come  on  shore  here;  and  I  came  only 
are  you  kept  from  the  dreadful  calamity  that  now  to  call  my  wife  and  hear  how  my  little 
is  now  upon  us  all?"  "Why,  sir,"  says  he,  "1 45 family  do,  and  give  them  a  little  money  which 
am  a  waterman,  and  there  is  my  boat,"  says     I  received  last  night." 

he,  "and  the  boat  serves  me  for  a  house;  I  "Poor  man,"  said  I,  "and  how  much  hast 
work  in  it  in  the  day,  and  I  sleep  in  it  in  the  thou  gotten  for  them?" 
night,  and  what  I  get  I  lay  it  down  upon  that  "I  have  gotten  four  shillings,"  said  he, 
stone,"  says  he,  showing  me  a  broad  stone  on  50  "which  is  a  great  sum,  as  things  go  now  with 
the  other  side  of  the  street,  a  good  way  from  poor  men;  but  they  have  given  me  a  bag  of 
his  house;  "and  then,"  says  he,  "I  halloo  and  bread,  too,  and  a  salt  fish,  and  some  flesh;  so 
call  to  them  till  I  mal^e  them  hear,  and  they  all  helps  out." 
come  and  fetch  it."  "Well,"  said  I,  "and  have  you  given  it  them 

"Well,  friend,"  says  I,  "but  how  can  you  55 yet?" 
get  money  as  a  waterman?     Does  anybody  "No,"  said  he,  "but  I  have  called,  and  my 

go  by  water  these  times?"  "Yes,  sir,"  says  wife  has  answered  that  she  cannot  come  out 
he,  "in  the  way  I  am  employed  there  does,  yet,  but  in  half  an  hour  she  hopes  to  come. 
Do  you  see  there,"  says  he,  "five  ships  lie  at     and  I  am  waiting  for  her.     Poor  woman!" 


320  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

says  he,  "she  is  brought  sadly  down;  she  has  called  him;  "Hark  thee,  friend,"  said  I,  "come 
had  a  swelling,  and  it  is  broke,  and  I  hope  she  hither,  for  I  believe  thou  art  in  health,  that  I 
will  recover,  but  I  fear  the  child  will  die;  but  may  venture  thee;"  so  I  pulled  out  my  hand, 
it  is  the  Lord!"  Here  he  stopt,  and  wept  very  which  was  in  my  pocket  before.  "Here," 
much.  5 says  I,  "go  and  call  thy  Rachel  once  more, 

"Well,  honest  friend,"  said  I,  "thou  hast  and  give  her  a  little  more  comfort  from  me. 
a  sure  comforter,  if  thou  hast  brought  thyself  God  will  never  forsake  a  family  that  trusts 
to  be  resigned  to  the  will  of  God;  he  is  dealing  in  him  as  thou  dost;"  so  I  gave  him  four  other 
with  us  all  in  judgment."  shillings,  and  bid  him  go  lay  them  on  the  stone, 

"Oh,  sir,"  says  he,  "it  is  infinite  mercy  if  lO  and  call  his  wife, 
any  of  us  are  spared;  and  who  am  I  to  repine!"  I  have  not  words  to  express  the  poor  man's 

"Say'st  thou  so,"  said  I,  "and  how  much  thankfulness,  neither  could  he  express  it  him- 
less  is  my  faith  than  thine?"  And  here  my  self  but  by  tears  running  down  his  face.  He 
heart  smote  me,  suggesting  how  much  better  called  his  wife,  and  told  her  God  had  moved  the 
this  poor  man's  foundation  was,  on  which  he  15  heart  of  a  stranger,  upon  hearing  their  condi- 
stayed  in  the  danger,  than  mine;  that  he  had  tion,  to  give  them  all  that  money,  and  a  great 
nowhere  to  fly;  that  he  had  a  family  to  bind  deal  more  such  as  that  he  said  to  her.  The 
him  to  attendance,  which  I  had  not;  and  mine  woman,  too,  made  signs  of  the  like  thankful- 
was  mere  presumption,  his  a  true  dependance,  ness,  as  well  to  heaveii  as  to  me,  and  joyfully 
and  a  courage  resting  on  God;  and  yet,  that  20  picked  it  up;  and  I  parted  with  no  money  all 
he  used  all  possible  caution  for  his  safety.  that  year  that  I  thought  better  bestowed. 

I  turned  a  little  way  from  the  man,  while 
these   thoughts   engaged   me;   for,   indeed,    I  tn  |%         A-Nfrn'f 

could  no  more  refrain  from  tears  than  he.  Jl^^^^^V^^    ^uJttt 

At  length,  after  some  further  talk,  the  poor  25  1667-1745 

woman  opened  the  door,  and  called,  "Robert, 

Robert;"  he  answered  and  bid  her  stay  a  few       MEDITATION  UPON  A  BROOMSTICK 
moments,  and  he  would  come;  so  he  ran  down 

the  common  stairs  to  his  boat,  and  fetched  up  (1704) 

a  sack  in  which  was  the  provisions  he  had  30  This  single  stick,  which  you  now  behold 
brought  from  the  ships;  and  when  he  returned,  ingloriously  lying  in  that  neglected  corner,  I 
he  hallooed  again;  then  he  went  to  the  great  once  knew  in  a  flourishing  state  in  a  forest;  it 
stone  which  he  showed  me,  and  emptied  the  was  full  of  sap,  full  of  leaves,  and  full  of  boughs; 
sack,  and  laid  all  out,  everything  by  them-  but  now,  in  vain  does  the  busy  art  of  man  pre- 
selves,  and  then  retired;  and  his  wife  came  35  tend  to  vie  with  nature,  by  tying  that  withered 
with  a  little  boy  to  fetch  them  away;  and  he  bundle  of  twigs  to  its  sapless  trunk;  it  is  now, 
called,  and  said  such  a  captain  had  sent  such  at  best,  but  the  reverse  of  what  it  was,  a  tree 
a  thing,  and  such  a  captain  such  a  thing,  and  turned  upside  down,  the  branches  on  the  earth, 
at  the  end  adds,  "God  has  sent  it  all,  give  and  the  root  in  the  air;  it  is  now,  handled  by 
thanks  to  Him."  When  the  poor  woman  had  40  every  dirty  wench,  condemned  to  do  her  drud- 
taken  up  all,  she  was  so  weak  she  could  not  gery,  and  by  a  capricious  kind  of  fate,  destined 
carry  it  at  once  in,  though  the  weight  was  not  to  make  other  things  clean,  and  be  nasty  itself; 
much  neither;  so  she  left  the  biscuit,  which  was  at  length,  worn  to  the  stumps  in  the  service 
in  a  httle  bag,  and  left  a  little  boy  to  watch  it,  of  the  maids,  it  is  either  thrown  out  of  doors, 
till  she  came  again.  45  or  condemned  to  the  last  use,  of  kindling  a  fire. 

"Well,  but,"  says  I  to  him,  "did  you  leave  When  I  beheld  this,  I  sighed,  and  said  within 
her  four  shillings,  too,  which  you  said  was  myself.  Surely  mortal  Man  is  a  Broomstick! 
your  week's  pay?  "  Nature  sent  him  into  the  world  strong  and 

"Yes,  yes,"  says  he,  "you  shall  hear  her  lusty,  in  a  thriving  condition,  wearing  his  own 
own  it."  So  he  calls  again,  "Rachel,  Rachel,"  50 hair  on  his  head,  the  proper  branches  of  this 
which,  it  seems  was  her  name,  "did  you  take  reasoning  vegetable,  until  the  axe  of  intem- 
up  the  money?"  "Yes,"  said  she.  "How  perance  has  lopped  off  his  green  boughs,  and 
much  was  it?"  said  he.  "Four  shillings  and  left  him  a  withered  trunk;  he  then  flies  to  art, 
a  groat,"  said  she.  "Well,  well,"  says  he,  and  puts  on  a  perriwig,  valuing  himself  upon 
"the  Lord  keep  you  all;"  and  so  he  turned  to  55  an  unnatural  bundle  of  hairs  (all  covered  with 
go  away.  powder)  that  never  grew  on  his  head;  but  now, 

As  I  could  not  refrain  from  contributing      should  this  our  broomstick  pretend  to  enter 
tears  to  this  man's  story,  so  neither  could  I      the  scene,   proud   of  those  birchen  spoils  ii^ 
refrain  my   charity  for  his  assistance;   so   I      never  bore,  and  all  covered  with  dust,  though 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  S21 

the  sweepings  of  the  finest  lady's  chamber,  that  way  may  be  excused  for  thinking  so,  when 
we  should  be  apt  to  ridicule  and  despise  its  he  sees  in  how  wretched  a  manner  that  noble 
vanity.  Partial  judges  that  we  are  of  our  own  art  is  treated  by  a  few  mean,  illiterate  traders 
excellencies,  and  other  men's  defaults!  between  us  and  the  stars,  who  import  a  yearly 

But  a  broomstick,  perhaps  you  will  say,  is  5  stock  of  nonsense,  lies,  folly,  and  impertinence, 
an  emblem  of  a  tree  standing  on  its  head;  and      which  they  offer  to  the  world  as  genuine  from 
pray  "what  is  a  man  but  a  topsy-turvey  crea-      the   planets,    though   they   descend  from   no 
ture,  his  animal  faculties  perpetually  mounted      greater  a  height  than  their  own  brains, 
on  his  rational,  his  head  where  his  heels  should  I  intend  in  a  short  time  to  publish  a  large 

be,  grovelling  on  the  earth!  And  yet,  with  all  10  and  rational  defence  of  this  art,  and  therefore 
his  faults,  he  sets  up  to  be  a  universal  reformer  shall  say  no  more  in  its  justification  at  present 
and  corrector  of  abuses,  a  remover  of  griev-  than  that  it  has  been  in  all  ages  defended  by 
ances,  rakes  into  every  slut's  corner  of  nature,  many  learned  men,  and  among  the  rest  by 
bringing  hidden  corruptions  to  the  light,  and  Socrates  himself,  whom  I  look  upon  as  undoubt- 
raises  a  mighty  dust  where  there  was  none  15  edly  the  wisest  of  uninspired  mortals;  to  which 
before;  sharing  deeply  all  the  while  in  the  very  if  we  add  that  those  who  have  condemned  this 
same  pollutions  he  pretends  to  sweep  away:  art,  though  otherwise  learned,  having  been 
his  last  days  are  spent  in  slavery  to  women,  such  as  either  did  not  apply  their  studies  this 
and  generally  the  least  deserving;  till  worn  to  way,  or  at  least  did  not  succeed  in  their  ap- 
the  stumps,  like  his  brother  besom,  he  is  either  20  plications,  their  testimony  will  not  be  of  much 
kicked  out  of  doors,  or  made  use  of  to  kindle  weight  to  its  disadvantage,  since  they  are  liable 
flames  for  others  to  warm  themselves  by.  to  the  common  objection  of  condemning  what 

they  did  not  understand. 
PREDICTIONS  FOR  THE  YEAR   1708:  ^^^  ^^  I  ^t  ^^^  offended,  or  do  I  think  it 

TTTi-  •  mi  T»-r  ^t  A  J  rro.  T^  r\c  rT^^,  ^5  au  mjury  to  the  art,  when  I  see  the  common 
Wherein  The  Month,  And  The  Day  Of  The     ^^^^^^^  ^  -^^  ^^^  students  in  astrology,  the 

Month,    Are    Set    Down,    The    Persons         Philomaths,^  and  the  rest  of  that  tribe,  treated 

Named,  And  The  Great  Actions  And  ^y  ^-^^  ^^^  ^-^^  ^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^_ 

Events  Of  Next  Year  Particularly  ^empt,   but  rather  wonder,   when  I  observe 

Related,  As  They  Will  Come  3^  gentlemen  in  the  country,  rich  enough  to  serve 

„,  ...        .     _,         T W.^^^^      1     r,f  T?     1     A      ^^®  nation  in  Parhament,  poring  in  Partridge's 

Written  to  Prevent  The  People  Of  England     Almanac'  to  find  out  the  events  of  the  year 

From    Being    Further    Imposed    On    By         ^^  ^^^^  ^^^  abroad,  not  daring  to  propose  a 
Vulgar  Almanac-Makera.  hunting-match  till  Gadbury^  or  he  have  fixed 

By  IsAAK  BiCKERSTAFF,  Esq.^  35  the  weather. 

I  have  considered  the  gross  abuse  of  astrology  I  will  allow  either  of  the  two  I  have  men- 
in  this  kingdom,  and  upon  debating  the  matter  tioned,  or  any  other  of  the  fraternity,  to  be 
with  myself,  I  could  not  possibly  lay  the  fault  not  only  astrologers,  but  conjurers  too,  if  I 
upon  the  art,  but  upon  those  gross  impostors  do  not  produce  a  hundred  instances  in  all  their 
who  set  up  to  be  the  artists.  I  know  several  40  almanacs  to  convince  any  reasonable  man 
learned  men  have  contended  that  the  whole  that  they  do  not  so  much  as  understand  corn- 
is  a  cheat;  that  it  is  absurd  and  ridiculous  to  mon  grammar  and  syntax;  that  they  are  not 
imagine  the  stars  can  have  any  influence  at  able  to  spell  any  word  out  of  the  usual  road, 
all  upon  human  actions,  thoughts,  or  inclina-  nor,  even  in  their  prefaces  to  write  common 
tions;  and  whoever  has  not  bent  his  studies  45  sense  or  intelligible  English.     Then  for  their 

iTtTu      a  -t^        *    *i,  ^  w       +>,^  K«i;«f  ;r,      observations  and  predictions,  they  are  such  as 

1  When   Swift   wrote   these   predichons   the   belief  in  ^^  j.         •„    +u^ 

fortune-tellers  and   astrologers  was  very   general,    and       Will   equally   SUlt   any   age   or   country   m   tne 

numbers  of  impostors  took  advantage  of  the  popular     ^orld.     "This  month  a  certain  great  person 

creduhty.    Not  content  with  the  patronage  of  those  who  .        ,  ,      j      .r  •  i     «^„ '> 

consulted  them  personally,  some  of  these  astrologers  pub-       Will    be    threatened    With    deatn    or   SlCkness. 

lished  their  "predictions"  in  almanacs,  which  were  50 This  the  newspapers  will  tell  them;  for  there 

bought  by  people  of  the  poorer  classes,  or  circulated  out-  r?     i     j.  xt.  j     r  xi,  «  +1.-.+  ^«  ^«r.+Vv 

side  of  London.    Swift's  attention  having  been  attracted  we  find  at  the  end  of  the  year  that  no  montn 

by  one  of  these  prophetic  almanacs  (the  MerUnus  Litera-  passes   without   the   death   of  SOme   person   of 

tus  for  1707,  published  by  John  Partridge),  he  wrote  his  «^  ,  .,         l 

Predictions,  humorously  exposing  the  folly  of  the  preva-  2  Lovers  of  learning,  philosophers. 

lent  superstition,  as  well  as  holding  up  poor  Partridge  to  »  "Doctor"  John  Partridge  (1644-1715),  now  remem- 

ridicule.     After  writing  his  Predictions,   Swift,   casting  bered    chiefly   through    Swift's   satires,    abandoned    his 

about   for   a   pseudonym,    happened   to   see   the   name  occupation   of    cobbler    to    become    an    astrologer    and 

Bickerstaff  on  a  locksmith's  sign.    The  name  appealed  to  almanac-maker.    Swift  ridiculed  Partridge  in  a  series  of 

him,  and  he  made  his  prophecies  as  Isaak  Bickerstaff,  papers  (of  which  the  above  is  one),  besides  writing  a 

Esq.    The  success  of  Swift's  pamphlet  made  the  name  of  Gruh  Street  Elegy  on  the  Supposed  Death  of  Partridne. 
Bickerstaff  familiar  to  the  world  of  London,  and  Steele,  *  John  Gadbury,  an  almanac-maker  and  fortune-teller  of 

taking  advantage  of  its  popularity,  assumed  it  when  he  the  latter  17th  century.    An  almanac  bearing  his  name 

began  the  publication  of  The  Tatler  in  1709.  was  published  for  some  yeara  after  hia  death. 


322  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

note;  and  it  would  be  hard  if  it  should  be  other-  they  happened — that  is,  I  gave  them  papers 
wise,  when  there  are  at  least  two  thousand  sealed  up,  to  open  at  such  a  time,  after  which 
persons  of  note  in  this  kingdom,  many  of  them  they  were  at  liberty  to  read  them;  and  there 
old,  and  the  almanac-maker  has  the  liberty  of  they  found  my  predictions  true  in  every  ar- 
choosing  the  sickliest  season  of  the  year  where  5  tide,  except  one  or  two  very  minute, 
he  may  fix  his  prediction.    Again,  "This  month  As  for  the  few  following  predictions  I  now 

an  eminent  clergyman  will  be  preferred;"  of  offer  the  world,  I  forbore  to  pubhsh  them  till 
which  there  may  be  many  hundreds,  half  of  I  had  perused  the  several  almanacs  for  the 
them  with  one  foot  in  the  grave.  Then  "Such  year  we  are  now  entered  upon.  I  found  them 
a  planet  in  such  a  house  shows  great  machina-  lO  all  in  the  usual  strain,  and  1  beg  the  reader 
tions,  plots,  and  conspiracies,  that  may  in  will  compare  their  manner  with  mine.  And 
time  be  brought  to  light;"  after  which,  if  we  here  I  make  bold  to  tell  the  world  that  I  lay 
hear  of  any  discovery,  the  astrologer  gets  the  the  whole  credit  of  my  art  upon  the  truth  of 
honour;  if  not,  his  predictions  still  stand  good,  these  predictions;  and  I  will  be  content  that 
And  at  last,  "God  preserve  King  William  from  15  Partridge,  and  the  rest  of  his  clan,  may  hoot 
all  his  open  and  secret  enemies.  Amen;"  when  me  for  a  cheat  and  impostor  if  I  fail  in  any 
if  the  King  should  happen  to  have  died,  the  single  particular  of  moment.  I  believe  any 
astrologer  plainly  foretold  it;  otherwise  it  man  who  reads  this  paper  will  look  upon  me 
passes  but  for  the  pious  ejaculation  of  a  loyal  to  be  at  least  a  person  of  as  much  honesty  and 
subject;  though  it  unluckily  happened  in  20  understanding  as  a  common  maker  of  al- 
some  of  their  almanacs  that  poor  King  WiUiam  manacs.  I  do  not  lurk  in  the  dark;  I  am  not 
was  prayed  for  many  months  after  he  was  wholly  unknown  in  the  world;  I  have  set  my 
dead,  because  it  fell  out  that  he  died  about  the  name  at  length,  to  be  a  mark  of  infamy  to 
beginning  of  the  year.  mankind,  if  they  shall  find  I  deceive  them. 

To  mention  no  more  of  their  impertinent  25  In  one  thing  I  must  desire  to  be  forgiven, 
predictions,  what  have  we  to  do  with  their  that  I  talk  more  sparingly  of  home  affairs;  as 
advertisements  about  "pills  and  drinks  for  it  will  be  imprudence  to  discover  secrets  of 
disease,"  or  their  mutual  quarrels  in  verse  and  State,  so  it  might  be  dangerous  to  my  person; 
prose  of  Whig  and  Tory,  wherewith  the  stars  but  in  smaller  matters,  and  such  as  are  net 
have  little  to  do?  30  of  public  consequence,  I  shall  be  very  free; 

Having  long  observed  and  lamented  these,  and  the  truth  of  my  conjectures  will  as  much 
and  a  hundred  other  abuses  of  this  art,  too  appear  from  these  as  the  other.  As  for  the 
tedious  to  repeat,  I  resolved  to  proceed  in  a  most  signal  events  abroad,  in  France,  Flanders, 
new  way,  which  I  doubt  not  will  be  to  the  gen-  Italy,  and  Spain,  I  shall  make  no  scruple  to 
eral  satisfaction  of  the  kingdom.  I  can  this  35 predict  them  in  plain  terms:  some  of  them  are 
year  produce  but  a  specimen  of  what  I  design  of  importance,  and  I  hope  I  shall  seldom  mis- 
for  the  future,  having  employed  most  part  take  the  day  they  will  happen;  therefore  I 
of  my  time  in  adjusting  and  correcting  the  think  good  to  inform  the  reader  that  I  shall  all 
calculations  I  made  for  some  years  past,  be-  along  make  use  of  the  Old  Style  observed  in 
cause  I  would  offer  nothing  to  the  world  of  40  England,^  which  I  desire  he  will  compare  with 
which  I  am  not  as  fully  satisfied  as  that  I  am  that  of  the  newspapers  at  the  time  they  relate 
now  alive.     For  these  two  last  years  I  have      the  actions  I  mention. 

not  failed  in  above  one  or  two  particulars,  and  I  must  add  one  word  more.    I  know  it  has 

those  of  no  very  great  moment.  1  exactly  been  the  opinion  of  several  learned  persons, 
foretold  the  miscarriage  at  Toulon,  with  all  45  who  think  well  enough  of  the  true  art  of  as- 
its  particulars,  and  the  loss  of  Admiral  Shovel, ^  trology,  that  the  stars  do  only  incline,  and  not 
though  I  was  mistaken  as  to  the  day,  placing  force  the  actions  or  wills  of  men;  and  there- 
that  article  about  thirty-six  hours  sooner  than  fore,  however  I  may  proceed  by  right  rules, 
it  happened;  but  upon  reviewing  my  schemes,  yet  I  cannot  in  prudence  so  confidently  assure 
I  quickly  found  the  cause  of  that  error.  I  50  the  events  will  follow  exactly  as  I  predict  them, 
likewise  foretold  the  Battle  of  Almanza^  to  I  hope  I  have  maturely  considered  this  ob- 

the  very  day  and  hour,  with  the  loss  on  both  jection,  which  in  some  cases  is  of  no  little 
sides,  and  the  consequences  thereof,  all  which  weight.  For  example:  a  man  may,  by  the  in- 
I  showed  to  some  friends  many  months  before      fluence  of  an  overruling  planet,  be  disposed  or 

55  inclined  to  lust,  rage,  or  avarice,  and  yet  by 

6  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel,  a  gallant  English  admiral.   He      tlie  force  of  reason  overcome  that  evil  influ- 

was  ship-wrecked  and  drowned  on  the  Scilly  Islands  in  i,,-  ,i  t-  a  j^        -i     j. 

1707,  after  an  unsuccessful  expedition  against  Toulon.  Cnce;  and  this  waS  the  case  01  feOCrates:  but  aS 

«  A  victory  of  the  French  ;ind  Spanish  over  the  British 
and  their  allies,  Aprii  25,  1707,  in  the  "  War  of  the  Sijanish  "  The  New  Style  (or  new  system  of  chronology)  was  not 

Succession."  adopted  in  England  until  1751. 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  323 

the  great  events  of  the  world  usually  depend  no   very  busy  month  in  Europe,   but  very 

upon  numbers  of  men,  it  cannot  be  expected  signal  for  the  death  of  the  Dauphin,  which 

they  should  all  unite  to  cross  their  inclinations  will  happen  on  the  7th,  after  a  short  fit  of 

for  pursuing  a  general  design  wherein  they  sickness,    and    grievous    torments    with    the 

unanimously  agree.     Besides,  the  influence  of  5  strangury.      He    dies   less   lamented   by   the 

the  stars  reaches  to  many  actions  and  events  Court  than  the  kingdom.  .  .  . 

which  are  not  any  way  in  the  power  of  reason,  I  shall  add  but  one  prediction  more,  and 

as  sickness,   death,  and  what  we  commonly  that  in  mystical  terms,  which  shall  be  included 

'Call  accidents,  with  many  more,  needless  to  in  a  verse  out  of  Virgil — 

But  now  it  is  time  to  proceed  to  my  predic-  "^^^f  ^^V^  ^f,i'^2/^'  ^^  «^^^^«  ?^^  ^'^^^^  ^^^^ 
tions,  which  I  have  begun  to  calculate  from        ^^^^^^^^  ^^^^««- 

the  time  that  the  sun  enters  into  Aries;  and  Upon  the  25th  day  of  this  month,  the  ful- 

this  I  take  to  be  properly  the  beginning  of  filling  of  this  prediction  will  be  manifest  to 
the  natural  year.    I  pursue  them  to  the  time  15  everybody. 

that  he  enters  Libra,  or  somewhat  more,  which  This  is  the  furthest  I  have  proceeded  in  my 

is  the  busy  period  of  the  year.  The  remainder  calculations  for  the  present  year.  I  do  not 
I  have  not  yet  adjusted,  upon  account  of  pretend  that  these  are  all  the  great  events 
several  impediments  needless  here  to  men-  which  will  happen  in  this  period,  but  that  those 
tion;  besides,  I  must  remind  the  reader  again  20 1  have  set  down  will  infallibly  come  to  pass, 
that  this  is  but  a  specimen  of  what  I  design  It  will  perhaps  still  be  objected  why  I  have  not 
in  succeeding  years  to  treat  more  at  large,  spoke  more  particularly  of  affairs  at  home,  or 
if  I  may  have  liberty  and  encouragement.  of  the  success  of  our  armies  abroad,  which 

My  first  prediction  is  but  a  trifle,  yet  I  will  I  might,  and  could  very  largely  have  done; 
mention  it,  to  show  how  ignorant  those  sottish  25  but  those  in  power  have  wisely  discouraged 
pretenders  to  astrology  are  in  their  own  con-  men  from  meddling  in  public  concerns,  and  I 
cerns.  It  relates  to  Partridge,  the  almanac-  was  resolved  by  no  means  to  give  the  least 
maker.  I  have  consulted  the  star  of  his  na-  offence.  This  I  will  venture  to  say,  that  it 
tivity  by  my  own  rules,  and  find  he  will  in-  will  be  a  glorious  campaign  for  the  Allies, 
fallibly  die  upon  the  29th  of  March  next,  about  30  wherein  the  English  forces,  both  by  sea  and 
eleven  at  night,  of  a  raging  fever;  therefore  I  land,  will  have  their  full  s}vare  of  honour;  that 
advise  him  to  consider  of  it,  and  settle  his  Her  Majesty  Queen  Anne  will  continue  in 
affairs  in  time.  health  and  prosperity;  and  that  no  ill  accident 

The  month  of  Apn7  will  be  observable  for  will  arrive  to  any  in  the  chief  Ministry, 
the  death  of  many  great  persons.  On  the  4th  35  As  to  the  particular  events  I  have  men- 
will  die  the  Cardinal  de  Noailles,  Archbishop  tioned,  the  reader  may  judge  by  the  fulfilling 
of  Paris;  on  the  11th,  the  young  Prince  of  of  them,  whether  I  am  on  the  level  with  com- 
Asturias,  son  to  the  Duke  of  Anjou;  on  the  mon  astrologers,  who,  with  an  old  paltry  cant, 
14th,  a  great  peer  of  this  realm  will  die  at  his  and  a  few  pothooks  for  planets,  to  amuse  the 
country  house;  on  the  19th,  an  old  layman  of  40  vulgar,  have,  in  my  opinion,  too  long  been 
great  fame  for  learning;  and  on  the  23rd,  an  suffered  to  abuse  the  world;  but  an  honest 
eminent  goldsmith  in  Lombard  Street.  I  physician  ought  not  to  be  despised  because 
could  mention  others,  both  at  home  and  there  are  such  things  as  mountebanks.  I  hope 
abroad,  if  I  did  not  consider  such  events  of  I  have  some  share  of  reputation,  which  I  would 
very  little  use  or  instruction  to  the  reader,  45  not  willingly  forfeit  for  a  frolic  or  humour,  and 
or  to  the  world.  I  believe  no  gentleman  who  reads  this  paper 

As  to  public  affairs:  On  the  7th  of  this  month  will  look  upon  it  to  be  of  the  same  cast  or 
there  will  be  an  insurrection  in  Dauphin^  mould  with  the  common  scribbles  that  are 
occasioned  by  the  oppressions  of  the  people,  every  day  hawked  about.  My  fortune  haa 
which  will  not  be  quieted  in  some  months.  50  placed  me  above  the  little  regard  of  writing  for 

On  the  15th  will  be  a  violent  storm  on  the  a  few  pence,  which  I  neither  value  nor  want; 
south-east  toast  of  France,  which  will  destroy  therefore,  let  not  wise  men  too  hastily  con- 
many  of  their  ships,  and  some  in  the  very  demn  this  essay,  intended  for  a  good  design,  to 
harbour.  cultivate  and  improve  an  ancient  art,   long 

The  19th  will  be  famous  for  the  revolt  of  a  55  in  disgrace,  by  having  fallen  into  mean,  un- 
whole  province  or  kingdom,  excepting  one  skilful  hands.  A  little  time  will  determine 
city,  by  which  the  affairs  of  a  certain  prince  in  whether  I  have  deceived  others  or  myself;  and 
the  Alliance  will  take  a  better  face.  s^j^^^   ^^^^^   ^,I   ^e   another  Tethys   and   another 

May,   against   common   conjectures,    will   be       Argo  which  shall  carry  chosen  heroes.    iEcZ.  iv..  34 


324  DRYDEN  TO   THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 

I  think  it  is  no  very  unreasonable  request  that  sent  thrice  every  day  one  servant  or  other  to 
men  would  please  to  suspend  their  judgments  inquire  after  his  health,  and  yesterday,  about 
till  then.  I  was  once  of  the  opinion  with  those  four  in  the  afternoon,  word  was  brought  me 
who  despise  all  predictions  from  the  stars,  "that  he  was  past  hopes;"  upon  which,  I 
till  the  year  1686  a  man  of  quality  showed  me,  5  prevailed  with  myself  to  go  and  see  him,  partly 
written  in  his  album,  that  the  most  learned  out  of  commiseration,  and  I  confess,  partly 
astronomer,  Captain  Halley,^  assured  him,  out  of  curiosity.  He  knew  me  very  well, 
he  would  never  believe  anything  of  the  stars'  seemed  surprised  at  my  condescension,  and 
influence  if  there  were  not.  a  great  revolution  made  me  compliments  upon  it  as  well  as  he 
in  England  in  the  year  1688.  Since  that  time  10  could  in  the  condition  he  was.  The  people 
I  began  to  have  other  thoughts,  and  after  about  him  said  he  had  been  for  some  time 
eighteen  years'  diligent  study  and  application,  delirious;  but  when  I  saw  him,  he  had  his  un- 
I  think  I  have  no  reason  to  repent  of  my  pains,  derstanding  as  well  as  ever  I  knew,  and  spoke 
I  shall  detain  the  reader  no  longer  than  to  let  strong  and  hearty,  without  any  seeming  un- 
him  know  that  the  account  I  design  to  give  15  easiness  or  constraint.  After  I  had  told  him 
of  next  year's  events  shall  take  in  the  principal  how  sorry  I  was  to  see  him  in  those  melancholy 
affairs  that  happened  in  Europe;  and  if  I  be  circumstances,  and  said  some  other  civilities 
denied  the  liberty  of  offering  it  to  my  own  coun-  suitable  to  the  occasion,  I  desired  him  to  tell 
try,  I  shall  appeal  to  the  learned  world,  by  me  freely  and  ingenuously,  whether  the  pre- 
publishing  it  in  Latin,  and  giving  order  to  20  dictions  Mr.  Bickerstaff  had  published  relating 
have  it  printed  in  Holland.  to  his  death  had  not  too  much  affected  and 

worked  on  his  imagination.    He  confessed  he 

rT^Ty^^    An/-tr^^^/^T>TTOTT^v/rT-.ATr^>  r^-c^  rT^^^^:^  ^^^  often  had  it  in  his  head,  but  never  with 

^tT,J^  XS  A  ^  wJSSt;^  ™"c^  apprehension,  till  about  a  fortnight  be- 

FIRST  OF  MR.  BICI^Rb  1  AFl?  b         25  fore;  since  which  time  it  had  the  perpetual  pos- 

PREDICllONb:  session  of  his  mind  and  thoughts,  and  he  did 

Being  an  Account  of  the  Death  of  Mr.  Partridge      verily  believe  was  the  true  natural  cause  of 

the  Almanac-Maker,  upon  the  29th  instant  his  present  distemper:  "For,"  said  he,  "I  am 

T        X   x^      ^        T^  i-  XT  TTT  -xx      •        thoroughly   persuaded,    and   I   think   I   have 

In  a  Letter  to  a  Person  of  Honour,  Written  mg^^^^  g^^d  reasons,  that  Mr.  Bickerstaff  spoke 

^     ^^^  altogether  by  guess,  and  knew  no  more  what 

My  Lord, — In  obedience  to  your  lordshit^'s      will  happen  this  year  than  I  did  myself." 
commands,  as  well  as  to  satisfy  my  own  curios-  I  told  him  his  discourse  surprised  me,  and 

ity,  I  have  for  some  days  past  inquired  con-  I  would  be  glad  he  were  in  a  state  of  health 
stantly  after  Partridge  the  almanac-maker,  35  to  be  able  to  tell  me  what  reason  he  had  to 
of  whom  it  was  foretold  in  Mr.  Bickerstaff's  be  convinced  of  Mr.  Bickerstaff's  ignorance. 
Predictions,  published  about  a  month  ago,  He  replied,  "I  am  a  poor,  ignorant  fellow, 
that  he  should  die  the  29th  instant,  about  bred  to  a  mean  trade,  yet  I  have  sense  enough 
eleven  at  night,  of  a  raging  fever.  I  had  some  to  know  that  all  pretences  of  foretelling  by 
sort  of  knowledge  of  him  when  I  was  employed  40  astrology  are  deceits,  for  this  manifest  reason, 
in  the  Revenue,  because  he  used  every  year  because  the  wise  and  the  learned,  who  can  only 
to  present  me  with  his  almanac,  as  he  did  other  judge  whether  there  be  any  truth  in  this 
gentlemen,  upon  the  score  of  some  little  gra-  science,  do  all  unanimously  agree  to  laugh  at 
tuity  we  gave  him.  I  saw  him  accidentally  and  despise  it;  and  none  but  the  poor  ignorant 
once  or  twice  about  ten  days  before  he  died,  45  vulgar  give  it  any  credit,  and  that  only  upon 
and  observed  he  began  very  much  to  droop  the  word  of  such  silly  wretches  as  I  and  my 
and  languish,  though  I  hear  his  friends  did  fellows,  who  can  hardly  write  or  read."  I  then 
not  seem  to  apprehend  liim  in  any  danger,  asked  him  why  he  had  not  calculated  his  own 
About  two  or  three  days  ago  he  grew  ill,  was  nativity,  to  see  whether  it  agreed  with  Bicker- 
confined  first  to  his  chamber,  and  in  a  few  50  staff's  prediction,  at  which  he  shook  his  head 
hours  after  to  his  bed,  where  Dr.  Case^  and  and  said,  "Oh,  sir,  this  is  no  time  for  jesting, 
Mrs.  Kirleus^  were  sent  for,  to  visit  and  to  but  for  repenting  those  fooleries,  as  I  do  now 
prescribe  to  him.     Upon  this  intelligence  I      from  the  very  bottom  of  my  heart."     "By 

»  Edmund  Halley  fl65&-1742),  a  celebrated  astronomer,       what  I  can  gather  from  you,"  said  I,  "the  ob-  \ 
fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  and  friend  of  Sir  Isaac  New-  55  servations    and    predictions    you    printed   with 
ton.    His  prediction  of  the  return  of  a  certain  comet  (now  -,  „  „  ^^„„  .•^»,^„;+:^^        ^   +u, 

known  as  "Halley's  comet")  in  175S,  was  exactly  fulfilled.      YouT  almanacs  were  mere  impositions  on  the 

1  A  famous  astrologer  and  quack  practitioner  of  Queen       people."     He  replied,   "If  it  were  otherwise,  I 

^°°®if  *^"?f •      ,  tT^    r^u         V  ^  r     A         should  havo  the  less  to  answer  for.    We  have  a 

*  The  widow  of  a  son  of  Dr.  Thomas  Kirleus,  a  London  .  .         „  ^,  .,  .  .      - 

physician.  common  form  for  all  those  thmgs;  as  to  fore- 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  325 

telling  the  weather,  we  never  meddle  with  that  I  began  to  conceive  hopes  of  getting  my 
that,  but  leave  it  to  the  printer,  who  takes  it  liberty  in  a  short  time.  I  took  all  possible 
out  of  any  old  almanac  as  he  thinks  fit;  the  methods  to  cultivate  this  favorable  disposition, 
rest  was  my  own  invention,  to  make  my  al-  The  natives  came,  by  degrees,  to  be  less  ap- 
manac  sell,  having  a  wife  to  maintain,  and  no  5  prehensive  of  any  danger  from  me.  I  would 
other  way  to  get  my  bread;  for  mending  old  sometimes  lie  down,  and  let  five  or  six  of  them 
shoes  is  a  poor  livelihood;  and,"  added  he,  dance  on  my  hand;  and  at  last  the  boys  and 
sighing,  "I  wish  I  may  not  have  done  more  girls  would  venture  to  come  and  play  at  hide- 
mischief  by  my  physic  than  my  astrology;  and-seek  in  my  hair.  I  had  now  made  a  good 
though  I  had  some  good  receipts  from  my  10  progress  in  understanding  and  speaking  their 
grandmother,  and  my  own  compositions  were  language.  The  emperor  had  a  mind  one  day 
such  as  I  thought  could  at  least  do  no  hurt."  to  entertain  me  with  several  of  the  country 
I  had  some  other  discourse  with  him,  which  shows,  wherein  they  exceed  all  nations  I  have 
now  I  cannot  call  to  mind;  and  I  fear  I  have  known,  both  for  dexterity  and  magnificence, 
already  tired  your  lordship.  I  shall  only  add  15  I  was  diverted  with  none  so  much  as  that  of 
one  circumstance,  that  on  his  death-bed  he  the  rope-dancers,  performed  upon  a  slender 
declared  himself  a  Nonconformist,  and  had  a  white  thread,  extended  about  two  foot  and 
fanatic  preacher  to  be  his  spiritual  guide,  twelve  inches  from  the  ground.  Upon  which 
After  half  an  hour's  conversation  I  took  my  I  shall  desire  liberty,  with  the  reader's  pa- 
leave,  being  almost  stifled  by  the  closeness  of  20  tience,  to  enlf  jge  a  little, 
the  room.  I  imagined  he  could  not  hold  out  This  diversion  is  only  practised  by  those 
long,  and  therefore  withdrew  to  a  little  coffee-  persons  who  are  candidates  for  great  employ- 
house  hard  by,  leaving  a  servant  at  the  house  ments  and  high  favor  at  court.  They  are 
with  orders  to  come  immediately  and  tell  me,  trained  in  this  art  from  their  youth,  and  are 
as  near  as  he  could,  the  minute  when  Part-  25  not  always  of  noble  birth  or  liberal  education, 
ridge  should  expire,  which  was  not  above  two  When  a  great  office  is  vacant,  either  by  death 
hours  after,  when,  looking  upon  my  watch,  or  disgrace  (which  often  happens),  five  or  six 
I  found  it  to  be  above  five  minutes  after  seven;  of  those  candidates  petition  the  emperor  to 
by  which  it  is  clear  that  Mr.  Bickerstaff  was  entertain  his  majesty  and  the  court  with  a 
mistaken  almost  four  hours  in  his  calculation.  30  dance  on  the  rope;  and  whoever  jumps  the 
In  the  other  circumstances  he  was  exact  highest  without  falling,  succeeds  in  the  oflSce. 
enough.  But  whether  he  has  not  been  the  Very  often  the  chief  ministers  themselves  are 
cause  of  this  poor  man's  death,  as  well  as  the  commanded  to  show  their  skill,  and  to  con- 
predictor,  may  be  very  reasonably  disputed,  vince  the  emperor  that  they  have  not  lost  their 
However,  it  must  be  confessed  the  matter  is  35  faculty.  Flimnap,  the  treasurer,  is  allowed  to 
odd  enough,  whether  we  should  endeavor  to  cut  a  caper  on  the  straight  rope,  at  least  an 
account  for  it  by  chance,  or  the  effect  of  imag-  inch  higher  than  any  other  lord  in  the  whole 
ination.  For  my  own  part,  though  I  believe  empire.  I  have  seen  him  do  the  summerset 
no  man  has  less  faith  in  these  matters,  yet  I  several  times  together,  upon  a  trencher  fixed 
shall  wait  with  some  impatience,  and  not  with-  40  on  the  rope,  which  is  no  thicker  than  a  common 
out  some  expectation,  the  fulfiUing  of  Mr.  pack-thread  in  England.  My  friend  Reldresal, 
Bickerstaff's  second  prediction,  that  the  Car-  principal  secretary  for  private  affairs,  is,  in 
dinal  de  Noailles  is  to  die  upon  the  4th  of  April,  my  opinion,  if  I  am  not  partial,  the  second 
and  if  that  should  be  verified  as  exactly  as  this  after  the  treasurer;  the  rest  of  the  great  oflScers 
of  poor  Partridge,  I  must  own  I  should  be  45  are  much  upon  a  par. 

wholly  surprised,  and  at  a  loss,  and  should         These  diversions  are  often  attended  with 

infallibly   expect   the  accomplishment   of  all     fatal   accidents,   whereof  great   numbers  are 

the  rest.  on  record.     I  myself  have  seen  two  or  three 

*  candidates  break  a  limb.     But  the  danger  is 

GULLIVER  AMONG  THE  50much  greater  when  the  ministers  themselves 

TTTTTPTTTTATM«;i  21^®  commanded  to  show  their  dexterity;  for, 

i^ij^i^iruiiAiNo  ^y  contending  to  excel  themselves  and  their 

(From  The  Travels  of  Lemuel  Gulliver,  1726)        fellows,  they  strain  so  far  that  there  is  hardly 

My  gentleness  and  good  behavior  had  gained      one  of  them  who  hath  not  received  a  fall,  and 

so  far  on  the  emperor  and  his  court,  and  in-  55  some  of  them  two  or  three.     I  was  assured 

deed   upon   the    army    and    people   in    general,  ^^nths  later  he  was  shipwrecked  on  the  way  to  the  East 

1  Lemuel    Gulliver,    the    honest,    matter-of-fact,    and  Indies,   and   found  himself  in  the  country  of  Lilhput, 

typically  middle-class  hero  of  Swift's  story,  after  taking  which  was  inhabited  by  a  diminutive  race  of  men,  not 

several  voyages  as  ship's  surgeon,  sailed  from  Bristol,  more  than  six  inches  high.    After  various  adventures  ne 

May  4,  1699,  on  a  voyage  to  the   South  Seas.     Six  .  met  the  Emperor  of  Lilliput,  and  went  to  the  Court. 


326  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

that,  a  year  or  two  before  my  arrival,  Flimnap  stood  erect,  and  extended  it  on  all  sides,  till  it 
would  have  infaUibly  broke  his  neck  if  one  of  was  as  tight  as  the  top  of  a  drum;  and  the 
the  king's  cushions,  that  accidentally  lay  on  four  parallel  sticks,  rising  about  five  inches 
the  ground,  had  not  weakened  the  force  of  higher  than  the  handkerchief,  served  as  ledges 
his  fall.  5  on  each  side.    When  I  had  finished  my  work, 

There  is  likewise  another  diversion,  which  I  desired  the  emperor  to  let  a  troop  of  his  best 
is  only  shown  before  the  emperor  and  empress,  horse,  twenty-four  in  number,  come  and  exer- 
and  first  minister,  upon  particular  occasions,  cise  upon  this  plain.  His  majesty  approved  of 
The  emperor  lays  on  a  table  three  fine  silken  the  proposal,  and  I  took  them  up,  one  by  one, 
threads  of  six  inches  long;  one  is  blue,  the  other  10  in  my  hands,  ready  mounted  and  armed,  with 
red,  and  the  third  green.  These  threads  are  the  proper  oflBcers  to  exercise  them.  As  soon 
proposed  as  prizes  for  those  persons  whom  the  as  they  got  into  order  they  divided  into  two 
emperor  hath  a  mind  to  distinguish  by  a  pe-  parties,  performed  mock  skirmishes,  discharged 
culiar  mark  of  his  favor.  The  ceremony  is  blunt  arrows,  drew  their  swords,  fled  and  pur- 
performed  in  his  majesty's  great  chamber  of  15  sued,  attacked,  and  retired,  and,  in  short,  dis- 
state,  where  the  candidates  are  to  undergo  a  covered  the  best  military  discipline  I  ever 
trial  of  dexterity,  very  different  from  the  beheld.  The  parallel  sticks  secured  them  and 
former,  and  such  as  I  have  not  observed  the  their  horses  from  failing  over  the  stage;  and 
least  resemblance  of  in  any  other  country  of  the  emperor  was  so  much  delighted  that  he 
the  old  or  the  new  world.  The  emperor  holds  20  ordered  this  entertainment  to  be  repeated 
a  stick  in  his  hands,  both  ends  parallel  to  the  several  days,  and  once  was  pleased  to  be  lifted 
horizon,  while  the  candidates  advancing,  one  up  and  give  the  word  of  command;  and  with 
by  one,  sometimes  leap  over  the  stick,  some-  great  difficulty  persuaded  even  the  empress 
times  creep  under  it,  backward  and  forward,  herself  to  let  me  hold  her  in  her  close  chair 
several  times,  according  as  the  stick  is  advanced  25  within  two  yards -X)f  the  stage,  from  whence 
or  depressed.  Sometimes  the  emperor  holds  she  was  able  to  take  a  full  view  of  the  whole 
one  end  of  the  stick,  and  his  first  minister  the  performance.  It  was  my  good  fortune  that  no 
other;  sometimes  the  minister  has  it  entirely  ill  accident  happened  in  these  entertainments; 
to  himself.  Whoever  performs  his  part  with  only  once  a  fiery  horse,  that  belonged  to  one 
most  agility,  and  holds  out  the  longest  in  leap-  30  of  the  captains,  pawing  with  his  hoof,  struck  a 
ing  and  creeping,  is  rewarded  with  the  blue  hole  in  my  handkerchief,  and  his  foot  slipping, 
colored  silk;  and  red  is  given  to  the  next,  and  he  overthrew  his  rider  and  himself;  but  I  im- 
the  green  to  the  third,  which  they  all  wear  mediately  relieved  them  both,  and  covering 
girt  twice  round  about  the  middle;  and  you  the  hole  with  one  hand,  I  set  down  the  troop 
see  few  great  persons  about  this  court  who  are  35  with  the  other,  in  the  same  manner  as  I  took 
not  adorned  with  one  of  these  girdles.  them  up.    The  horse  that  fell  was  strained  in 

The  horses  of  the  army,  and  those  of  the  the  left  shoulder,  but  the  rider  got  no  hurt; 
royal  stables,  having  been  daily  led  before  me,  and  I  repaired  my  handkerchief  as  well  as  I 
were  no  longer  shy,  but  would  come  up  to  could:  however,  I  would  not  trust  to  the 
my  very  feet  without  starting.  The  riders  40  strength  of  it  any  more  in  such  dangerous 
would  leap  them  over  my  hand,  as  I  held  it  on  enterprises, 
the  ground;  and  one  of  the  emperor's  hunts- 
men, upon  a  large  courser,  took  my  foot,  shoe 

and  all,  which  was  indeed  a  prodigious  leap.        HOW   GULLIVER   CONQUERED   THE 
I  had  the  good  fortune  to  divert  the  emperor  45      FLEET  OF  THE  BLEFUSCUDIANS 
one  day  after  a  very  extraordinary  manner. 

I  desired  he  would  order  several  sticks  of  two  The  empire  of  Blefuscu  is  an  island,  situated 

foot  high,  and  the  thickness  of  an  ordinary  to  the  northeast  of  Lilliput,  from  which  it  is 
cane,  to  be  brought  me;  whereupon  »his  maj-  parted  only  by  a  channel  of  eight  hundred 
esty  commanded  the  master  of  his  woods  to  so  yards  wide.  I  had  not  yet  seen  it,  and  upon 
give  directions  accordingly;  and  the  next  this  notice  of  an  intended  invasion  I  avoided 
morning  six  woodmen  arrived  with  as  many  appearing  on  that  side  of  the  coast,  for  fear 
carriages,  drawn  by  eight  horses  to  each.  I  of  being  discovered  by  some  of  the  enemy's 
took  nine  of  these  sticks,  and  fixing  them  ships,  who  had  received  no  intelligence  of  me; 
firmly  in  the  ground  in  a  quadrangular  figure,  55  all  intercourse  between  the  two  empires  hav- 
two  foot  and  a  half  square,  I  took  four  other  ing  been  strictly  forbidden  during  the  war, 
sticks,  and  tied  them  parallel  at  each  corner,  upon  pain  of  death,  and  an  embargo  laid  by 
about  two  foot  from  the  ground;  then  I  fas-  our  emperor  upon  all  vessels  whatsoever.  I 
tened  my  handkerchief  to  the  nine  sticks  that     communicated  to  his  majesty  a  project  I  had 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  327 

formed,  of  seizing  the  enemy's  whole  fleet;  the  cord,  and,  leaving  the  hooks  fixed  to  the 
which,  as  our  scouts  assured  us,  lay  at  anchor  ships,  I  resolutely  cut  with  my  knife  the  cables 
in  the  harbor,  ready  to  sail  with  the  first  fair  that  fastened  the  anchors,  receiving  about 
wind.  1  consulted  the  most  experienced  sea-  two  hundred  shots  in  my  face  and  hands;  then 
men  upon  the  depth  of  the  channel,  which  5 1  took  up  the  knotted  end  of  the  cables,  to 
they  had  often  plumbed;  who  told  me  that  in  which  my  hooks  were  tied,  and  with  great  ease 
the  middle,  at  high-water,  it  was  seventy  drew  fifty  of  the  enemy's  largest  men-of-war 
glumgluffs  deep,   which  is  about  six  foot  of      after  me. 

European  measure;  and  the  rest  of  it  fifty  The  Blefuscudians,  who  had  not  the  least 

glumglujlfs  at  most.  I  walked  toward  the  lo  imagination  of  what  I  intended,  were  at  first 
northeast  coast,  over  against  Blefuscu,  and,  confounded  with  astonishment.  They  had 
lying  down  behind  a  hillock,  took  out  my  small  seen  me  cut  the  cables,  and  thought  my  design 
pocket  perspective  glass,  and  viewed  the  was  only  to  let  the  ships  run  adrift,  or  fall  foul 
enemy's  fleet  at  anchor,  consisting  of  about  on  each  other;  but  when  they  perceived  the 
fifty-men-of-war,  and  a  great  number  of  trans-  15  whole  fleet  moving  in  order,  and  saw  me  pull- 
ports:  I  then  came  back  to  my  house,  and  ing  at  the  end,  they  set  up  such  a  scream  of 
gave  order  (for  which  I  had  a  warrant)  for  a  grief  and  despair  that  it  is  almost  impossible 
great  quantity  of  the  strongest  cable  and  bars  to  describe  or  conceive.  When  I  had  got  out 
of  iron.  The  cable  was  about  as  thick  as  pack-  of  danger  I  stopped  a  while  to  pick  out  the 
thread,  and  the  bars  of  the  length  and  size  of  20  arrows  that  stuck  in  my  hands  and  face;  and 
a  knitting-needle.  I  trebled  the  cable  to  make  rubbed  on  some  of  the  same  ointment  that  was 
it  stronger,  and  for  the  same  reason  I  twisted  given  me  at  my  first  arrival,  as  I  have  formerly 
three  of  the  iron  bars  together,  bending  the  mentioned.  I  then  took  off  my  spectacles, 
extremities  into  a  hook.  Having  thus  fixed  and,  waiting  about  an  hour,  till  the  tide  was 
fifty  hooks  to  as  many  cables,  I  went  back  to  25  a  little  fallen,  I  waded  through  the  middle 
the  northeast  coast,  and,  putting  off  my  coat,  with  my  cargo,  and  arrived  safe  at  the  royal 
shoes,  and  stockings,  walked  into  the  sea,  in      port  of  Lilliput. 

my  leathern  jerkin,  about  half  an  hour  before  The  emperor  and  his  whole  court  stood  on 

high-water.  I  waded  with  what  haste  I  could,  the  shore,  expecting  the  issue  of  this  great 
and  swam  in  the  middle  about  thirty  yards,  30  adventure.  They  saw  the  ships  move  forward 
till  I  felt  ground.  I  arrived  at  the  fleet  in  in  a  large  half-moon,  but  could  not  discern 
less  than  half  an  hour.  The  enemy  was  so  me,  who  was  up  to  my  breast  in  water.  When 
frighted  when  they  saw  me  that  they  leaped  I  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  channel  they 
out  of  their  ships,  and  swam  to  shore,  where  were  yet  more  in  pain,  because  I  was  under 
there  could  not  be  fewer  than  thirty  thousand  35  water  to  my  neck.  The  emperor  concluded 
souls:  I  then  took  my  tackling,  and,  fastening  me  to  be  drowned,  and  that  the  enemy's  fleet 
a  hook  to  the  hole  at  the  prow  of  each,  I  tied  was  approaching  in  a  hostile  manner;  but  he 
all  the  cords  together  at  the  end.  While  I  was  was  soon  eased  of  his  fears:  for,  the  channel 
thus  employed  the  enemy  discharged  several  growing  shallower  every  step  I  made,  I  came 
thousand  arrows,  many  of  which  stuck  in  my  40  in  a  short  time  within  hearing,  and,  holding 
hands  and  face;  and,  besides  the  excessive  up  the  end  of  the  cable  by  which  the  fleet  was 
smart,  gave  me  much  disturbance  in  my  work,  fastened,  I  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "Long  live 
My  greatest  apprehension  was  for  mine  eyes,  the  most  puissant  Emperor  of  Lilliput!"  This 
which  I  should  have  infallibly  lost,  if  I  had  great  prince  received  me  at  my  landing  with 
not  suddenly  thought  of  an  expedient.  I  kept,  45  all  possible  encomiums,  and  created  me  a  nardac 
among  other  little  necessaries,  a  pair  of  spec-  upon  the  spot,  which  is  the  highest  title  of 
tacles  in  a  private  pocket,  which,  as  I  observed  honor  among  them, 
before,  had  escaped  the  emperor's  searchers. 

These  I  took  out,  and  fastened  as  strongly  as  ^  VOYAGE  TO  BROBDIGNAG^ 

I  could  upon  my  nose,  and,  thus  armed,  went  50 

on  boldly  with  my  work,  in  spite  of  the  enemy's  On  the  16th  day  of  June,  1703,  a  boy  on 
arrows,  many  of  which  struck  against  the  the  topmast  discovered  land.  On  the  17th  we 
glasses  of  my  spectacles,  but  without  any  other      came  in  full  view  of  a  great  island,  or  continent 

effect  further  than  a  little  to  discompose  them.  ,  Gulliver  returned  safely  from  Lilliput,  but  after  being 

I  had  now  fastened  all  the  hooks,  and,  taking  55  home  for  two  months  prew-  restless  and  left  England  in  a 

the  knot  in  my  hand,  began  to  pull;  but  not      ^l^^^Z.^rouiol^ti,  ^iXS^^^^Strl 

a   ship  would   stir,   for  they  were  all   too   fast       driven  eastward  for  such  a  distance  "that  the  <'ldest 

held  by  their  anchors,  so  that  the  bold  part  ^l^Z'^''%f"^i'rli^"dri^!;^''Smyt^^^to 
of  my  enterprise  remained.     I  therefore  let  go      Brobdignag— the  land  of  the  giants. 


328  DRYDEN   TO  THE   DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 

(for  we  knew  not  whether),  on  the  south  side  ordinary  spire  steeple,  and  took  about  ten 
whereof  was  a  small  neck  of  land  jutting  out  yards  at  every  stride,  as  near  as  I  could  guess, 
into  the  sea,  and  a  creek  too  shallow  to  hold  a  I  was  struck  with  the  utmost  fear  and  astonish- 
ship  of  above  one  hundred  tons.  We  cast  ment,  and  ran  to  hide  myself  in  the  corn,  from 
anchor  within  a  league  of  this  creek,  and  our  5  whence  I  saw  him  at  the  top  of  the  stile,  look- 
captain  sent  a  dozen  of  his  men  well  armed  ing  back  into  the  next  field  on  the  right  hand, 
in  the  long-boat,  with  vessels  for  water,  if  any  and  heard  him  call  in  a  voice  many  degrees 
could  be  found.  I  desired  his  leave  to  go  with  louder  than  a  speaking-trumpet;  but  the  noise 
them,  that  I  might  see  the  country,  and  make  was  so  high  in  the  air  that  at  first  I  certainly 
what  discoveries  I  could.  When  we  came  to  10  thought  it  was  thunder.  Whereupon  seven 
land  we  saw  no  river  or  spring,  nor  any  sign  monsters,  like  himself,  came  toward  him  with 
of  inhabitants.  Our  men  therefore  wandered  reaping  hooks  in  their  hands,  each  hook  about 
on  the  shore  to  find  out  some  fresh  water  near  the  largeness  of  six  scythes.  These  people 
the  sea,  and  I  walked  alone  about  a  mile  on  were  not  so  well  clad  as  the  first,  whose  serv- 
the  other  side,  where  I  observed  the  country  15  ants  or  laborers  they  seemed  to  be;  for,  upon 
all  barren  and  rocky.  I  now  began  to  be  some  words  he  spoke,  they  went  to  reap  the 
weary,  and,  seeing  nothing  to  entertain  my  corn  in  the  field  where  I  lay.  I  kept  from 
curiosity,  I  returned  gently  down  toward  the  them  at  as  great  a  distance  as  I  could,  but  was 
creek;  and  the  sea  being  full  in  my  view,  I  saw  forced  to  move  with  extreme  difficulty,  for 
our  men  already  got  into  the  boat,  and  rowing  20  the  stalks  of  the  corn  were  sometimes  not  above 
for  fife  to  the  ship.  I  was  going  to  halloo  after  a  foot  distant,  so  that  I  could  hardly  squeeze 
them,  although  it  had  been  to  little  purpose,  my  body  betwixt  them.  However,  I  made  a 
when  I  observed  a  huge  creature  walking  after  shift  to  go  forward  till  I  came  to  a  part  of  the 
them  in  the  sea,  as  fast  as  he  could;  he  waded  field  where  the  corn  had  been  laid  by  the  rain 
not  much  deeper  than  his  knees,  and  took  25  and  wind.  Here  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
prodigious  strides;  but  our  men  had  got  the  advance  a  step;  for  the  stalks  were  so  inter- 
start  of  him  half  a  league,  and  the  sea  there-  woven  that  I  could  not  creep  through,  and  the 
abouts  being  full  of  sharp  pointed  rocks,  the  beards  of  the  fallen  ears  so  strong  and  pointed 
monster  was  not  able  to  overtake  the  boat,  that  they  pierced  through  my  clothes  into  my 
This  I  was  afterward  told,  for  I  durst  not  stay  30  flesh.  At  the  same  time  I  heard  the  reapers 
to  see  the  issue  of  that  adventure;  but  ran  as  not  above  an  hundred  yards  behind  me.  Being 
fast  as  I  could  the  way  I  first  went,  and  then  quite  dispirited  with  toil,  and  wholly  overcome 
climbed  up  a  steep  hill,  which  gave  me  some  by  grief  and  despair,  I  lay  down  between  two 
prospect  of 'the  country.  I  found  it  fully  culti-  ridges,  and  heartily  wished  I  might  there  end 
vated;  but  that  which  first  surprised  me  was  35  my  days.  I  bemoaned  my  desolate  widow  and 
the  length  of  the  grass,  which  in  those  grounds  fatherless  children.  I  lamented  my  own  folly 
that  seemed  to  be  kept  for  hay  was  above  and  willfulness  in  attempting  a  second  voyage, 
twenty  foot  high.  against  the  advice  of  all  my  friends  and  rela- 

I  fell  into  a  highroad,  for  so  I  took  it  to  be,  tions.  In  this  terrible  agitation  of  mind  I 
though  it  served  to  the  inhabitants  only  as  a  40  could  not  forbear  thinking  of  Lilliput,  whose 
footpath  through  a  field  of  barley.  Here  I  inhabitants  looked  upon  me  as  the  greatest 
walked  on  for  some  time,  but  could  see  little  prodigy  that  ever  appeared  in  the  world;  where 
on  either  side,  it  being  now  near  harvest,  and  I  was  able  to  draw  an  imperial  fleet  in  my  hand, 
the  corn  rising  at  least  forty  foot.  I  was  an  and  perform  those  other  actions  which  will 
hour  walking  to  the  end  of  this  field,  which  45  be  recorded  forever  in  the  chronicles  of  that 
was  fenced  in  wdth  a  hedge  of  at  least  one  empire,  while  posterity  shall  hardly  believe 
hundred  and  twenty  foot  high,  and  the  trees  them,  although  attested  by  millions.  I  re- 
80  lofty  that  I  could  make  no  computation  of  fleeted  what  a  mortification  it  must  prove  to 
their  altitude.  There  was  a  stile  to  pass  from  me  to  appear  as  inconsiderable  in  this  nation 
this  field  into  the  next.  It  had  four  steps,  and  50  as  one  single  Lilliputian  would  be  among  us. 
a  stone  to  cross  over  when  you  came  to  the  But  this  I  conceived  was  to  be  the  least  of 
uppermost.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  climb  my  misfortunes;  for,  as  human  creatures  are 
this  stile,  because  every  step  was  six  foot  high,  observed  to  be  more  savage  and  cruel  in  pro- 
and  the  upper  stone  above  twenty.  I  was  portion  to  their  bulk,  what  could  I  expect  but 
endeavoring  to  find  some  gap  in  the  hedge,  55  to  be  a  morsel  in  the  mouth  of  the  first  amongv 
when  I  discovered  one  of  the  inhabitants  in  these  enormous  barbarians  that  should  happen ) 
the  next  field,  advancing  toward  the  stile,  of  to  seize  me?  Undoubtedly  philosophers  are 
the  same  size  with  him  whom  I  saw  in  the  sea  in  the  right  when  they  tell  us  that  nothing  is 
pursuing  our  boat.    He  appeared  as  tall  as  an     great  or  little  otherwise  than  by  comparison. 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  329 

It  might  have  pleased  fortune  to  let  the  Lilli-  servant  could  give  him,  took  a  piece  of  a  small 
putians  find  some  nation,  where  the  people  straw,  about  the  size  of  a  walking-staff,  and 
were  as  diminutive  with  respect  to  them  as  therewith  lifted  up  the  lappets  of  my  coat; 
they  were  to  me.  And  who  knows  but  that  which,  it  seems,  he  thought  to  be  some  kind 
even  this  prodigious  race  of  mortals  might  be  5  of  covering  that  nature  had  given  me.  He 
equally  overmatched  in  some  distant  part  of  blew  my  hairs  aside  to  take  a  better  view  of 
the  world,  whereof  we  have  yet  no  discovery.  my  face.    He  called  his  hinds  about  him,  and 

Scared  and  confounded  as  I  was,  I  could  not  asked  them,  as  I  afterward  learned,  whether 
forbear  going  on  with  these  reflections,  when  they  had  ever  seen  in  the  fields  any  little  crea- 
one  of  the  reapers,  approaching  within  ten  yards  lo  ture  that  resembled  me?  He  then  placed  me 
of  the  ridge  where  I  lay,  made  me  apprehend  softly  on  the  ground  upon  all  four,  but  I  got 
that  with  the  next  step  I  should  be  squashed  immediately  up  and  walked  slowly  backward 
to  death  under  his  foot,  or  cut  in  two  with  his  and  forward,  to  let  those  people  see  I  had  no 
reaping-hook.  And  therefore  when  he  was  intent  to  run  away.  They  all  sate  down  in  a 
again  about  to  move,  I  screamed  as  loud  as  15  circle  about  me,  the  better  to  observe  my  mo- 
fear  could  make  me;  whereupon  the  huge  tions.  I  pulled  off  my  hat,  and  made  a  low 
creature  trod  short,  and,  looking  round  about  bow  toward  the  farmer.  I  fell  on  my  knees, 
under  him  for  some  time,  at  last  espied  me  as  and  lifted  up  my  hands  and  eyes,  and  spoke 
1  lay  on  the  ground.  He  considered  awhile,  several  words  as  loud  as  I  could;  I  took  a  purse 
with  the  caution  of  one  who  endeavors  to  lay  20  of  gold  out  of  my  pocket,  and  humbly  pre- 
hold  on  a  small  dangerous  animal  in  such  a  sented  it  to  him.  He  received  it  on  the  palm 
manner  that  it  may  not  be  able  either  to  scratch  of  his  hand,  then  applied  it  close  to  his  eye  to 
or  to  bite  him,  as  I  myself  have  sometimes  see  what  it  was,  and  afterward  turned  it  several 
done  with  a  weasel  in  England.  At  length  times  with  the  point  of  a  pin  (which  he  took 
he  ventured  to  take  me .  up  behind,  by  the  25  out  of  his  sleeve),  but  could  make  nothing  of 
middle,  between  his  forefinger  and  thumb,  and  it.  Whereupon  I  made  a  sign  that  he  should 
brought  me  within  three  yards  of  his  eyes,  place  his  hand  on  the  ground.  1  then  took 
that  he  might  behold  my  shape  more  perfectly,  the  purse,  and  opening  it,  poured  all  the  gold 
I  guessed  his  meaning,  and  my  good  fortune  into  his  palm.  There  were  six  Spanish  pieces 
gave  me  so  much  presence  of  mind  that  I  re-  30  of  four  pistoles  each,  besides  twenty  or  thirty 
solved  not  to  struggle  in  the  least  as  he  held  smaller  coins.  I  saw  him  wet  the  tip  of  his 
me  in  the  air  above  sixty  foot  from  the  ground,  little  finger  upon  his  tongue,  and  take  up  one 
although  he  grievously  pinched  my  sides,  for  of  my  largest  pieces,  and  then  another;  but 
fear  I  should  slip  through  his  fingers.  All  I  he  seemed  to  be  wholly  ignorant  what  they 
ventured  was  to  raise  mine  eyes  toward  the  35  were.  He  made  me  a  sign  to  put  them  again 
sun,  and  place  my  hands  together  in  a  sup-  into  my  purse,  and  the  purse  again  into  my 
plicating  posture,  and  to  speak  some  words  pocket,  which,  after  offering  to  him  several 
in  an  humble,  melancholy  tone,  suitable  to  times,  I  thought  it  best  to  do. 
the  condition  I  then  was  in;  for  I  apprehended  The  farmer,  by  this  time,  was  convinced  I 
every  moment  that  he  would  dash  me  against  40  must  be  a  rational  creature.  He  spoke  often 
the  ground,  as  we  usually  do  any  little  hateful  to  me;  but  the  sound  of  his  voice  pierced  my 
animal  which  we  have  a  mind  to  destroy.  But  ears  like  that  of  a  water-mill,  yet  his  words  were 
my  good  star  would  have  it  that  he  appeared  articulate  enough.  I  answered  as  loud  as  I 
pleased  with  my  voice  and  gestures,  and  began  could  in  several  languages,  and  he  often  laid 
to  look  upon  me  as  a  curiosity,  much  wonder- 45  his  ear  within  two  yards  of  me;  but  all  in  vain, 
ing  to  hear  me  pronounce  articulate  words,  for  we  were  wholly  unintelligible  to  each  other, 
although  he  could  not  understand  them.  In  He  then  sent  his  servants  to  their  work,  and 
the  meantime  I  was  not  able  to  forbear  groan-  taking  his  handkerchief  out  of  his  pocket,  he 
ing  and  shedding  tears,  and  turning  my  head  doubled,  and  spread  it  on  his  left  hand,  which 
toward  my  sides;  letting  him  know  as  well  as  50  he  placed  flat  on  the  ground,  with  the  palm 
I  could  how  cruelly  I  was  hurt  by  the  pressure  upward,  making  me  a  sign  to  step  into  it,  as  I 
of  his  thumb  and  finger.  He  seemed  to  appre-  could  easily  do,  for  it  was  not  above  a  foot  in 
hend  my  meaning;  for,  lifting  up  the  lappet  of  thickness.  I  thought  it  my  part  to  obey;  and 
his  coat,  he  put  me  gently  into  it,  and  im-  for  fear  of  falling  laid  myself  at  full  length  upon 
mediately  ran  along  with  me  to  his  master,  55  the  handkerchief,  with  the  remainder  of  which 
who  was  a  substantial  farmer,  and  the  same  he  lapped  me  up  to  the  head  for  further  se- 
person  I  had  first  seen  in  the  field.  curity,  and  in  this  manner  carried  me  home 

The  farmer  having  (as  I  supposed  by  their      to  his  house.     There  he  called  his  wife,  and 
talk)  received  such  an  account  of  me  as  his     showed  me  to  her;  but  she  screamed  and  ran 


330  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 

back,  as  women  in  England  do  at  the  sight  of  lature;  to  be  members  of  the  highest  court  of 
a  toad  or  spider.  However,  whe.n  she  had  judicature,  from  whence  there  can  be  no  ap- 
awhile  seen  my  behavior,  and  how  well  I  ob-  peal;  and  to  be  champions  always  ready  for 
served  the  signs  her  husband  made,  she  was  the  defence  of  their  prince  and  country,  by 
soon  reconciled,  and  by  degrees  grew  extremely  5  their  valor,  conduct,  and  fidehty.  That  these 
tender  of  me.  .  .  .  were  the  ornament  and  bulwark  of  the  king- 

The  king,  who,  .  .  .  was  a  prince  of  ex-  dom,  worthy  followers  of  their  most  renowned 
cellent  understanding,  would  frequently  order  ancestors,  whose  honor  have  been  the  reward 
that  I  should  be  brought  in  my  box,  and  set  of  their  virtue,  from  which  their  posterity  were 
upon  the  table  in  his  closet :  he  would  then  lo  never  once  known  to  degenerate.  To  these 
command  me  to  bring  one  of  my  chairs  out  were  joined  several  holy  persons,  as  part  of 
of  the  box,  and  sit  down  within  three  yards'  that  assembly,  under  the  title  of  bishops; 
distance  upon  the  top  of  the  cabinet,  which  whose  peculiar  business  it  is  to  take  care  of 
brought  me  almost  to  a  level  with  his  face,  religion,  and  of  those  who  instruct  the  people 
In  this  manner  I  had  several  conversations  15  therein.  These  were  searched  and  sought  out 
with  him.  I  one  day  took  the  freedom  to  through  the  whole  nation,  by  the  prince  and 
tell  his  majesty  that  the  contempt  he  dis-  his  wisest  counselors,  among  such  of  the  priest- 
covered  toward  Europe,  and  the  rest  of  the  hood  as  were  most  deservedly  distinguished 
world,  did  not  seem  answerable  to  those  ex-  by  the  sanctity  of  their  lives  and  the  depth  of 
cellent  quahties  of  mind  that  he  was  master  20  their  erudition;  who  were  indeed  the  spiritual 
of;  that  reason  did  not  extend  itself  with  the  fathers  of  the  clergy  and  the  people, 
bulk  of  the  body;  on  the  contrary,  we  observed  That  the  other  part  of  the  parliament  con- 

in  our  country  that  the  tallest  persons  were  sisted  of  an  assembly  called  the  House  of 
usually  least  provided  with  it;  that  among  Commons,  who  were  all  principal  gentlemen, 
other  animals,  bees  and  ants  had  the  reputa-  25  freely  picked  and  culled  out  by  the  people 
tion  of  more  industry,  art,  and  sagacity,  than  themselves,  for  their  great  abilities  and  love 
many  of  the  larger  kinds;  and  that,  as  incon-  of  their  country,  to  represent  the  wisdom  of 
siderable  as  he  took  me  to  be,  I  hoped  I  might  the  whole  nation.  And  that  these  two  bodies 
live  to  do  his  majesty  some  signal  service,  made  up  the  most  august  assembly  in  Europe; 
The  king  heard  me  with  attention,  and  began  30  to  whom,  in  conjunction  with  the  prince,  the 
to  conceive  a  much  better  opinion  of  me  than  whole  legislature  is  committed, 
he  had  ever  before.    He  desired  I  would  give  I  then  descended  to  the  courts  of  justice; 

him  as  exact  an  account  of  the  government  of  over  which  the  judges,  those  venerable  sages 
England  as  I  possibly  could;  because,  as  fond  and  interpreters  of  the  law,  presided,  for  de- 
as  princes  commonly  are  of  their  own  customs  35  termining  the  disputed  rights  and  properties 
(for  so  he  conjectured  of  other  monarchs  by  my  of  men,  as  well  as  for  the  punishment  of  vice 
former  discourses),  he  should  be  glad  to  hear  and  protection  of  innocence.  I  mentioned  the 
of  anything  that  might  deserve  imitation.  prudent    management    of    our    treasury;    the 

Imagine  with  thyself,  courteous  reader,  how  valor  and  achievements  of  our  forces,  by  sea 
often  I  then  wished  for  the  tongue  of  Demos-  40  and  land.  I  computed  the  number  of  our 
thenes  or  Cicero,  that  might  have  enabled  me  people  by  reckoning  how  many  millions  there 
to  celebrate  the  praise  of  my  own  dear  native  might  be  of  each  religious  sect,  or  political 
country  in  a  style  equal  to  its  merits  and  party,  among  us.  I  did  not  omit  even  our 
felicity.  sports  and  pastimes,  or  any  other  particular 

I  began  my  discourse  by  informing  his  maj-  45  which  I  thought  might  redound  to  the  honor 
esty   that    our    dominions    consisted    of   two      of  my  country.     And  I  finished  all  with  a 
islands,  which  composed  three  mighty  king-      brief  historical  account  of  affairs  and  events 
doms,  under  one  sovereign,  besides  our  plan-      in  England  for  about  an  hundred  years  past, 
tations  in  America.     I  dwelt  long  upon  the  This  conversation  was  not  ended  undfer  five 

fertility  of  our  soil,  and  the  temperature  of  50  audiences,  each  of  several  hours;  and  the  king 
our  climate.  I  then  spoke  at  large  upon  the  heard  the  whole  with  great  attention,  fre- 
constitution  of  an  English  parhament;  partly  quently  taking  notes  of  what  I  spoke,  as  well 
made  up  of  an  illustrious  body,  called  the  as  memorandums  of  all  questions  he  intended 
House  of  Peers;  persons  of  the  noblest  blood,      to  ask  me. 

and  of  the  most  ancient  and  ample  patrimonies.  55     When  I  had  put  an  end  to  these  long  dis-V 
I   described   that   extraordinary   care   always      courses,  his  majesty,  in  a  sixth  audience,  con-  n 
taken  of  their  education  in  arts  and  arms,  to      suiting    his    notes,    proposed    many    doubts, 
qualify  them  for  being  counselors  both  to  the      queries,    and   objections   upon   every   article, 
king  and  kingdom;  to  have  a  share  in  the  legis-      He  asked  what  methods  were  used  to  culti- 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  331 

vate  the  minds  and  bodies  of  our  young  no-  and  wrong,  and  what  degree  of  expense? 
bility,  and  in  what  kind  of  business  they  com-  Whether  advocates  and  orato^  had  liberty 
monly  spent  the  first  and  teachable  part  of  to  plead  in  causes  manifestly  known  to  be  un- 
their  lives?  What  course  was  taken  to  supply  just,  vexatious,  or  oppressive?  Whether  party, 
that  assembly,  when  any  noble  family  became  5  in  religion  or  politics,  were  observed  to  be 
extinct?  What  qualifications  were  necessary  of  any  weight  in  the  scale  of  justice?  Whether 
in  those  who  are  to  be  created  new  lords;  those  pleading  orators  were  persons  educated 
whether  the  humor  of  the  prince,  a  sum  of  in  the  general  knowledge  of  equity,  or  only  in 
money  to  a  court  lady  or  a  prime  minister,  provincial,  national,  and  other  local  customs? 
or  a  design  of  strengthening  a  party  opposite  lo  Whether  they  or  their  judges  had  any  part  in 
to  the  public  interest,  ever  happened  to  be  mo-  penning  those  laws,  which  they  assumed  the 
tives  in  those  advancements?  What  share  of  liberty  of  interpreting  and  glossing  upon  at 
knowledge  these  lords  had  in  the  laws  of  their  their  pleasure?  Whether  they  had  ever,  at 
country,  and  how  they  came  by  it,  so  as  to  different  times,  pleaded  for  and  against  the 
enable  them  to  decide  the  properties  of  their  15  same  cause,  and  cited  precedents  to  prove  con- 
fellow-subjects  in  the  last  resort?  Whether  trary  opinions?  Whether  they  were  a  rich 
they  were  always  so  free  from  avarice,  partiali-  or  a  poor  corporation?  Whether  they  received 
ties,  or  want,  that  a  bribe,  or  some  other  any  pecuniary  reward  for  pleading  or  deliver- 
sinister  view,  could  have  no  place  among  them?  ing  their  opinions?  And  particularly,  whether 
Whether  those  holy  lords  I  spoke  of  were  20  they  were  ever  admitted  as  members  in  the 
always  promoted  to  that  rank  upon  account      lower  senate? 

of  their  knowledge  in  religious  matters,  and  He  fell  next  upon  the  management  of  our 
the  sanctity  of  their  lives;  had  never  been  com-  treasury;  and  said  he  thought  my  memory 
pliers  with  the  times,  while  they  were  common  had  failed  me,  because  I  computed  our  taxes 
priests;  or  slavish  prostitute  chaplains  to  some  25  at  about  five  or  six  millions  a  year,  and  when 
nobleman,  whose  opinions  they  continued  I  came  to  mention  the  issues,  he  found  they 
servilely  to  follow,  after  they  were  admitted  sometimes  amounted  to  more  than  double; 
into  that  assembly?  for  the  notes  he  had  taken  were  very  particular 

He  then  desired  to  know  what  arts  were  in  this  point,  because  he  hoped,  as  he  told 
practiced  in  electing  those  whom  I  called  30  me,  that  the  knowledge  of  our  conduct  might 
commoners;  whether  a  stranger,  with  a  strong  be  useful  to  him,  and  he  could  not  be  deceived 
purse,  might  not  influence  the  vulgar  voters  in  his  calculations.  But,  if  what  I  told  him 
to  choose  him  before  their  own  landlord,  or  were  true,  he  was  still  at  a  loss  how  a  kingdom 
the  most  considerable  gentleman  in  the  neigh-  could  run  out  of  its  estate,  like  a  private  person, 
borhood?  How  it  came  to  pass  that  people  35  He  asked  me  who  were  our  creditors,  and 
were  so  violently  bent  upon  getting  into  this  where  we  found  money  to  pay  them?  He 
assembly,  which  I  allowed  to  be  a  great  trouble  wondered  to  hear  me  talk  of  such  chargeable 
and  expense,  often  to  the  ruin  of  their  famihes,  and  expensive  wars.  That  certainly  we  must 
without  any  salary  or  pension;  because  this  be  a  quarrelsome  people,  or  hve  among  very 
appeared  such  an  exalted  strain  of  virtue  and  40  bad  neighbors,  and  that  our  generals  must 
public  spirit,  that  his  majesty  seemed  to  doubt  needs  be  richer  than  our  kings.  He  asked  what 
it  might  possibly  not  be  always  sincere.  And  business  we  had  out  of  our  own  islands,  unless 
he  desired  to  know  whether  such  zealous  gen-  upon  the  score  of  trade,  or  treaty,  or  to  defend 
tlemen  could  have  any  views  of  refunding  the  coasts  with  our  fleet?  Above  all,  he  was 
themselves  for  the  charges  and  trouble  they  45  amazed  to  hear  me  talk  of  a  mercenary  stand- 
were  at,  by  sacrificing  the  pubhc  good  to  the  ing  army  in  the  midst  of  peace  and  among  a 
designs  of  a  weak  and  vicious  prince,  in  con-  free  people.  He  said  if  we  were  governed  by 
junction  with  a  corrupted  ministry.  He  mul-  our  own  consent,  in  the  persons  of  our  repre- 
tiplied  his  questions,  and  sifted  me  thoroughly  sentatives,  he  could  not  imagine  of  whom  we 
upon  every  part  of  this  head,  proposing  num-  50  were  afraid,  or  against  whom  we  were  to  fight; 
berless  inquiries  and  objections,  which  I  think  and  would  hear  my  opinion,  whether  a  private 
it  not  prudent  or  convenient  to  repeat.  man's  house  might  not  better  be  defended  by 

Upon  what  I  said  in  relation  to  our  courts  of      himself,  his  cl^idren  and  family,  than  by  half 
justice,  his  majesty  desired  to  be  satisfied  in      a  dozen  rascals,  picked  up  at  a  venture  m  the 
several  points:  and  this  I  was  the  better  able  55  streets  for  small  wages,   who  might  get  an 
to  do,  having  been  formerly  almost  ruined  by      hundred  times  more  by  cutting  their  throats. 
a  long  suit  in  the  Chancery,  which  was  decreed  He  laughed  at  my  odd  kind  of  arithmetic, 

for  me,  with  costs.  He  asked  what  time  was  as  he  was  pleased  to  call  it,  in  reckonmg  the 
usually  spent  in  determining  between  right     numbers  of  our  people,   by  a  computation 


332  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

drawn  from  the  several  sects  among  us  in  reli-  try;  or  counselors,  for  their  wisdom.  As  for 
gion  and  politics.  He  said  he  knew  no  reason  yourself,"  continued  the  king,  ''who  have 
why  those  who  entertain  opinions  prejudicial  spent  the  greatest  part  of  your  life  in  travelling, 
to  the  public  should  be  obliged  to  change,  I  am  well  disposed  to  hope  you  may  hitherto 
or  should  not  be  obliged  to  conceal  them.  And,  5  have  escaped  many  vices  of  your  country, 
as  it  was  tyranny  in  any  government  to  require  But,  by  what  I  have  gathered  from  your  own 
the  first,  so  it  was  weakness  not  to  enforce  the  relation,  and  the  answers  I  have  with  much 
second;  for  a  man  may  be  allowed  to  keep  pains  wringed  and  extorted  from  you,  I  can- 
poisons  in  his  closet,  but  not  to  vend  them  not  but  conclude  the  bulk  of  your  natives  to 
about  for  cordials.                                                  10  be  the  most  pernicious  race  of  little  odious 

He  observed,  that,  among  the  diversions  of  vermin  that  Nature  ever  suffered  to   crawl 

our  nobility  and  gentry,  I  had  mentioned  gam-  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth." 
ing:  he  desired  to  know  at  what  age  this  en- 
tertainment was  usually  taken  up,  and  when 

it  was  laid  down;  how  much  of  their  time  it  15  31O0^l)    jSDDi^Ott 
'employed;  whether  it  ever  went  so  high  as  to 

affect  their  fortunes;  whether  mean,  vicious  1672-1719 

people,  by  their  dexterity  in  that  art,  might  «OFTTY    THF   POFT 

not  arrive  at  great  riches,  and  sometimes  keep  ^^^  ^^^  ^^^'    ^"^   ^^^^ 

our  very  nobles   in   dependence,    as  well   as  20  (7^/^^  Taller,  No.  163,  1709-1711) 
habituate   them  to  vile   companions;   wholly 

take   them   from    the   improvement   of   their  Idem  inficeto  est  inficelior  rure, 

minds,  and  force  them,  by  the  losses  they  have  'SmwZ  poemata  attigit;  neque  idem  unquam 

received,  to  learn  and  practice  that  infamous  ^^i^^  eslheatus,  ac  poema  quum  scnbU: 
de  teritv  UDon  others?                                             2'     ^^^  gaudet  m  se,  tamque  se  ipse  miratur. 

„       yP                 •                      -^T    i,      1-  Nimirum  idem  omnes  fallimur;  neque  est  quis- 

He  was  perfectly  astonished  with  the  his-  ouam 

torical  account  I  gave  him  of  our  affairs  dur-      Quem  non  in  aliqua  re  videre  Suffnum 
ing  the  last  century;  protesting,  it  was  only  a      Possis — 

heap  of  conspiracies,  rebellions,  murders,  mas-  Catul.  de  Suffeno,  xx,  14. 

sacres,    revolutions,    banishments — the    very  30 

worst  effects  that  avarice,  faction,  hypocrisy,  (Suffenus  has  no  more  wit  than  a  mere  clown 

perfidiousness,  cruelty,  rage,  madness,  hatred,  when  he  attempts  to  write  verses;  and  yet  he  is 
envy,  lust,  malice,  or  ambition  could  produce,  never  happier  than  when  he  is  scribbling:  so 
His  majesty,  in  another  audience,  was  at  much  does  he  admire  himself  and  his  composv- 
the  pains  to  recapitulate  the  sum  of  all  I  had  35  tions.  And,  indeed,  this  is  the  foible  of  every 
spoken;  compared  the  questions  he  made  with  one  of  us;  for  there  is  no  man  living  who  is  not 
the  answers  I  had  given;  then,  taking  me  into  a  Suffenus  in  one  thing  or  other.) 
his  hands,  and  stroking  me  gently,  delivered 

himself  in  these  words,  which  I  shall  never  WilVs  Coffee-house,  April  24- 

forget,  nor  the  manner  he  spoke  them  in:  "My  40  I  yesterday  came  hither^  about  two  hours 
little  friend  Grildrig,  you  have  made  a  most  ad-  before  the  company  generally  make  their  ap- 
mirable  panegyric  upon  your  country;  you  have  pearance,  with  a  design  to  read  over  all  the 
clearly  proved  that  ignorance,  idleness,  and  newspapers;  but  upon  my  sitting  down,  I  was 
vice  are  the  proper  ingredients  for  qualifying  a  accosted  by  Ned  Softly,  who  saw  me  from  a 
legislator;  the  laws  are  best  explained,  inter-  45  corner  in  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  I 
preted  and  applied,  by  those  whose  interests  found  he  had  been  writing  something.  "Mr. 
and  abilities  lie  in  perverting,  confounding,  and  Bickerstaff,"^  says  he,  "I  observe  by  a  late 
eluding  them.  I  observe  among  you  some  lines  paper  of  yours,  that  you  and  I  are  just  of  a 
of  an  institution,  which,  in  its  original,  might  humour;  for  you  must  know,  of  all  imperti- 
have  been  tolerable,  but  these  half-erased,  and  50  nences,  there  is  nothing  which  I  so  much  hate 
the  rest  wholly  blurred  and  blotted  by  cor-  as  news.  I  never  read  a  gazette  in  my  life; 
ruptions.  It  doth  not  appear  from  all  you  and  never  trouble  my  head  about  our  armies, 
have  said  how  any  one  perfection  is  required,  whether  they  win  or  lose;  or  in  what  part  of 
toward  the  procurement  of  any  one  station      the  world  they  lie  encamped."    Without  giv- 

among  you;  much  less,  that  men  are  ennobled  55      1  since  the  days  of  Dryden  (who  patronized  it  res- 

On    account    of    their    virtue;    that    priests    are       ularly)  Will's  Cofee-House,  on  the  north  side  of  Russell 

,  ,«        ,1.        .,  i"        .  IT  street  near  Covent  uarden,  was  a  famous  resort  for  the 

advanced  for  their  piety  or  learning;  soldiers,      critics  and  the  wits  of  the  town. 

for  their  conduct  or  valor;  judges,  for  their  /P^'^j'.^®  ^¥"^1  ^^^^l",  adopted  as  the  pseudonym 
....  ^  e       ^1      \  e  li^   •  of  the  Editor  of  the   Toiler.      V.  note  on  Bwkerstaff, 

integrity;  senators,  for  the  love  of  their  coun-      p.  321.  and  n.  1,  suwa. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  333 

ing  me  time  to  reply,  he  drew  a  paper  of  verses  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  "everybody  knows 

out  of  his  pocket,  telling  me,  "That  he  had  you  to  be  a  judge  of  these  things;  and,  to  tell 

something   which   would   entertain   me   more  you  truly,  I  read  over  Roscommon's^  transla- 

agreeably;  and  that  he  would  desire  my  judg-  tion  of  Horace's  'Art  of  Poetry'  three  several 

ment  upon  every  line,  for  that  we  had  time  5  times  before  I  sat  down  to  write  the  sonnet 

enough  before  us  until  the  company  came  in."  which  I  have  shown  you.    But  you  shall  hear 

Ned  Softly  is  a  very  pretty  poet,  and  a  great  it  again,  and  pray  observe  every  line  of  it, 

admirer  of  easy  lines.    Waller  is  his  favourite:^  for  not  one  of  them  shall  pass  without  your 

and  as  that  admirable  writer  has  the  best  and  approbation. 

worst  verses  of  any  among  our  great  English  10     ^^^^^  ^^     ^  .^  , 

poets,  Ned  Softly  has  got  all  the  bad  ones  with-  ^ 

out  book;  which  he  repeats  upon  occasion,  to  "This  is,"  says  he,  "when  you  have  your 

show  his  reading,  and  garnish  his  conversa-  garland  on;   when   you   are   writing  verses." 

tion.     Ned  is  indeed  a  true  English  reader,  To  which  I  rephed,  "I  know  your  meaning: 

incapable  of  relishing  the  great  and  masterly  15 a   metaphor!"      "The   same,"    said   he,    and 

strokes  of  this  art;  but  wonderfully  pleased  went  on. 

with  the  little  Gothic  ornaments  of  epigram-  a     i  ^  a.       i  j-  i. 

^    ,.    ,  -i.     4.  -4.         J       ^uu^  -^iitl  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes, 

matical  conceits,  turns,  points,  and  quibbles,  "^ 

which  are  so  frequent  in  the  most  admired  of  "Pray  observe  the  gliding  of  that  verse; 

our  English  poets,  and  practised  by  those  who  20  there  is  scarce  a  consonant  in  it :  I  took  care 
want  genius  and  strength  to  represent,  after  to  make  it  run  upon  liquids.  Give  me  your 
the  manner  of  the  ancients,  simplicity  in  its  opinion  of  it."  "Truly,"  said  I,  "I  think  it 
natural  beauty  and  perfection.  as  good  as  the  former."     "I  am  very  glad  to 

Finding    myself    unavoidably    engaged    in      hear  you  say  so,"  says  he;  "but  mind  the  next 
such  a  conversation,  I  was  resolved  to  turn  my  25  ^^  •  .        <•  -i     at- 

pain  into  a  pleasure,  and  to  divert  myself  as  ^ou  seem  a  sister  of  the  Nine, 

well  as  I  could  with  so  very  odd  a  fellow.  "That  is,"  says  he,  "you  seem  a  sister  of 

"You    must   understand,"    says   Ned,    "that      the  Muses;  for,  if  you  look  into  ancient  au- 
the  sonnet*  I  am  going  to  read  to  you  was      thors,  you  will  find  it  was  their  opinion,  that 
written  upon  a  lady  who  showed  me  some  30  there  were  nine  of  them."     "I  remember  it 
verses  of  her  own  making,  and  is,  perhaps,  the     very  well,"  said  I;  "but  pray  proceed." 
best  poet  of  our  age.    But  you  shall  hear  it."  r\    n-u    i,     f      ^e  •        ij.-      i. 

Upon  which  he  began  to  read  as  follows:  ^^  ^^^^"^   «^1^  ^^  petticoats. 

"Phoebus,"  says  he,  "was  the  god  of  Poetry. 

TO   MIRA,   ON  HER  INCOMPARABLE  35  These  little  instances,  Mr.  Bickerstaff    show 

POEMS  ^  gentleman  s  reading.    Then  to  take  on  from 

/  the  air  of  learning,  which  Pha^bus  and  the 

1  Muses  have  given  to  this  first  stanza,  you  may 
When  dressed  in  laurel  wreaths  you  shine,         observe,  how  it  falls  all  of  a  sudden  into  the 

And  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes,  40famihar — 'in  petticoats!'" 

You  seem  a  sister  of  the  Nine,  /-.    t.i-    i.     >      u?  •         xa-      a. 

Or  Phoebus'  seK  in  petticoats.  Or  Phcebus   self  in  petticoats. 

2  "Let  us  now,"  says  I,  "enter  upon  the  sec- 
i      ^             ,                                  .                             end  stanza;  I  find  the  first  line  is  still  a  con- 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  smg,  ^^  tinuation  of  the  metaphor. 

Your  song  you  sing  with  so  mucn  art, 
Your  pen  was  plucked  from  Cupid's  wing;  I  fancy  when  your  song  you  sing. 

For,  ah!  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart.  ^.  .,„  i^.i^  u 

"It  IS  very  right,"  says  he;  "but  pray  ob- 

"Why,"  says  I,  "this  is  a  little  nosegay  of     serve  the  turn  of  words  in  those  two  lines.    I 

conceits,  a  very  lump  of  salt:  every  verse  hath  50  was  a  whole  hour  in  adjusting  of  them,  and 

something  in  it  that  piques;  and  then  the  dart      have  still  a  doubt  upon  me  whether,  in  the 

in  the  last  line  is  certainly  as  pretty  a  sting  in      second  line  it  should  be— 'Your  song  you  sing; 

the  tail  of  an  epigram  (for  so  I  think  you  critics     or,  You  sing  your  song? '    You  shall  hear  them 

call  it)  as  ever  entered  into  the  thought  of  a      both: — 

poet/'      "Dear    Mr.    Bickerstaff,"    says    he,  55  ^   ,    ,o  it 

^       ]  6  Wentworth  Dillon.  Earl  of  Roscommon,  nephew  of 

» Edmund  Waller  (1605-1687),  was  looked  up  to  as  a  the  famous  Thomas  Wentworth.  Earl  of  Strafford,  and  a 

great  refiner  of  language  and  style,  and  as  a  master  of  contemporary  of  Waller.     Besides  his  translation  of  the 

English  versification      ^                 "^  Ars  Poetira  ( 1  (580) .  he  wrote  an  essay  On  Translated  Verse. 

*  In  Addison's  time  the  sonnet  form  was  neglected,  and  which  influenced  Dryden.and  which  teaches  the  impor- 

t,he  wor4  Sonnet  was  applied  loosely  to  any  short  poem.  tance  of  following  set  rules  m  poetical  compoaition. 


334  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing.  my  papers,  and  receiving  my  morning  lectures 

(Your  song  you  smg  with  so  much  art);  with   a  becoming  seriousness  and  attention. 

or,  My  publisher  tells  me  that  there  are  already 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing,  ^  ^^\^^  *^?f  ^,^^  ^^  *^^^  distributed  every  day; 

(You  sing  your  song  with  so  much  art).        ^  ^°  ^^^*  "  I  allow  twenty  readers  to  every  paper, 

which  I  look  upon  as  a  modest  computation, 
"Truly,"  said  I,  "the  turn  is  so  natural  I  may  reckon  about  threescore  thousand  dia- 
eitlier  way,  that  you  have  made  me  almost  ciples  in  London  and  Westminster,  ^  who  I 
giddy  with  it."  "Dear  sir,"  said  he,  grasping  hope  will  take  care  to  distinguish  themselves 
me  by  the  hand,  "you  have  a  great  deal  of  10 from  the  thoughtless  herd  of  their  ignorant 
patience;  but  pray  what  do  you  think  of  the  and  unattentive  brethren.  Since  I  have  raised 
next  verse?"  to  myself  so  great  an  audience,  I  shall  spare  no 

-Your  pen  was  pluck'd  from  Cupid's  wing.  Jf  ^!^^  *^  °^^!^^  ^^^'\  instruction  agreeable,  and 

their  diversion  useful.     For  which  reasons  I 

"Think!"  says  I;  "I  think  you  have  made  15 shall  endeavour  to  enliven  morality  with  wit, 
Cupid  look  like  a  little  goose."  "That  was  and  to  temper  wit  with  morality,  that  my  read- 
my  meaning,"  says  he:  "I  think  the  ridicule  ers  may,  if  possible,  both  ways  find  their  ad- 
is  well  enough  hit  off.  But  we  come  now  to  count  in  the  speculation  of  the  day.^  And  to 
the  last,  which  sums  up  the  whole  matter.  the  end  that  their  virtue  and  discretion  may 

„         1  ,  .^  1  ^^^     1-    J    jT         20  not  be  short,  transient,  intermitting  starts  of 

For,  ah!  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart.  .i.       i-iTi.  ijj.       e     i  r^    • 

j.yjL,  ciix.  xo  vYwi^  v*o  o  VIC*  V.  thought.  I  have  resolved  to  refresh  their  mem- 

"Pray  how  do  you  like  that  Ahf  doth  it  not      ories  from  day  to  day,  till  I  have  recovered 

make  a  pretty  figure  in  that  place?    Ah! — it      them  out  of  that  desperate  state  of  vice  and 

looks  as  if  I  felt  the  dart,  and  cried  out  at  being      folly  into  which  the  age  is  fallen.     The  mind 

pricked  with  it.  25  that  lies  fallow  but  a  single  day,  sprouts  up  in 

„         T  ,  .^  1  Ti     1  •     J    i  follies  that  are  only  to  be  killed  by  a  constant 

For,  ah!  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart.  ^^^  assiduous  culture.    It  was  said  of  Socrates 

"My  friend  Dick  Easy,"  continued  he,  that  he  brought  philosophy  down  from  heaven, 
"assured  me  he  would  rather  have  written  to  inhabit  among  men;  and  I  shall  be  ambi- 
that  Ah!  than  to  have  been  the  author  of  the  30  tious  to  have  it  said  of  me,  that  I  have  brought 
^neid.  He  indeed  objected,  that  I  made  philosophy  out  of  closets  and  libraries,  schools 
Mira's  pen  like  a  quill  in  one  of  the  lines,  and      and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs  and  assemblies, 

like  a  dart  in  the  other-    But  as  to  that "      at  tea-tables,  and  in  coffee-houses.' 

"Oh!  as  to  that,"  says  I,  "it  is  but  supposing  I   would,    therefore,    in   a   very   particular 

Cupid  to  be  like  a  porcupine,  and  his  quills  35  manner,  recommend  these  my  speculations 
and  darts  will  be  the  same  thing."  He  was  to  all  well-regulated  famihes,  that  set  apart 
going  to  embrace  me  for  the  hint;  but  half  a  an  hour  in  every  morning  for  tea  and  bread 
dozen  critics  coming  into  the  room,  whose  and  butter;  and  would  earnestly  advise  them 
faces  he  did  not  like,  he  conveyed  the  sonnet  for  their  good,  to  order  this  paper  to  be  punc- 
into  his  pocket,  and  whispered  me  in  the  ear,  40  tually  served  up,  and  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
he  would  show  it  me  again  as  soon  as  his  man  part  of  the  tea-equipage, 
had  written  it  over  fair.  Sir  Francis  Bacon  observes,^  that  a  well 

written  book,   compared  with  its  rivals  and 

ttt:^  rMiTTTio-T.  r\T?  n^xr^:>   oT>-c^r^rr  \  rr^r\Ty         antagonists,  is  like  Moses's  serpent,  that  im- 

THE  OBJECT  OF  THE  SPECTATOR    45  mediately  swallowed  up  and  devoured  those 

{The  Spectator,  No.  10,  1711-1714)  ^^  ^^-  Egyptians.    I  shall  not  be  so  vain  as  to 

think,  that  where  the  Spectator  appears,  the 
Non  aliter  quam  qui  adverso  vix  flumine  lemhum  other  public  prints  will  vanish;  but  shall  leave 
Remigiis  subigit:  si  brachia  forte  remisit,  it  to  my  reader's  consideration,  whether  it  is 

A  tque  ilium  in  jyrceceps  prono  rapit  alveus  amni.  -q 

ViRG.  ^  Addison's  "London"  is  the  modern  "City,"  the  part 

of  London  lying  to  the  East  of  the  Temple  and  comprising 
ry      1     1        ,    ,  7  ,  the  commercial  and  money-making  part  of  the  metropolis. 

So  the  boat  S  brawny  crew  the  current  stem,  "Westminster"    corresponds     to     the     modern     "West 

And,  slow  advancing,  struggle  with  the  stream:  End,"  the  quarter  west  of  the  Temple  "which  spends 

But  if  they  slack  their  hands,  or  cease  to  strive,  ?eXLoSn?pp^  93-94)    regulates  fashion.       ( v.  Baede- 

Then   down   the  flood   with   headlong   haste   they  55      2  i.  e.,  shall  find  something  to  interest  them  in  the  dia- 
drive.  cussion,  etc. 

DRYnFM  ^  ^^"  '^^^^  Macaulay  says  of  his  History  of  England: 

"I  shall  not  be  satisfied  unless  I  produce  something  which 
It  is  with  much  satisfaction  that  I  hear  this       shall  for  a  few  days  supersede  the  last  fashionable  novel 
.,       .         .  .  1,1  c,         ,1  on  the  tables  of  young  ladies, 

great    City   inquiring   day    by    day   after   these  *  Advancement  of  Learning,  Bk.lI,Introd.,^U, 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  335 

not  much  better  to  be  let  into  the  knowledge  have  often  thought  there  has  not  been  suflScient 
of  one's  self,  than  to  hear  what  passes  in  Mus-  pains  taken  in  finding  out  proper  employments 
covy^  or  Poland;  and  to  amuse  ourselves  with  and  diversions  for  the  fair  ones.  Their  amuse- 
such  writings  as  tend  to  the  wearing  out  of  ments  seem  contrived  for  them,  rather  as  they 
ignorance,  passion,  and  prejudice,  than  such  5  are  women,  than  as  they  are  reasonable  crea- 
as  naturally  conduce  to  inflame  hatreds,  and  tures,  and  are  more  adapted  to  the  sex  than 
make  enmities  irreconcilable.  to  the  species.    The  toilet  is  their  great  scene 

In  the  next  place,  I  would  recommend  this  of  business,  and  the  right  adjusting  of  their 
paper  to  the  daily  perusal  of  those  gentlemen  hair  the  principal  employment  of  their  lives, 
whom  I  cannot  but  consider  as  my  good  broth-  lo  The  sorting  of  a  suit  of  ribbons  is  reckoned  a 
ers  and  allies,  I  mean  the  fraternity  of  spec-  very  good  morning's  work;  and  if  they  make 
tators,  who  Uve  in  the  world  without  having  an  excursion  to  a  mercer's^  or  a  toy-shop,  ^^  so 
anything  to  do  in  it;  and  either  by  the  afflu-  great  a  fatigue  makes  them  unfit  for  anything 
ence  of  their  fortunes,  or  laziness  of  their  dis-  else  all  the  day  after. ^^  Their  more  serious 
positions,  have  no  other  business  with  the  15  occupations  are  sewing  and  embroidery,  and 
rest  of  mankind  but  to  look  upon  them.  Under  their  greatest  drudgery  the  preparation  of 
this  class  of  men  are  comprehended  all  contem-  jelUes  and  sweet-meats.  This  I  say,  is  the 
plative  tradesmen,  titular  physicians,^  Fellows  state  of  ordinary  women;  though  I  know  there 
of  the  Royal  Society,  Templars  that  are  not  are  multitudes  of  those  of  a  more  elevated 
given  to  be  contentious,^  and  statesmen  that  20  life  and  conversation,  that  move  in  an  exalted 
are  out  of  business;  in  short,  every  one  that  sphere  of  knowledge  and  virtue,  that  join  all 
considers  the  world  as  a  theatre,  and  desires  the  beauties  of  the  mind  to  the  ornaments 
to  form  a  right  judgment  of  those  who  are  the  of  dress,  and  inspire  a  kind  of  awe  and  respect, 
actors  on  it.  as  well  as  love,  into  their  male  beholders.     I 

There  is  another  set  of  men  that  I  must  like-  25  hope  to  increase  the  number  of  these  by  pub- 
wise  lay  a  claim  to,  whom  I  have  lately  called  hshing  this  daily  paper,  which  I  shall  always 
the  blanks  of  society,  as  being  altogether  un-  endeavour  to  make  an  innocent,  if  not  an 
furnished  with  ideas,  till  the  business  and  improving  entertainment,  and  by  that  means 
conversation  of  the  day  has  supplied  them,  at  least  divert  the  minds  of  my  female  readers 
I  have  often  considered  these  poor  souls  with  30  from  greater  trifles.  At  the  same  time,  as  I 
an  eye  of  great  commiseration,  when  I  have  would  fain  give  some  finishing  touches  to  those 
heard  them  asking  the  first  man  they  have  which  are  already  the  most  beautiful  pieces  in 
met  with,  whether  there  was  any  news  stirring,  human  nature,  I  shall  endeavour  to  point  out 
and,  by  that  means,  gathering  together  ma-  all  those  imperfections  that  are  the  blemishes, 
terials  for  thinking.  These  needy  persons  do  35  as  well  as  those  virtues  which  are  the  embellish- 
not  know  what  to  talk  of  till  about  twelve  ments  of  the  sex.  In  the  meanwhile  I  hope 
o'clock  in  the  morning;  for,  by  that  time,  they  these  my  gentle  readers,  who  have  so  much 
are  pretty  good  judges  of  the  weather,  know  time  on  their  hands,  will  not  grudge  throwing 
which  way  the  wind  sits,  and  whether  the  away  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  day  on  this 
Dutch  maiP  be  come  in.  As  they  lie  at  the  40  paper,  since  they  may  do  it  without  any  hin- 
mercy  of  the  first  man  they  meet,  and  are      drance  to  business. 

grave  or  impertinent  all  the  day  long,  accord-  I  know  several  of  my  friends  and  well-wishers 
ing  to  the  notions  which  they  have  imbibed  are  in  great  pain  for  me,  lest  I  should  not  be 
in  the  morning,  I  would  earnestly  entreat  able  to  keep  up  the  spirit  of  a  paper  which  I 
them  not  to  stir  out  of  their  chambers  till  they  45  oblige  myself  to  furnish  every  day:  but  to 
have  read  this  paper,  and  do  promise  them  make  them  easy  in  this  particular,  I  will 
that  I  will  daily  instil  into  them  such  sound  promise  them  faithfully  to  give  it  over  as 
and  wholesome  sentiments,  as  shall  have  a  soon  as  I  grow  dull.  This  I  know  will  be  a 
good  effect  on  their  conversation  for  the  ensu-  matter  of  great  raillery  to  the  small  wits;  who 
ing  twelve  hours.  50  will  frequently  put  me  in  mind  of  my  promise, 

But  there  are  none  to  whom  this  paper  will  desire  me  to  keep  my  word,  assure  me  that  it 
be  more  useful  than  to  the  female  world.     I      is  high  time  to  give  over,  with  many  other 

little  pleasantries  of  the  like  nature,  which 

» Russia.  ■  h     •  1  h  f  ^^^  °^  ^  ^^**^®  smart  genius  cannot  forbear 

'^/e^'.^^la^^rTwlthou^t^much^fa^cSce^Tawyer^  were  55  throwing  out  against  their  best  friends,  when 

called  "Templars"  because  they  lived  in  the  "Temple,"  they  have  SUch  a  handle  given  them  of  being 

originally  a  lodge  of  the  Knights  Templar.  "^              . 

8  In  the  spring  of  1711  Marlborough  had  been  sent  to  »  A  dealer  in  silks,  or  small  wares. 

Flanders,  and  at  the  time  this  paper  was  written  English-  lo  A  shop  for  the  sale  of  millinery     nbbons,  brocades, 

men  were  looking  for  news  of  a  decisive  victory  over  the  embroidery,"  etc. 

French.  "  All  the  rest  of  the  day. 


336  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

witty.  But  let  them  remember  that  I  do  in  every  shovelful  of  it  that  was  thrown  up, 
hereby  enter  my  caveat^^  against  this  piece  the  fragment  of  a  bone  or  skull  intermixed 
of  raillery.  with  a  kind  of  fresh  mouldering  earth,  that 

some  time  or  other  had  a  place  in  the  composi- 

THOUGHTS  IN  WESTMINSTER  consider  with  myself  what  innumerable  mul- 

Atlliliii  titudes  of  people  lay  confused  together  under 

{The  Spectator,  No.  26,  March  30,  1711)         *^®  pavement  of  that  ancient  cathedral;  how 

men  and  women,  friends  and  enemies,  priests 
Pallida  mors  oBQiu)  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tabemas  10  a,nd  soldiers,  monks  and  prebendaries,  ^  were 

Regumque  turres.    0  heate  sexti,  crumbled  amongst  one  another,  and  blended 

VitcB   summa   brevis   spem   nos   vetat   inchoare     together  in   the   same   common    mass;    how 

JamteTremet  nox,  fabulcEqy^  manes,  ^^^^i^^'   strength,   and  youth,  with  old   age 

Et  domusexilis  Plutonia—--  weakness,  and  deformity,  lay  undistmguished 

jjoR,      1^  1^  ^^^  same  promiscuous  heap  of  matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great  maga- 

With  equal  foot,  rich  friend,  impartial  fate  zine  of  mortality,  as  it  were  in  the  lump,  I 

Knocks  at  the  cottage  and  the  palace  gate:         examined  it  more  particularly  by  the  accounts 

"^InVrK^^^^^^^^  ^  I  ^-nd  on  several  of  the  monuments 

Night  soon  will  seize,  and  you  must  quickly  go    ^0  which  are  raised  m  every  quarter  of  that  an- 
Tostary'd  ghosts,  and  Pluto's  house  below.  cient   fabric.      Some    of   them   were    covered 

Creech.  with  such  extravagant  epitaphs,   that,   if  it 

were  possible  for  the  dead  person  to  be  ac- 

When  I  am  in  a  serious  humour,  I  very  often  quainted  with  them,  he  would  blush  at  the 
walk  by  myself  in  Westminster  Abbey;  where  25  praises  which  his  friends  have  bestowed  upon 
the  gloominess  of  the  place,  and  the  use  to  him.  There  are  others  so  excessively  modest, 
which  it  is  applied,  with  the  solemnity  of  the  that  they  deliver  the  character  of  the  person 
building,  and  the  condition  of  the  people  who  departed  in  Greek  or  Hebrew,  and  by  that 
lie  in  it,  are  apt  to  fill  the  mind  with  a  kind  means  are  not  understood  once  in  a  twelve- 
of  melancholy,  or  rather  thoughtf ulness,  that  30  month.  In  the  poetical  quarter,'  I  found  there 
is  not  disagreeable.  I  yesterday  passed  a  were  poets  who  had  no  monuments,  and  monu- 
whole  afternoon  in  the  churchyard,  the  clois-  ments  which  had  no  poets.  I  observed  indeed, 
ters,  and  the  church,  amusing  myself  with  that  the  present  war^  had  filled  the  church 
the  tombstones  and  inscriptions  that  I  met  with  many  of  these  uninhabited  monuments, 
with  in  those  several  regions  of  the  dead.  Most  35  which  had  been  erected  to  the  memory  of  per- 
of  them  recorded  nothing  else  of  the  buried  sons  whose  bodies  were  perhaps  buried  in  the 
person,  but  that  he  was  born  upon  one  day,  plains  of  Blenheim,^  or  in  the  bosom  of  the 
and  died  upon  another:  the  whole  history  of      ocean. 

his  life  being  comprehended  in  those  two  cir-  I  could  not  but  be  very  delighted  with  several 

cumstances,  that  are  common  to  all  mankind.  40  modern  epitaphs,  which  are  written  with 
I  could  not  but  look  upon  these  registers  of  great  elegance  of  expression  and  justness  of 
existence,  whether  of  brass  or  marble,  as  a  thought,  and  therefore  do  honour  to  the  living 
kind  of  satire  upon  the  departed  persons;  who  as  well  as  to  the  dead.  As  a  foreigner  is  very 
had  left  no  other  memorial  of  them  but  that  apt  to  conceive  an  idea  of  the  ignorance  or  the 
they  were  born  and  that  they  died.  They  45  politeness  of  a  nation,  from  the  turn  of  their 
put  me  in  mind  of  several  persons  mentioned  public  monuments  and  inscriptions,  they 
in  the  battles  of  heroic  poems,  who  have  sound-  should  be  submitted  to  the  perusal  of  men 
ing  names  given  them,  for  no  other  reason  but  of  learning  and  genius,  before  they  are  put  in 
that  they  may  be  killed,  and  are  celebrated  execution.  Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel's  ^  monument 
for  nothing  but  being  knocked  on  the  head.  50  has  very  often  given  me  great  offence :  instead 
The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described  in 

holy  writ  by  "the  path  of  an  arrow,"i  which  is  'A  prebend  is  one  who  receives  an  allotted  stipend 

-,•,■,■,        J  jii.  (or  income)  from  the  revenues  of  a  cathedral  or  collegiate 

immediateiy  closed  up  and  lost.  church  for  the  performance  of  certain  ecclesiastical  duties. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  entertained      , 'J^^^  ''poets;  comer''  in  the  south  transept  of  the 

II.       ^;^     ,1        ^^      '  f  1  Abbey,  where  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Ben  Jonson,  and  other    \ 

myself  with  the  digging  of  a  grave;  and  saw  55  great  poets  are  buried. 

,oTiT       •          T      1            <<            xM  •             X-      CI    1  •  ^  The  "War  of  the  Spanish  Succession,"  which  was 

12  Warmng.    In,  law  a     caveat     is  a  notice  filed  m  a  i^gg^n  in  the  year  of  Queen  Anne's  accession  (1702)  and 

P^P'\c    office,,  wkich    prevents    proceedings    being    m-  lasted  practically  through  the  whole  of  her  reign, 

stituted  in  a  giv«n  case,  without  warmng  to  the  filer  of  the  5  ^  little  village  in  Bavaria,  near  which  Marlborough 

caveat.  ^„j^  ^  h^  most  famous  of  his  series  of  victories  in  1704. 

1  Wisdom  of  Solomon,  v,  12,  e  V.  note  on  Admiral  Shovel,  p.  322. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  337 

of  the  brave  rough  English  Admiral,  which  all  of  us  be  contemporaries,  and  make  our  ap- 

was  the  distinguishing  character  of  that  plain  pearance  together, 
gallant  man,  he  is  represented  on  his  tomb  by 
the  figure  of  a  beau,  dressed  in  a  long  periwig, 

and   reposing   himself   upon   velvet    cushions  5                                   T  Anv'cj    inTTPMAT 

under  a  canopy  of  state.     The  inscription  is  ^^^   ^^^^  LADY  S  JOURNAL 

answerable  to  the  monument;  for  instead  of  {The  Spectator,  No.  322,  March  II,  1712) 

celebrating  the  many  remarkable  actions  he  ^      ^  ^^^^  ^    modofcBmina. 

had  performed  in  the  service  of  his  country,  Vir« 

it  acquaints  us  only  with  the  manner  of  hisio  „       ,. 

death,  in  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  Sometimes  a  man,  sometimes  a  woman. 

reap  any  honour.     The  Dutch,  whom  we  are  The   journal   with  which   I   presented   my 

apt  to  despise  for  want  of  genius,  show  an  reader  on  Tuesday  last,^  has  brought  me  in 

infinitely  greater  taste  of  antiquity  and  polite-  several  letters,  with  accounts  of  many  private 
ness^  in  their  buildings  and  works  of  this  na- 15  lives  cast  into  that  form.     I  have  the  Rake's 

ture,  than  what  we  meet  with  in  those  of  our  Journal,  the  Sot's  Journal,  and  among  several 

own  country.     The  monuments  of  their  ad-  others  a  very  curious   piece,  entitled — ''The 

mirals,  which  have  been  erected  at  the  public  Journal  of  a  Mohock." 2    By  these  instances 

expense,  represent  them  like  themselves;  and  I  find  that  the  intention  of  my  last  Tuesday's 
are  adorned  with  rostral  crowns^  and  naval  20  paper   has   been   mistaken  by   many  of   my 

ornaments,  witii  beautiful  festoons  of  seaweed,  readers.     I  did  not  design  so  much  to  expose 

shells,  and  coral.  vice  as  idleness,  and  aimed  at  those  persons 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.     I  have  left  who  pass  away  their  time  rather  in  trifle  and 

the  repository  of  our  English  kings  for  the  impertinence,  than  in  crimes  and  immoralities, 
contemplation  of  another  day,  when  I  shall  25  Offences  of  this  latter  kind  are  not  to  be  dallied 

find  my  mind  disposed  for  so  serious  an  amuse-  with,  or  treated  in  so  ludicrous  a  manner.    In 

ment.     I  know  that  entertainments  of  this  short,  my  journal  only  holds  up  folly  to  the 

nature  are  apt  to  raise  dark  and  dismal  thoughts  light,  and  shews  the  disagreeableness  of  such 

in  timorous  minds  and  gloomy  imaginations;  actions  as  are  indifferent  in  themselves,  and 
but  for  my  own  part,  though  I  am  always  30  blamable  only  as  they  proceed  from  creatures 

serious,  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  melan-  endowed  with  reason. 

choly;  and  can  therefore  take  a  view  of  nature  My  following  correspondent,  who  calls  her- 

in  her  deep  and  solemn  scenes,  with  the  same  self  Clarinda,  is  such  a  journalist  as  I  require: 

pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay  and  delightful  she  seems  by  her  letter  to  be  placed  in  a  modish 
ones.     By  this  means  I  can  improve  myself  35  state  of  indifference  between  vice  and  virtue, 

with  those  objects  which  others  consider  with  and  to  be  susceptible  of  either,  were  there 

terror.     When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  proper  pains  taken  with  her.    Had  her  journal 

great,  every  emotion  of  envy  dies  in  me;  when  been  filled  with  gallantries,  or  such  occurrences 

I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every  as  had  shewn  her  wholly  divested  of  her  nat- 
inordinate  desire  goes  out;  when  I  meet  with40ural  innocence,  notwithstanding  it  might  have 

the  grief  of  parents  upon  a  tombstone,  my  been  more  pleasing  to  the  generaUty  of  readers, 

heart  melts  with  compassion;  when  I  see  the  I  should  not  have  published  it;  but  as  it  is 

tomb  of  the  parents  themselves,   I  consider  only  the  picture  of  a  life  filled  with  a  fashion- 

the  vanity  of  grieving  for  those  whom  we  must  able  kind  of  gaiety  and  laziness,  I  shall  set 
quickly  follow;  when   I   see  kings  lying  by  45  down  five  days  of  it,  as  I  have  received  it  from 

those  who   deposed   them,   when   I   consider  the  hand  of  my  fair  correspondent, 
rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the  holy  men 

that   divided  the  world  with  their  contests  Dear  Mr.  Spectator, 

and  disputes,  I  reflect  with  sorrow  and  as-  You  having  set  your  readers  an  exercise  in 
tonishment  on  the  little  competitions,  fac-50one  of  your  last  week's  papers,  I  have  por- 
tions, and  debates  of  mankind.  When  I  read  formed  mine  according  to  your  orders,  and  here- 
the  several  dates  on  the  tombs,  of  some  that  with  send  it  you  enclosed.  You  must  know, 
died  yesterday,  and  some  six  hundred  years  Mr.  Spectator,  that  I  am  a  maiden  lady  of  a 
ago,  I  consider  that  great  day  when  we  shall  ,  ^j^^  p^p^^  ^^^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^  317^  contains  some  speci- 

7  i.  e.,  culture,  good  taste,  elegance.   Cf.  the  expression  men  passages  from  the  Journal  of  a  typical  man-about- 

" polite  learning."  town,  "of  greater  consequence  in  his  own  eyes  than  m  the 

8i.  e.,  crowns  adorned  with  figures  of  prows  of  ships  eyes  of  the  world."                                    .             .          «, 

(Lat.  rostrum,  a  beak,  a  prow),  like  those  conferred  by  2  The   Mohocks  were   bands  of   aristocratic    ruffians, 

the  Romans  for  a  naval  victory.     (F.  Stanley's  Memorials  who  called  themselves  after  the  Mohawk  tnbe  of  Indians. 

of   Westminster    Abbey,    II,    108,    for   comment   on   this  They  infested  the  streets  of  London  after  nightfall,  and 

"  plaint' ve  wish "  of  Addison's.  played  cruel  and  barbarous  tncks  upon  the  passers  by. 


338  DRYDEN   TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 

good  fortune,  who  have  had  several  matches      Faddle  promises  me  her  woman  to  cut  my  hair, 

offered  me  for  these  ten  years  last  past,  and      Lost  five  guineas  at  crimp.'" 

have  at  present  warm  applications  made  to  Twelve  o'clock  at  night.    Went  to  bed. 

me  by  a  very  pretty  fellow.    As  I  am  at  my  Friday.   Eight  in  the  morning.   A-bed.    Read 

own  disposal,  I  come  up  to  town  every  winter,   5  over  all  Mr.  Froth's  letters. 

and  pass  my  time  in  it,  after  the  manner  you  Ten  o'clock.     Staid  within  all  day,  not  at 

will  find  in   the  following  jouraal,   which  I      home. 

begun  to  write  upon  the  very  day  after  your  From  ten  to  twelve.     In  conference  with 

Spectator  upon  that  subject.  my  mantua-maker.    Sorted  a  suit  of  ribbons. 

Tuesday  night.     Could  not  go  to  sleep  till  10  Broke  my  blue  china  cup. 
one  in  the  morning  for  thinking  of  my  jour-  From  twelve  to  one.    Shut  myself  up  in  my 

nal.  chamber,    practised    Lady    Betty    Modely's 

Wednesday.     From  eight  till  ten.     Drank     skuttle." 
two  dishes  of  chocolate  in  bed,  and  fell  asleep         One  in  the  afternoon.    Called  for  my  flow- 
after  them.  15  ered  handkerchief.     Worked  half  a  violet-leaf 

From  ten  to  eleven.  Eat  a  slice  of  bread  and  in  it.  Eyes  ached  and  head  out  of  order, 
butter,  drank  a  dish  of  bohea,'  read  the  Spec-  Threw  by  my  work,  and  read  over  the  remain- 
tator.  ing  part  of  Aurengzebe. 

From  eleven  to  one.     At  my  toilette,  tried  From  three  to  four.    Dined. 

a  new  head.*  Gave  orders  for  Veny^  to  be  20  From  four  to  twelve.  Changed  my  mind, 
combed  and  washed.  Mem.  I  look  best  in  dressed,  went  abroad,  and  played  at  crimp  till 
blue.  midnight.    Found  Mrs.  Spitely  at  home.    Con- 

From  one  till  half  an  hour  after  two.  Drove  versation:  Mrs.  Brilliant's  necklace  false 
to  the  Change.    Cheapened^  a  couple  of  fans.  stones.    Old  Lady  Loveday  going  to  be  married 

Till  four.  At  dinner.  Mem.  Mr.  Froth  25  to  a  young  fellow  that  is  not  worth  a  groat. ^^ 
passed  by  in  his  new  liveries.  Miss  Prue  gone  into  the  country.    Tom  Town- 

From  four  to  six.  Dressed,  paid  a  visit  to  ley  has  red  hair.  Mem.  Mrs.  Spitely  whis- 
old  Lady  Blithe  and  her  sister,  having  be-  pered  in  my  ear  that  she  had  something  to 
fore  heard  they  were  gone  out  of  town  that  tell  me  about  Mr.  Froth,  I  am  sure  it  is  not 
day.  30  true. 

From  six  to  eleven.  At  Basset.^  Mem.  Between  twelve  and  one.  Dreamed  that 
Never  set  again  upon  the  ace  of  diamonds.  Mr.  Froth  lay  at  my  feet,  and  called  me  In- 

Thursday.     From  eleven  at  night  to  eight      damora.^' 
in  the  morning.     Dreamed  that  I  punted^  to         Saturday.     Rose   at   eight   o'clock   in   the 
Mr.  Froth.  35  morning.    Sat  down  to  my  toilette. 

From  eight  to  ten.     Chocolate.     Read  two  From  eight  to  nine.     Shifted  a  patch  for 

acts  in  Aurengzebe^  a-bed.  half   an   hour   before    I    could   determine   it. 

From  ten  to  eleven.     Tea-table.     Read  the      Fixed  it  above  my  left  eyebrow, 
playbills.    Received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Froth.         From  nine  to  twelve.     Drank  my  tea,  and 
Mem.  Locked  it  up  in  my  strong  box.  40  dressed. 

Rest  of  the  morning.     Fontange,  the  tire-  From  twelve  to  two.     At  chapel.     A  great 

woman,  her  account  of  my  Lady  Blithe's  wash,  deal  of  good  company.  Mem.  The  third  air  in 
Broke  a  tooth  in  my  little  tortoise  shell  comb,  the  new  opera.  Lady  Blithe  dressed  frightfully. 
Sent  Frank  to  know  how  my  Lady  Hectic  From  three  to  four.     Dined.     Miss  Kitty 

rested  after  her  monkey's  leaping  out  at  win-  45  called  upon  me  to  go  to  the  opera,  before  I 
dow.     Looked  pale.     Fontagne  tells  me  my      was  risen  from  table, 
glass  is  not  true.    Dressed  by  three.  From  dinner  to  six.     Drank  tea.     Turned 

From  three  to  four.     Dinner  cold  before  I     off  a  footman  for  being  rude  to  Veny. 
sat  down.  Six  o'clock.    Went  to  the  opera.    I  did  not 

From  four  to  eleven.  Saw  company.  Mr.  50  see  Mr.  Froth  till  the  beginning  of  the  second 
Froth's  opinion  of  Milton.  His  account  of  the  act.  Mr.  Froth  talked  to  a  gentleman  in  a 
Mohocks.  His  fancy  for  a  pin-cushion.  Pic-  black  wig.  Bowed  to  a  lady  in  the  front  box. 
ture  in  the  lid  of  his  snuff-box.     Old  Lady      Mr.  Froth  and  his  friend  clapped  Nicolini** 

»  Tea.    Bohea  is  the  name  (slightly  modified)  of  certain  lo  A  game  of  cards, 
hill-ranges  in  China  on  which  the  tea-shrub  is  largely  55      n  A  spelHng  of  scuiiZe;  applied  to  a  mincing  gait  affected    Y 

grown.  by  ladies  of  fashion.     "She  quitted  the  shop  with  an     *. 

*  Head-dress.          ^  Clarinda's  lap-dog.          ^  Bought.  easy  scuttle."    Spectator,  No.  536.                                                 " 

">  A  game  of  cards  very  popular  in  England  in  Addison's  '^  a  silver  coin  of  small  value, 

time.  1'  The  heroine  of  Aurengzebe. 

8  To  punt,  to  play  at  basset,  or  ombre.  "  A  famous  Neapolitan  actor  and  singer.   ( V.  Spectator, 

»  A  play  by  Dryden.  No.  13.) 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  339 

in  the  third  act.    Mr.  Froth  cried  out  Ancora.^s  gjj^  ROGER  AT  CHURCH 

Mr.  Froth  led  me  to  my  chair.     I  think  he      ,„,    „      ^  .      ^^     ,.^  ,, 

squeezed  my  hand.  ^^^  Spectator,  No.  112,  Monday,  July  9,  1711) 

Eleven  at  night.    Went  to  bed.    Melancholy  I  am  always  very  well  pleased  with  a  coun- 

dreams.  Methought  Nicolini  said  he  was  5  try  Sunday,  and  think,  if  keeping  holy  the 
Mr.  Froth.  seventh  day  were  only  a  human  institution,  it 

Sunday.    Indisposed.  would  be  the  best  method  that  could  have 

Monday.  Eight  o'clock.  Waked  by  Miss  been  thought  of  for  the  polishing  and  civilizing 
Kitty.  Aurengzebe  lay  upon  the  chair  by  me.  of  mankind.  It  is  certain  the  country  people 
Kitty  repeated  without  book  the  eight  best  10  would  soon  degenerate  into  a  kind  of  savages 
lines  in  the  play.  Went  in  our  mobs^^  to  the  and  barbarians,  were  there  not  such  frequent 
dumb  man^^  according  to  appointment.  Told  returns  of  a  stated  time,  in  which  the  whole 
me  that  my  lover's  name  began  with  a  G.  village  meet  together  with  their  best  faces, 
Mem.  The  conjurer  was  within  a  letter  of  and  in  their  cleanliest  habits,  to  converse  with 
Mr.  Froth's  name,  &c.  15  one  another  upon  indifferent  subjects,  hear  their 

Upon  looking  back  into  this  my  journal,  duties  explained  to  them,  and  join  together  in 
I  find  that  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  I  adoration  of  the  Supreme  Being.  Sunday 
pass  my  time  well  or  ill;  and  indeed  never  clears  away  the  rust  of  the  whole  week,  not 
thought  of  considering  how  I  did  it  before  I  only  as  it  refreshes  in  their  minds  the  notions 
par  used  your  speculation  upon  that  subject.  20  of  religion,  but  as  it  puts  both  the  sexes  upon 
I  scarce  find  a  single  action  in  these  five  days  appearing  in  their  most  agreeable  forms,  and 
that  I  can  thoroughly  approve  of,  except  the  exerting  all  such  quahties  as  are  apt  to  give 
working  upon  the  violet-leaf,  which  I  am  re-  them  a  figure  in  the  eye  of  the  village.  A 
solved  to  finish  the  first  day  I  am  at  leisure,  country  fellow  distinguishes  himself  as  much 
As  for  Mr.  Froth  and  Veny,  I  did  not  think  25  in  the  churchyard,  as  a  citizen  does  upon  the 
they  took  up  so  much  of  my  time  and  thoughts  Change,  the  whole  parish  politics  being  gen- 
as  I  find  they  do  upon  my  journal.  The  latter  erally  discussed  in  that  place  either  after 
of  them  I  will  turn  off,  if  you  insist  upon  it;  sermon  or  before  the  bell  rings, 
and  if  Mr.  Froth  does  not  bring  matters  to  a  My  friend  Sir  Roger,  being  a  good  church- 

conclusion  very  suddenly,  I  will  not  let  my  30  man,  has  beautified  the  inside  of  his  church 
life  run  away  in  a  dream.  Your  humble  serv-  with  several  texts  of  his  own  choosing;  he  has 
ant,  Clarinda.  likewise  given  a  handsome  pulpit-cloth,  and 

railed  in  the  communion  table  at  his  own  ex- 

To  resume  one  of  the  morals  of  my  first  pense.  He  has  often  told  me,  that  at  his  com- 
paper,  and  to  confirm  Clarinda  in  her  good  35  ing  to  his  estate  he  found  his  parishioners  very 
inclinations,  I  would  have  her  consider  what  irregular;  and  that  in  order  to  make  them 
a  pretty  figure  she  would  make  among  pos-  kneel  and  join  in  the  responses,  he  gave  every 
terity,  were  the  history  of  her  whole  life  pub-  one  of  them  a  hassock  and  a  common-prayer 
lished  like  these  five  days  of  it.  I  shall  con-  book:  and  at  the  same  time  employed  an 
elude  my  paper  with  an  epitaph  written  by  an  40  itinerant  singing  master,  who  goes  about  the 
uncertain  author^^  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  sister,  country  for  that  purpose,  to  instruct  them 
a  lady  who  seems  to  have  been  of  a  temper  rightly  in  the  tunes  of  the  psalms;  upon  which 
very  much  different  from  that  of  Clarinda.  they  now  very  much  value  themselves,  and 
The  last  thought  of  it  is  so  very  noble,  that  I  indeed  outdo  most  of  the  country  churches 
dare  say  my  reader  will  pnrdon  me  the  quo-  45  that  I  have  ever  heard. 

tation.  As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole  con- 

gregation, he  keeps  them  in  very  good  order. 
On  the  Countess  Dowager  op  Pembroke      and  will  suffer  nobody  to  sleep  in  it  besides 
^,  J         ,,  ,,  .  , ,    .  himself;  for  if  by  chance  he  has  been  surprised 

Y^derneaththismaym^^^^  ^^  ^^  recovering 

f  2e^  '/S.^  &:S  motker:  out  of  it  he  stands  up  and  looks  about  hi.^a^^^^ 

Death,  ere  thou  hast  kiWd  another,  if  he  sees  anybody  else  noddmg,  either  wakes 

Fair  and  learned  and  good  as  she,  them  himself,  or  sends  his  servants  to  them. 

Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee.  Several  other  of  the  old  knight's  particularities 

-  The  Italian  form  of  "Encore."  55  break   out   upon  these  occasions :   sometimes 

16  A  TO06  was  a  kind  of  cap,  or  hood.  he  will  be  lengthening  out  a  verse  in  the  smgmg- 

"  Duncan  Campbell    a  fortune-t^eller   said  to  be  deaf  j           j^  jf    ^    minute    after    the    rest    of    the 

and  dumb,  and  supposed  to  have  the  gift  of  second  sight.  pbdiiiib,    iidu.    <x    "'"                    .         .                 ^i.-^«„ 

'8  This  epitaph,  formerly  ascribed  to  Ben  Jonson,  is  congregation    have    done    With    it,    SOmCtimes, 

now  believed  to  have  been  ^T^tten  by  Wilham  Browne.  ^        ^      .         je^sed    with    the    matter    of    hlS 

{Y^  Schelhng.^  Elizabethan  Lyrics,  note,  p.  4>i^)'  wiiv^i*    nv.    ^o    t^ 


340  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

devotion,    he   pronounces    "Amen"    three   or  that  the  Squire  has  not  said  his  prayers  either 

four  times  to  the  same  prayer;  and  sometimes  in  public  or  private  this  half  year;  and  that  the 

stands  up  when  everybody  else  is  upon  their  parson  threatens  him,  if  he  does  not  mend  his 

knees,  to  count  the  congregation,  or  see  if  any  manners,  to  pray  for  him  in  the  face  of  the 

of  his  tenants  are  missing.  5  whole  congregation. 

I   was  yesterday  very  much  surprised  to  Feuds  of  this  nature,  though  too  frequent 

hear  my  old  friend,  in  the  midst  of  the  service,  in  the  country,  are  very  fatal  to  the  ordinary 

calling  out  to  one  John  Matthews  to  mind  people;  who  are  so  used  to  be  dazzled  with 

what  he  was  about,  and  not  disturb  the  con-  riches,  that  they  pay  as  much  deference  to 

gregation.     This  John  Matthews  it  seems  is  10  the  understanding  of  a  man  of  an  estate,  as 

remarkable  for  being  an  idle  fellow,  and  at  of  a  man  of  learning;  and  are  very  hardly 

that  time  was  kicking  his  heels  for  his  diver-  brought  to  regard  any  truth,  how  important 

sion.     This  authority  of  the  knight,  though  soever  it  may  be  that  is  preached  to  them,  when 

exerted   in   that   odd   manner  which   accom-  they  know  there  are  several  men  of  five  hun- 

panies  him  in  all  circumstances  of  life,  has  a  I5dred  a  year  who  do  not  believe  it. 
very  good  effect  upon  the  parish,  who  are  not 
polite  enough  to  see  anything  ridiculous  in 

his  behaviour;  besides  that  the  general  good  ^If   KtCl^artl    ^tttlt 
sense  and  worthiness  of  his  character,  makes 

his  friends  observe  these  little  singularities  as  20                                 1671-1729 

qualitl'es!  '"'''''  ""'  ""^  *^''  ^''""^  """  ""'"^  ON  TRUE  DISTINCTION 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  nobody  (y;^^  rp^^l^^^  ^^  gg^  September  17,  1709) 

presumes  to  stir  till  Sir  Roger  is  gone  out  of 

the  church.    The  knight  walks  down  from  his  25  •  •  •  Quid  oporiet 

seat  in  the  chancel  between  a  double  row  of  Nosfacere,  a  vulgo  huge  lategue  remotos? 

his  tenants,  that  stand  bowing  to  him  on  each  B-on.  1  Sat.  vi,  17. 

side;  and  every  now  and  then  inquires  how         But  how  shall  we,  who  differ  far  and  wide, 
such  an  one's  wife,  or  mother,  or  son,  or  father         From  the  mere  vulgar,  this  great  point  decide. 
do,  whom  he  does  not  see  at  church;  which  is 30  Francis. 

understood  as  a  secret  reprimand  to  the  person 

that  is  absent.  It  is,  as  far  as  it  relates  to  our  present  being, 

The  chaplain  has  often  told  me,  that  upon  the  great  end  of  education  to  raise  ourselves 
a  catechizing  day,  when  Sir  Roger  has  been  above  the  vulgar;  but  what  is  intended  by  the 
pleased  with  a  boy  that  answers  well,  he  has  35  vulgar,  is  not,  methinks,  enough  understood, 
ordered  a  bible  to  be  given  him  next  day  for  In  me,  indeed,  that  word  raises  a  quite  dif- 
his  encouragement;  and  sometimes  accom-  ferent  idea  from  what  it  usually  does  in  others; 
panies  it  with  a  flitch  of  bacon  to  his  mother,  but  perhaps  that  proceeds  from  my  being  old, 
Sir  Roger  has  likewise  added  five  pounds  a  and  beginning  to  want  the  relish  of  such  satis- 
year  to  the  clerk's  place;  and  that  he  may  en- 40 factions  as  are  the  ordinary  entertainment  of 
courage  the  young  fellows  to  make  themselves  men.  However,  such  as  my  opinion  is  in  this 
perfect  in  the  church  service,  has  promised  case,  I  will  speak  it;  because  it  is  possible  that 
upon  the  death  of  the  present  incumbent,  who  turn  of  thought  may  be  received  by  others, 
is  very  old,  to  bestow  it  according  to  merit.  who  may  reap  as  much  satisfaction  from  it 

The  fair  understanding  between  Sir  Roger  45  as  I  do  myself, 
and  his  chaplain,  and  their  mutual  concur-  It  is  to  me  a  very  great  meanness,  and  some- 
rence  in  doing  good,  is  the  more  remarkable,  thing  much  below  a  philosopher,  which  is 
because  the  very  next  village  is  famous  fbr  the  what  I  mean  by  a  gentleman,  to  rank  a  man 
differences  and  contentions  that  rise  between  among  the  vulgar  for  the  condition  of  life  he 
the  parson  and  the  Squire,  who  live  in  a  per-  50  is  in,  and  not  according  to  his  behaviour,  his 
petual  state  of  war.  The  parson  is  always  thoughts,  and  sentiments,  in  that  condition, 
preaching  at  the  Squire,  and  the  Squire  to  be  For  if  a  man  be  loaded  with  riches  and  honours, 
revenged  on  the  parson,  never  comes  to  church,  and  in  that  state  of  life  has  thoughts  and  in- 
The  Squire  has  made  all  his  tenants  atheists  clinations  below  the  meanest  artificer;  is  not 
and  tithe-stealers;  while  the  parson  instructs  55  such  an  artificer,  who,  within  his  power,  is 
them  every  Sunday  in  the  dignity  of  his  order,  good  to  his  friends,  moderate  in  his  demands 
and  insinuates  to  them  in  almost  every  sermon,  for  his  labour,  and  cheerful  in  his  occupation, 
that  he  is  a  better  man  than  his  patron.  In  very  much  superior  to  him  who  lives  for  no 
short,  matters  are  come  to  such  an  extremity,      other  end  but  to  serve  himself,  and  assumes  a 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE 


341 


preference  in  all  his  words  and  actions  to  those 
who  act  their  part  with  much  more  grace  than 
himself?  Epictetus  has  made  iise  of  the  simili- 
tude of  a  stage-pla3^  to  human  life  with  much 
spirit.  "It  is  not,"  says  he,  "to  be  considered 
among  the  actors,  who  is  prince,  or  who  is 
beggar,  but  who  acts  prince  or  beggar  best."^ 
(The  circumstance  of  life  should  not  be  that 
which  gives  us  place,  but  our  behaviour  in 


the  last  office  done  to  a  man  whom  I  had  al- 
ways very  much  admired,  and  from  whose 
action  I  had  received  more  strong  impressions 
of  what  is  great  and  noble  in  human  nature, 
5  than  from  the  arguments  of  the  most  solid 
philosophers,  or  the  descriptions  of  the  most 
charming  poets  I  had  ever  read.  As  the  rude 
and  untaught  multitude  are  no  way  wrought 
upon  more  effectually,  than  by  seeing  public 


that  circumstance  is  what  should  be  our  solid  10  punishments  and  executions;  so  men  of  letters 
distinction.  Thus  a  wise  man  should  think  and  education  feel  their  humanity  most  for- 
no  man  above  him  or  below  him,  any  further  cibly  exercised,  when  they  attend  the  obsequies 
than  it  regards  the  outward  order  or  discipline  of  men  who  had  arrived  at  any  perfection  in 
of  the  world:  for,  if  we  conceive  too  great  an  liberal  accomplishments.  Theatrical  action 
idea  of  the  eminence  of  our  superiors,  or  sub-  15  is  to  be  esteemed  as  such,  except  it  be  objected 
ordination  of  our  inferiors,  it  will  have  an  ill  that  we  cannot  call  that  an  art  which  cannot 
effect  upon  our  behaviour  to  both.  He  who  be  attained  by  art.  Voice,  stature,  motion, 
thinks  no  man  above  him  but  for  his  virtue,  and  other  gifts,  must  be  very  bountifully  be- 
none  below  him  but  for  his  vice,  can  never  be  stowed  by  nature,  or  labour  and  industry  will 
obsequious  or  assuming  in  a  wrong  place;  but  20  but  push  the  unhappy  endeavourer  in  that  way 
will  frequently  emulate  men  in  rank  below  the  further  off  his  wishes. 
him,  and  pity  those  above  him.  Such  an  actor  as  Mr.  Betterton  ought  to  be 

This  sense  of  mankind^  is  so  far  from  a  level-  recorded  with  the  same  respect  as  Roscius'^ 
ling  principle,  that  it  only  sets  us  upon  a  true  among  the  Romans.  The  greatest  orator'  has 
basis  of  distinction,  and  doubles  the  merit  of  25  thought  fit  to  quote  his  judgment,  and  cele- 
such  as  become  their  condition.  A  man  in  brate  his  life.  Roscius  was  the  example  to  all 
power,  who  can,  without  the  ordinary  prepos-  that  would  form  themselves  into  proper  and 
sessions  which  stop  the  way  to  the  true  knowl-  winning  behaviour.  His  action  was  so  well 
edge  and  service  of  mankind,  overlook  the  adapted  to  the  sentiments  he  expressed,  that 
little  distinctions  of  fortune,  raise  obscure  30  the  youth  of  Rome  thought  they  wanted^  only 
merit,  and  discountenance  successful  indesert,  to  be  virtuous,  to  be  as  graceful  in  their  ap- 
has,  in  the  minds  of  knowing  men,  the  figure  of  pearance  as  Roscius.  The  imagination  took  a 
an  angel  rather  than  a  man;  and  is  above  the  lovely  impression  of  what  was  great  and  good; 
rest  of  men  in  the  highest  character  he  can  be,  and  they,  who  never  thought  of  setting  up  for 
even  that  of  their  benefactor.  35  the  art  of  imitation,  became  themselves  in- 

imitable characters. 

There  is  no  human  invention  so  aptly  cal- 
culated for  the  forming  a  freeborn  people  as 
that  of  %  theater.  Tully^  reports,  that  the 
40  celebrated  player  of  whom  I  am  speaking, 
used  frequently  to  say,  "The  perfection  of  an 
actor  is  only  to  become  what  he  is  doing." 
Young  men,  who  are  too  unattentive  to  receive 
lectures,  are  irresistibly  taken  with  perform- 
45  ances.  Hence  it  is,  that  I  extremely  lament  the 
little  relish  the  gentry  of  this  nation  have,  at 
present,  for  the  just  and  noble  representations 
iii  some  of  our  tragedies.  The  operas,  which 
Having  received  notice,  that  the  famous  are  of  late  introduced ,«  can  leave  no  trace 
actor,  Mr.  Betterton,  ^  was  to  be  interred  this  50  behind  them  that  can  be  of  service  beyond  the 
evening  in  the  cloisters  near  Westminster-  2  Quintus  Roscius  Gallus,  a  famous  RomaD  «ctor  A 
abbey,  I  was  resolved  to  walk  thither;  and  see      ^^^l^^^^^^^  --  P"^''«^«^  ^^  ''''  ^°^'^^^'  ^"""^ 

3  Cicero,  who  defended  Roscius  in  an  oration  Pro 
Quinto  Roscio  Comaedo.  ' 

*  i.  e.,  needed,  required.  .  *  i-  e..  Cicero. 

« The  modern  opera  originated  in  Italy  toward  the 
close  of  the  sixteenth  century.  It  began  to  be  cultivated 
in  France  and  Germany  about  1650.  and  was  introduced 
into  England  toward  the  end  of  the  century.  Steele's 
sympathies  are  with  the  old  traditions  of  the  English 
stage,  and  he  regrets  the  popularity  of  the  lighter  opera, 
with  its  singing  and  dancing. 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  OF  BETTERTON 

(The  Taller,  No.  167,  May  4,  1710) 

Segnius  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aures, 
Quam  quae  sunt  oculis  suhmissa  fidelibus. 

HoR. 

.  .  .  What  we  hear, 
With  weaker  passion  will  affect  the  heart, 
Than  when  the  faithful  eye  beholds  the  part. 

Francis. 


1  V.  Epictetus'  Enchiridion,  Cap.  XVII.,  and  cf.  Pope, 
Essay  on  Man,  iv.,  193. 

"  Honour  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise:^^ 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honour  lies.' 
2  This  estimate  of  mankind. 

1  Thomas  Betterton,  the  foremost  actor  on  the  English 
stage  from  the  Restoration  untij  his  retirement  in  1710. 
He  was  a  friend  of  Dryden,  and  Pepys.  Pope  and  Steele 
agree  in  their  admiration  of  his  acting. 


342  DRYDEN   TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSt)N 

present  moment.     To  sing  and  to  dance,  are     To  their  eternal  night!    Out,  out,  short  candle, 
accomplishments  very  few  have  any  thoughts      Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
of  practising;  but  to  speak  justly,  and  move     That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
gracefully,  is  what  every  man  thinks  he  does     ^^  *^^^  ^  ^^^  ^^  more.» 
perform,  or  wishes  he  did.  5 

I  have  hardly  a  notion,  that  any  performer  -DTT-nnT  t  Trn-rrrnvTa 

of  antiquity  could  surpass  the  action  of  Mr.  KiLCULLiLCllUJNb 

Betterton  in  any  of  the  occasions  in  which  he  (The  Taller,  No.  181,  June  6,  1710) 

has  appeared  on  our  stage.     The  wonderful 

agony  which  he  appeared  in,  when  he  examined  10  ••  •  ^^f'  nifallor,  adesl,  quern  semper  acerhum 
the  circumstance  of  the  handkerchief  in  OtheUo;      -^^^^^^  honoralum,  sic  dii  vdnislis   hahebo 
the  mixture  of  love  that  intruded  upon  his  ^^^*       ^'  ^' 

mind,  upon  the  innocent  answers  Desdemona  ^^  ^y,  ^;^e  j.i^^g  ^^y  ^.^^^^^  ij^  y^^^^ 

makes,  betrayed  m  his  gesture  such  a  variety  A  day  far  ever  sad,  for  ever  dear. 

and  vicissitude  of  passions,  as  would  admonish  15  Dryden. 

a  man  to  be  afraid  of  his  own  heart;  and  per- 
fectly convince  him,  that  it  is  to  stab  it,  to  There  are  those  among  mankind,  who  can 
admit  that  worst  of  daggers,  jealousy.  Who-  enjoy  no  relish  of  their  being,  except  the  world 
ever  reads  in  his  closet  this  admirable  scene,  is  made  acquainted  with  all  that  relates  to 
will  find  that  he  cannot,  except  he  has  as  20  them,  and  think  everything  lost  that  passes 
warm  an  imagination  as  Shakespeare  himself,  unobserved;  but  others  find  a  solid  delight  in 
find  any  but  dry,  incoherent,  and  broken  sen-  stealing  by  the  crowd,  and  modelling  their 
tences:  but  a  reader  that  has  seen  Betterton  life  after  such  a  mnaner,  as  is  as  much  above 
act  it,  observes,  there  could  not  be  a  word  the  approbation  as  the  practice  of  the  vulgar, 
added;  that  longer  speeches  had  been  unnat-25Life  being  too  short  to  give  instances  great 
ural,  nay,  impossible,  in  Othello's  circum-  enough  of  true  friendship  or  good-will,  some 
stances.  The  charming  passage  in  the  same  sages  have  thought  it  pious  to  preserve  a 
tragedy,  where  he  tells  the  manner  of  winning  certain  reverence  for  the  manes^  of  their  de- 
the  affection  of  his  mistress,  was  urged  with  ceased  friends;  and  have  withdrawn  them- 
so  moving  and  graceful  an  energy,  that,  while  30  selves  from  the  rest  of  the  world  at  certain 
I  walked  in  the  cloisters,  I  thought  of  him  seasons,  to  commemorate  in  their  own  thoughts 
with  the  same  concern  as  if  I  waited  for  the  such  of  their  acquaintance  who  have  gone 
remains  of  a  person  who  had  in  real  life  done  before  them  out  of  this  life.  And  indeed,  when 
all  that  I  had  seen  him  represent.  The  gloom  we  are  advanced  in  years,  there  is  not  a  more 
of  the  place,  and  faint  lights  before  the  cere- 35  pleasing  entertainment,  than  to  recollect  in 
mony  appeared,  contributed  to  the  melan-  a  gloomy  moment  the  many  we  have  parted 
choly  disposition  I  was  in;  and  I  began  to  be  with,  that  have  been  dear  and  agreeable  to 
extremely  afflicted  that  Brutus  and  Cassius  us,  and  to  cast  a  melancholy  thought  or  two 
had  any  difference;^  that  Hotspur's  gallantry^  after  those,  with  whom,  perhaps,  we  have 
was  so  unfortunate;  and  that  the  mirth  and40indulged  ourselves  in  whole  nights  of  mirth 
good  humour  of  Falstaff  could  not  exempt  him  and  jollity.  With  such  inclinations  in  my 
from  the  grave.  Nay,  this  occasion,  in  me  who  heart  I  went  to  my  closet  yesterday  in  the 
look  upon  the  distinctions  amongst  men  to  be  evening,  and  resolved  to  be  sorrowful;  upon 
merely  scenical,  raised  reflections  upon  the  which  occasion  I  could  not  but  look  with  dis- 
emptiness  of  all  human  perfection  and  great-  45  dain  upon  myself,  that  though  all  the  reasons 
ness  in  general;  and  I  could  not  but  regret,  which  I  had  to  lament  the  loss  of  many  of 
that  the  sacred  heads  which  lie  buried  in  the  my  friends  are  now  as  forcible  as  at  the  mo- 
neighbourhood  of  this  little  portion  of  earth,  ment  of  their  departure,  yet  did  not  my  heart 
in  which  my  poor  old  friend  is  deposited,  are  swell  with  the  same  sorrow  which  I  felt  at  the 
returned  to  dust  as  well  as  he,  and  that  there  50  time;  but  I  could,  without  tears,  reflect  upon 
is  no  difference  in  the  grave  betwee^,  the  many  pleasing  adventures  I  have  had  with 
imaginary  and  the  real  monarch.  This  made  some,  who  have  long  been  blended  with  com- 
me  say  of  human  life  itself,  with  Macbeth,             mon  earth.     Though  it  is  by  the  benefit  of 

nature,  that  length  of  time  thus  blots  out  the 

To-morrow,  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  55      9  a  misquotation  of  the  immortal  passage  in  Act  V.,  v. 

Creeps  in  a  stealing  pace  from  day  to  day  Steele  lived  in  an  age  that  produced  and  tolerated  "ver- 

To  the  last  mompnt  of  rpoordpd  time'  ^''^^'^  ..  ^^  Shakespeare.    Steele  here  quotes  from  Daven- 

X    j^^/^S*^  momeni  01  recoraea  ume .  ^^^j. ,g  "version,"  but  not  with  absolute  accuracy. 

And  all  our  yesterdays  have  hghted  fools,  1  The  shades,  or  spirits,  of  the  dead,  which  were  hon- 
ored by  the  Romans  as  the  tutelary  divinities  of  their 

» Julius  Caesar,  IV.,  iii,               ^I K.  Hen.  IV,  V.,  iv.  families.                                                                                      *. 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE  343 

violence  of  afflictions;  yet,  with  tempers  too  insnared  me  into  ten  thousand  calamities* 
much  given  to  pleasure,  it  is  almost  necessary  and  from  whence  T.  can  reap  no  advantage, 
to  revive  the  old  places  of  grief  in  our  memory;  except  it  be,  that,  in  such  a  humour  as  I  am 
and  ponder  step  by  step  on  past  life,  to  lead  now  in,  I  can  the  better  indulge  myself  in  the 
the  mind  into  that  sobriety  of  thought  which  5  softness  of  humanity,  and  enjoy  that  sweet 
poises  the  heart,  and  makes  it  beat  with  due  anxiety  which  arises  from  the  memory  of  past 
time,    without   being   quickened  with   desire,      afflictions. 

or  retarded  with  despair,  from  its  proper  and  We,  that  are  very  old,  are  better  able  to 
equal  motion.  When  we  wind  up  a  clock  that  remember  things  which  befel  us  in  our  distant 
is  out  of  order,  to  make  it  go  well  for  the  future,  10  youth,  than  the  passages  of  later  days.  For 
we  do  not  immediately  set  the  hand  to  the  this  reason  it  is,  that  the  companions  of  my 
present  instant,  but  we  make  it  strike  the  round  strong  and  vigorous  years  present  themselves 
of  all  its  hours,  before  it  can  recover  the  regu-  more  immediately  to  me  in  this  office  of  sorrow, 
larity  of  its  time.  Such,  thought  I,  shall  be  Untimely  and  unhappy  deaths  are  what  we 
my  method  this  evening;  and  since  it  is  that  15  are  most  apt  to  lament;  so  little  are  we  able 
day  of  the  year  which  I  dedicate  to  the  memory  to  make  it  indifferent  when  a  thing  happens, 
of  such  in  another  life  as  I  much  delighted  though  we  know  it  must  happen.  Thus  we 
in  when  living,  an  hour  or  two  shall  be  sacred  groan  under  life,  and  bewail  those  who  are 
to  sorrow  and  their  memory,  while  I  run  over  relieved  from  it.  Every  object  that  returns 
all  the  melancholy  circumstances  of  this  kind  20  to  our  imagination  raises  different  passions 
which  have  occurred  to  me  in  my  whole  life.  according  to  the  circumstance  of  their  depar- 

The  first  sense  of  sorrow  I  ever  knew  was  ture.  Who  can  have  lived  in  an  army,  and  in 
upon  the  death  of  my  father,  at  which  time  I  a  serious  hour  reflect  upon  the  many  gay  and 
was  not  quite  five  years  of  age;  but  was  rather  agreeable  men  that  might  long  have  flourished 
amazed  at  what  all  the  house  meant,  than  25  in  the  arts  of  peace,  and  not  join  with  the  im- 
possessed  with  a  real  understanding  why  precations  of  the  fatherless  and  widow  on  the 
nobody  was  willing  to  play  with  me.  I  remem-  tyrant  to  whose  ambition  they  fell  sacrifices? 
ber  I  went  into  the  room  where  his  body  lay,  But  gallant  men,  who  are  cut  off  by  the  sword, 
and  my  mother  sat  weeping  alone  by  it.  I  had  move  rather  our  veneration  than  our  pity; 
my  battledore  in  my  hand,  and  fell  a-beating  30  and  we  gather  relief  enough  from  their  own 
the  coffin,  and  calling  Papa;  for,  I  know  not  contempt  of  death,  to  make  that  no  evil,  which 
how,  I  had  some  slight  idea  that  he  was  locked  was  approached  with  so  much  cheerfulness, 
up  there.  My  mother  catched  me  in  her  arms,  and  attended  with  so  much  honour.  But 
and,  transported  beyond  all  patience^  of  the  when  we  turn  our  thoughts  from  the  great 
silent  grief  she  was  before  in,  she  almost  smoth-  35  parts  of  life  on  such  occasions,  and  instead  of 
ered  me  in  her  embraces;  and  told  me  in  a  lamenting  those  who  stood  ready  to  give  death 
flood  of  tears,  ''Papa  could  not  hear  me,  and  to  those  from  whom  they  had  the  fortune  to 
would  play  with  me  no  more,  for  they  were  receive  it;  I  say,  when  we  let  our  thoughts 
going  to  put  him  under  ground,  whence  he  wander  from  such  noble  objects,  and  consider 
could  never  come  to  us  again."  She  was  a  40  the  havoc  which  is  made  among  the  tender 
very  beautiful  woman,  of  a  noble  spirit,  and  and  the  innocent,  pity  enters  with  an  unmixed 
there  was  a  dignity  in  her  grief  amidst  all  the  softness,  and  possesses  all  our  souls  at  once, 
wildness  of  her  transport;  which,  methought,  Here    (were   there   words   to   express   such 

struck  me  with  an  instinct  of  sorrow,  that,  sentiments  with  proper  tenderness)  I  should 
before  I  was  sensible  of  what  it  was  to  grieve,  45  record  the  beauty,  innocence,  and  untimely 
seized  my  very  soul,  and  has  made  pity  the  death,  of  the  first  object  my  eyes  ever  beheld 
weakness  of  my  heart  ever  since.  The  mind  in  with  love.  The  beauteous  virgin!  how  igno- 
infancy  is,  methinks,  hke  the  body  in  embryo;  rantly  did  she  charm,  how  carelessly  excel? 
and  receives  impressions  so  forcible,  that  they  Oh  Death!  thou  hast  right  to  the  bold,  to  the 
are  as  hard  to  be  removed  by  reason,  as  any  50  ambitious,  to  the  high,  and  to  the  haughty; 
mark  with  which  a  child  is  born  is  to  be  taken  but  why  this  cruelty  to  the  humble,  to  the 
away  by  any  future  application.  Hence  it  is,  meek,  to  the  undiscerning,  to  the  thoughtless? 
that  good-nature  in  me  is  no  merit;  but  having  Nor  age,  nor  business,  nor  distress,  can  erase 
been  so  frequently  overwhelmed  with  her  tears  the  dear  image  from  my  imagination.  In  the 
before  I  knew  the  cause  of  any  affliction,  or  55  same  week,  I  saw  her  dressed  for  a  ball,  and 
could  draw  defences  from  my  own  judgment,  in  a  shroud.  How  ill  did  the  habit  of  death 
I   imbibed   commiseration,    remorse,    and   an      become  the  pretty  trifler?     I  still  behold  the 

unmanly  gentleness  of  mind,  which  has  since      smiling   earth A   large   train   of   disasters 

2  Endurance.  were  coming  on  to  my  memory,  when  my 


344  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

servant  knocked  at  my  closet-door,  and  inter-  fought  a  duel  upon  his  first  coming  to  town, 
rupted  me  with  a  letter,  attended  with  a  ham-  and  kicked  Bully  Dawson^  in  a  public  coffee- 
per  of  wine,  of  the  same  sort  with  that  which  house  for  calling  him  youngster.  But  being 
is  to  be  put  to  sale  on  Thursday  next,  at  Garra-  ill-used  by  the  above  mentioned  widow,  he 
way's  coffee-house.^  Upon  the  receipt  of  it,  5  was  very  serious  for  a  year  and  a  half;  and 
I  sent  for  three  of  my  friends.  We  are  so  though,  his  temper  being  naturally  jovial,  he 
intimate,  that  we  can  be  company  in  whatever  at  last  got  over  it,  he  grew  careless  of  himself, 
state  of  mind  we  meet,  and  can  entertain  each  and  never  dressed  afterward.  He  continues 
other  without  expecting  always  to  rejoice,  to  wear  a  coat  and  doublet  of  the  same  cut 
The  wine  we  found  to  be  generous  and  warm-  10  that  were  in  fashion  at  the  time  of  his  repulse, 
ing,  but  with  such  a  heat  as  moved  us  rather  which,  in  his  merry  humours,  he  tells  us,  has 
to  be  cheerful  than  frolicksome.  It  revived  been  in  and  out  twelve  times  since  he  first  wore 
the  spirits,  without  firing  the  blood.  We  com-  it.  'Tis  said  Sir  Roger  grew  humble  in  his 
mended  it  until  two  of  the  clock  this  morning;  desires  after  he  had  forgot  this  cruel  beauty. 
and  having  to-day  met  a  little  before  dinner,  15  He  is  now  in  his  fifty-sixth  year,  cheerful,  gay, 
we  found,  that  though  we  drank  two  bottles  and  hearty;  keeps  a  good  house  both  in  town 
a  man,  we  had  much  more  reason  to  recollect  and  country;  a  great  lover  of  mankind;  but 
than  forget  what  had  passed  the  night  before.        there  is  such  a  mirthful  cast  in  his  behaviour 

that  he  is  rather  beloved  than  esteemed.    His 
THE  SPECTATOR  CLUB  20  tenants  grow  rich,  his  servants  look  satisfied, 

(From  The  Spectator,  1711-12)  f"  ^^^  ^^^^S  ^^^7  f  f  ^^«  1°^^  *«  ^^jJ^^ 

^  . .  *"®  young  men  are  glad  of  his  company.    When 

Ast  Alii  sex  he  comes  into  a  house,  he  calls  the  servants 

Et  plures  uno  condamant  ore."-  by  their  names,  and  talks  all  the  way  up-stairs 

^^*      25  to  a  visit.    I  must  not  omit  that  Sir  Roger  is 
Friday,  March  2,  1711.  a  justice  of  the  quorum^  that  he  fills  the  chair 

The  first  of  our  society  is  a  gentlemen  of  at  a  quarter-session  with  great  abilities,  >  and 
Worcestershire,  of  ancient  descent,  a  baronet,  three  months  ago  gained  universal  applause 
his  name  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  His  great-  by  explaining  a  passage  in  the  game  act. 
grandfather  was  inventor  of  that  famous  30  The  gentleman  next  in  esteem  and  authority 
country-dance  which  is  called  after  him.  All  among  us  is  another  bachelor,  who  is  a  member 
who  know  that  shire  are  very  well  acquainted  of  the  Inner  Temple,^  a  man  of  great  probity, 
with  the  parts  and  merits  of  Sir  Roger.  He  wit,  and  understanding;  but  he  has  chosen  his 
is  a  gentleman  that  is  very  singular  in  his  be-  place  of  cesidence  rather  to  obey  the  direction 
haviour,  but  his  singularities  proceed  from  his  35  of  an  old  humoursome  father  than  in  pursuit 
good  sense,  and  are  contradictions  to  the  of  his  own  inclinations.  He  was  placed  there 
manners  of  the  world  only  as  he  thinks  the  to  study  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  is  the  most 
world  is  in  the  wrong.  However,  this  humour  learned  of  any  of  the  house  in  those  of  the  stage, 
creates  him  no  enemies,  for  he  does  nothing  Aristotle  and  Longinus  are  much  better  under- 
with  sourness  or  obstinacy;  and  his  being  40  stood  by  him  than  Littleton  or  Coke.^  The 
unconfined  to  modes  and  forms  makes  him  father  sends  up  every  post  questions  relating 
but  the  readier  and  more  capable  to  please  to  marriage  articles,  leases,  and  tenures  in 
and  oblige  all  who  know  him.  When  he  is  in  the  neighbourhood,  all  which  questions  he 
town,  he  lives  in  Soho  Square.  It  is  said  he  agrees  with  an  attorney  to  answer  and  take 
keeps  himself  a  bachelor  by  reason  he  was  45  care  of  in  the  lump.  He  is  studying  the  pas- 
crossed  in  love  by  a  perverse  beautiful  widow  sions  themselves  when  he  should  be  inquiring 
of  the  next  county  to  him.  Before  this  dis-  into  the  debates  among  men  which  arise  from 
appointment  Sir  Roger  was  what  you  call  a      them.    He  knows  the  argument  of  each  of  the 

fine    gentleman,    had    often    supped    with    my  3  a  noted  sharper,  and  a  contemporary  of  Rochester 

Lord  Rochester  and  Sir  George   Etheridge,^  50  ^"d  Etheridge.         ^     ,      •    ,       r^,  ,     , 

,  _,         „  J   ,          ^,                    f  a.1.         •  •     I             •  Sir  Roger  was  not  only  a  justice  of  the  peace,  or  local 

"bo  called  from  the  name  of  the  original  proprietor  magistrate,  for  his  county,  but  he  was  one  of  those 
Thomas  Gar  away.  It  was  one  of  the  famous  and  fashion-  specially  named  in  the  commission  authorizing  the  hold- 
able  coffee-houses  of  the  day.                          _  jng  of  the  court.    Magistrates  so  specially  commissioned 

1  But  six  others  and  more  call   out  with  one  voice.  were  called  "justices  of  the  quorum"  from  the  words  of 

Sat.,  vii.,  166.  the  writ:  Quorum  aliquem  vestrum  unum  esse  volumics,  etc. 

^  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester  (1647-1680),  a  witty  ^i.  e.,  a  London  barrister.    The  Inner  Temple  was  one 

but   shameless   courtier   and   versifier   at   the   court   of  of  the  four  legal  societies  which  possessed  the  right  of 

Charles   II.      He   died   at   thirty-one,  exhausted  by   his  admitting  applicants  to  the  bar. 

wild  and  reckless  life.    V.  his  Epitaph  on  Charles  II,  p.  280,  8  Two  celebrated  judges  and  legal  writers.    Littleton's 

supra.    Sir  George  Etheridue  (1635?-1691),  a  dramatist  of  important  work  on  Tenures  (i.  e.  the  law  of  real  estate) 

the  Restoration  period,   Uke  his  friend   Rochester,   had  was   translated   and   edited   by   Coke,    and   this   book, 

naany  of  the  worst  traits  of  the  "fine  gentleman"  of  that  familiarly  known  as  "Coke  upon  Littleton,"  became  a 

time.  standard  legal  text-book. 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE  345 

orations  of  Demosthenes  and  TuUy,  but  not  one  be  richer  than  other  kingdoms  by  as  plain 
case  in  the  reports  of  our  own  courts.  No  one  methods  as  he  himself  is  richer  than  other  men; 
ever  took  hini  for  a  fool;  but  none,  except  though  at  the  same  time  I  can  say  this  of  him, 
his  intimate  friends,  know  that  he  has  a  great  that  there  is  not  a  point  in  the  compass  but 
deal  of  wit.  This  turn  makes  him  at  once  5  blows  home  a  ship  in  which  he  is  an  owner, 
both  disinterested  and  agreeable;  as  few  of  Next  to  Sir  Andrew  in  the  club-room,  sits 
his  thoughts  are  drawn  from  business,  they  Captain  Sentry,  a  gentleman  of  great  courage, 
are  most  of  them  fit  for  conversation.  His  good  understanding,  but  invincible  modesty, 
taste  of  books  is  a  little  too  just  for  the  age  He  is  one  of  those  that  deserve  very  well,  but 
he  lives  in;  he  has  read  rJl,  but  approves  of  10  are  very  awkward  in  putting  their  talents 
very  few.  His  familiarity  v/ith  the  customs,  within  the  observation  of  such  as  should  take 
manners,  actions,  and  writings  of  the  ancients  notice  of  them.  He  was  some  years  a  captain, 
makes  him  a  very  deUcate  observer  of  what  and  behaved  himself  with  great  gallantry  in 
occurs  to  him  in  the  present  world.  He  is  an  several  engagements  and  at  several  sieges;  but, 
excellent  critic,  and  the  time  of  the  play  is  15  having  a  small  estate  of  his  own,  and  being 
his  hour  of  business;  exactly  at  five  he  passes  next  heir  to  Sir  Roger,  he  has  quitted  a  way  of 
through  New  Inn,^  crosses  through  Russell  life  in  which  no  man  can  rise  suitably  to  his 
Court,  and  takes  a  turn  at  Will's^  till  the  play  merit,  who  is  not  something  of  a  courtier  as 
begins;  he  has  his  shoes  rubbed  and  his  perri-  well  as  a  soldier.  I  have  heard  him  often  la- 
wig  powdered  at  the  barber's  as  you  go  into  20  ment  that  in  a  profession  where  merit  is  placed 
the  Rose.^  It  is  for  the  good  of  the  audience  in  so  conspicuous  a  view,  impudence  should 
when  he  is  at  a  play,  for  the  actors  have  an  get  the  better  of  modesty.  When  he  had  talked 
ambition  to  please  him.  to  this  purpose,  I  never  heard  him  make  a 

The  person  of  next  consideration  is  Sir  An-  sour  expression,  but  frankly  confess  he  had 
drew  Freeport,  a  merchant  of  great  eminence  25  left  the  world  because  he  was  not  fit  for  it.  A 
in  the  city  of  London,  a  person  of  indefatigable  strict  honesty,  and  an  even,  regular  behaviour, 
industry,  strong  reason,  and  great  experience,  are  in  themselves  obstacles  to  him  that  must 
His  notions  of  trade  are  noble  and  generous,  press  through  crowds  who  endeavour  at  the 
and  (as  every  rich  man  has  usually  some  sly  same  end  with  himself,  the  favour  of  a  com- 
way  of  jesting  which  would  make  no  great  30  mander.  He  will,  however,  in  his  way  of  talk 
figure  were  he  not  a  rich  man),  he  calls  the  sea  excuse  generals  for  not  disposing  according  to 
the  British  Common.  He  is  acquainted  with  men's  desert  or  inquiring  into  it;  "for,"  says 
commerce  in  all  its  parts,  and  will  tell  you  that  he  "that  great  man  who  has  a  mind  to  help 
it  is  a  stupid  and  barbarous  way  to  extend  me  has  as  many  to  break  through  to  come  at 
dominion  by  arms;  for  true  power  is  to  be  got  35  me  as  I  have  to  come  at  him."  Therefore  he 
by  power  and  industry.  He  will  often  argue  will  conclude  that  the  man  who  would  make  a 
that  if  this  part  of  our  trade  were  well  culti-  figure,  especially  in  a  military  way,  must  get 
vated,  we  should  gain  from  one  nation;  and  over  all  false  modesty,  and  assist  his  patron 
if  another,  from  another.  I  have  heard  him  against  the  importunity  of  other  pretenders 
prove  that  diligence  makes  more  lasting  ac-  40  by  a  proper  assurance  in  his  own  vindication, 
quisitions  than  valour,  and  that  sloth  has  He  says  it  is  a  civil  cowardice  to  be  backward 
ruined  more  nations  than  the  sword.  He  in  asserting  what  you  ought  to  expect,  as  it  is 
abounds  in  several  frugal  maxims,  among  a  military  fear  to  be  slow  in  attacking  when 
which  the  greatest  favourite  is,  "A  penny  it  is  your  duty.  With  this  candour  does  the 
saved  is  a  penny  got."  A  general  trader  of  45  gentleman  speak  of  himself  and  others.  The 
good  sense  is  pleasanter  company  than  a  same  frankness  runs  through  all  his  conversa- 
general  scholar;  and  Sir  Andrew  having  a  tion.  The  military  part  of  his  life  has  furnished 
natural  unaffected  eloquence,  the  perspicuity  him  with  many  adventures,  in  the  relation  of 
of  his  discourse  gives  the  same  pleasure  that  which  he  is  very  agreeable  to  the  company; 
wit  would  in  another  man.  He  has  made  his  50  for  he  is  never  overbearing,  though  accustomed 
fortunes  himself,  and  says  that  England  may      to  command  men  in  the  utmost  degree  below 

■^      ,  ^   ,      .        ,    ,T        ,^,  ^     •  •    n       him;  nor  ever  too  obsequious,  from  a  habit 

7  One  of  the  les9  important  Inns  of  the  court,  ongmally         .     '       .  u-^i,u,  oU^tt^  K;r« 

a  hostelry.     Sir  Thomas  More  studied  law  for  a  time       of  obeymg  men  highly  abOVe  mm. 

in  this  Inn.  .         «.    ,  ,         But  that  our  society  may  not  appear  a  set 

^Will's  Coffee-House.    There  were  two  coffee-houses  of  .  ,  .  ,  '^i-^A   ^,WU    +V.«   ,,r.llr.», 

this  name,  Sne  frequented  by  members  of  the  legal  55  of  humourists  unacquamted  With  the  gallan- 
profession.  the  other  (and  the  more  celebrated  one)  the  \xie^  and  pleasures  of  the  age,  we  have  among 
resort  of  the  wits,  on  Russell  Street.    The  Templar,  who  is  ,  t,      ,    ^tm,   tt^^^^^^^u     „    /ro«f1oTr,aTi 

represented  as  preferring  literature  to  law,  appears  (from  US  the  gallant  Will  HoneyCOmb,  a  gentleman 
the  hint  Steele  gives  us  of  the  locality)  to  have  chosen  the       ^Jjq,  according  to  his  years,  should  be  in  the 

^^"a  tavern  near  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  decline  of  his  life;  but,  having  been  very  careful 


346  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

of  his  person,  and  always  had  a  very  easy  for-  vances  others.  He  seldom  introduces  the 
tune,  time  has  made  but  very  little  impression,  subject  he  speaks  upon;  but  we  are  so  far  gone 
either  by  wrinkles  on  his  forehead  or  traces  in  in  years  that  he  observes,  when  he  is  among  us, 
his  brain.  His  person  is  well  turned  and  of  a  an  earnestness  to  have  him  fall  on  some  divine 
good  height.  He  is  very  ready  at  that  sort  of  5  topic,  which  he  always  treats  with  much  au- 
discourse  with  which  men  usually  entertain  thority,  as  one  who  has  no  interest  in  this 
women.  He  has  all  his  life  dressed  very  well,  world,  as  one  who  is  hastening  to  the  object  of 
and  remembers  habits  as  others  do  men.  He  all  his  wishes,  and  conceives  hope  from  his 
can  smile  when  one  speaks  to  him,  and  laughs  decays  and  infirmities.  These  are  my  ordinary 
easily.  He  knows  the  history  of  every  mode,  10  companions, 
and  can  inform  you  from  which  of  the  French 

king's  wenches  our  wives  and  daughters  had  rrJJ^r,rT^T^^Jr\^sJT xr o 

this  manner  of  curling  their  hair,  and  that  ON  TESTIMONIALS 

way  of  placing  their  hoods,  whose  frailty  was      ^rpf^^  Spectator,  No.  493,  September  25,  1712) 
covered  by  such  a  sort  of  petticoat,  and  whose  15 

vanity  to  show  her  foot  made  that  part  of  the      Qualem  commendes  etiam  atque  etiam  adspice,  ne 
dress  so  short  in  such  a  year.    In  a  word,  all  ^^ox 

his  conversation  and  knowledge  has  been  in     IncutmrU  aliena  tibi  peccata  pudorem. 
the  female  world.     As  other  men  of  his  age  xiOR. 

will  take  notice  to  you  what  such  a  ^^^^^ter  20  Commend  not,  Hill  a  man  is  thorougMy  known; 
said  upon  such  an  occasion,  he  will  tell  you,  A  rascal  prais'd,  you  make  his  faults  your  own. 
when  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  danced  at  court.  Anon. 

such  a  woman  was  then  smitten,  another  was 

taken  with  him  at  the  head  of  his  troop  in  the  It  is  no  unpleasant  matter  of  speculation  to 

Park.  In  all  these  important  relations  he  has  25  consider  the  recommendatory  epistles  that 
ever  about  the  same  time  received  a  kind  glance  pass  round  this  town  from  hand  to  hand,  and 
or  a  blow  of  a  fan  from  some  celebrated  beauty,  the  abuse  people  put  upon  one  another  in 
mother  of  the  present  Lord  Such-a-one.  If  that  kind.  It  is  indeed  come  to  that  pass,  that, 
you  speak  of  a  young  commoner  that  said  a  instead  of  being  the  testimony  of  merit  in  the 
lively  thing  in  the  House,  he  starts  up:  "He 30 person  recommended,  the  true  reading  of  a 
has  good  blood  in  his  veins;  Tom  Mirabell  letter  of  this  sort  is,  "The  bearer  hereof  is 
begot  him;  the  rogue  cheated  me  in  that  affair;  so  uneasy  to  me,  that  it  will  be  an  act  of  charity 
that  young  fellow's  mother  used  me  more  like  in  you  to  take  him  off  my  hands;  whether  you 
a  dog  than  any  woman  I  ever  made  advances  prefer  hilh  or  not,  it  is  all  one;  for  I  have  no 
to."  This  way  of  talking  of  his,  very  much  35  manner  of  kindness  for  him,  or  obhgation  to 
enlivens  the  conversation  among  us  of  a  more  him  or  his;  and  do  what  you  please  as  to  that." 
sedate  turn,  and  I  find  that  there  is  not  one  As  negligent  as  men  are  in  this  respect,  a  point 
of  the  company  but  myself,  who  rarely  speak  of  honour  is  concerned  in  it;  and  there  is 
at  all,  but  speaks  of  him  as  of  that  sort  of  man  nothing  a  man  should  be  more  ashamed  of, 
who  is  usually  called  a  well-bred,  fine  gentle- 40  than  passing  a  worthless  creature  into  the 
man.  To  conclude  his  character,  where  women  service  or  interests  of  a  man  who  has  never 
are  not  concerned,  he  is  an  honest,  worthy  man.  injured  you.  The  women  indeed  are  a  little 
I  cannot  tell  whether  I  am  to  account  him  too  keen  in  their  resentments  to  trespass  often 
whom  I  am  next  to  speak  of  as  one  of  our  com-  this  way;  but  you  shall  sometimes  know,  that 
pany,  for  he  visits  us  but  seldom;  but  when  45  the  mistress  and  the  maid  shall  quarrel,  and 
he  does,  it  adds  to  every  man  else  a  nejn enjoy-  give  each  other  very  free  language,  and  at  last 
ment  of  himself.  He  is  a  clergyman," a  very  the  lady  shall  be  pacified  to  turn  her  out  of 
philosophic  man,  of  general  learning,  great  doors,  and  give  her  a  very  good  word  to  any 
sanctity  of  life,  and  the  most  exact  good  breed-  body  else.  Hence  it  is  that  you  see,  in  a  yeai 
ing.  He  has  the  misfortune  to  be  of  a  very  50  and  a  half's  time,  the  same  face  a  domestic  in 
weak  constitution,  and  consequently  cannot  all  parts  of  the  town.  Good-breeding  and  good- 
accept  of  such  cares  and  business  as  prefer-  nature  lead  people  in  a  great  measure  to  this 
ments  in  his  function  would  oblige  him  to;  he  injustice:  when  suitors  of  no  consideration  will 
is  therefore  among  divines  what  a  chamber-  have  confidence  enough  to  press  upon  their 
counsellor  is  among  lawyers.  The  probity  of  55  superiors,  those  in  power  are  tender  of  speaking 
his  mind  and  the  integrity  of  his  life  create  the  exceptions  they  have  agamst  them,  and 
him  followers  as  being  eloquent  or  laud^"  ad-      are  mortgaged  into  promises  out  of  their  im- 

,„.  ^,  ,         J  -.  *u  •     I  K       patience  of  importunity.     In  this  latter  case, 

"1.  e.,  as  others  are  advanced  »y  their  eloquence  or  by       f"  .-.  ^  /..         .^,  ,, 

the  praise  of  those  about  them.  it  would  be  a  very  useful  inquiry  to  know  the 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE  347 

history  of  recommendations.  There  are,  you  know  I  hve  in  taverns;  he  is  an  orderly  sober 
must  know,  certain  abettors  of  this  way  of  rascal,  and  thinks  much  to  sleep  in  an  entry 
torment,  who  make  it  a  profession  to  manage  until  two  in  the  morning.  He  told  me  one 
the  affairs  of  candidates.  These  gentlemen  day,  when  he  was  dressing  me,  that  he  won- 
let  out  their  impudence  to  their  clients,  and  5  dered  I  was  not  dead  before  now,  since  I  went 
supply  any  'defective  recommendation,  by  to  dinner  in  the  evening,  and  went  to  supper  at 
informing  how  such  and  such  a  man  is  to  be  two  in  the  morning.  We  were  coming  down 
attacked.  They  will  tell  you,  get  the  least  Essex-street  one  night  a  little  flustered,^  and 
scrap  from  Mr.  Such-a-one,  and  leave  the  rest  I  was  giving  him  the  word  to  alarm  the  watch  ;2 
to  them.  When  one  of  these  undertakers  has  10  he  had  the  impudence  to  tell  me  it  was  against 
your  business  in  hand,  you  may  be  sick,  absent  the  law.  You  that  are  married,  and  live  one 
in  town  or  country,  and  the  patron  shall  be  day  after  another  the  same  way,  and  so  on 
worried,  or  you  prevail.  I  remember  to  have  the  whole  week,  I  dare  say  will  like  him,  and 
been  shown  a  gentleman  some  years  ago,  who  he  will  be  glad  to  have  his  meat  in  due  season, 
punished  a  whole  people  for  their  facility  in  15  The  fellow  is  certainly  very  honest.  My 
giving  their  credentials.  This  person  had  service  to  your  lady.  Yours, 
belonged  to  a  regiment  which  did  duty  in  the  "J.  T." 

West   Indies,   and,   by  the  mortality  of  the 

place,  happened  to  be  commanding-officer  in  Now  this  was  very  fair  dealing.    Jack  knew 

the  colony.  He  oppressed  his  subjects  with  20  very  well,  that  though  the  love  of  order  made 
great  frankness,  till  he  became  sensible  that  a  man  very  awkward  in  his  equipage,  it  was  a 
he  was  heartily  hated  by  every  man  under  his  valuable  quality  among  the  queer  people  who 
command.  When  he  had  carried  his  point  to  live  by  rule;  and  had  too  much  good  sense  and 
be  thus  detestable,  in  a  pretended  fit  of  dis-  good-nature  to  let  the  fellow  starve,  because 
humour,  and  feigned  uneasiness  of  living  where  25  he  was  not  fit  to  attend  his  vivacities. 
he  found  he  was  so  universally  unacceptable,  I  shall  end  this  discourse  with  a  letter  of 

he  communicated  to  the  chief  inhabitants  a  recommendation  from  Horace  to  Claudius 
design  he  had  to  return  for  England,  provided  Nero.^  You  will  see  in  that  letter  a  slowness 
they  would  give  him  ample  testimonials  of  to  ask  a  favour,  a  strong  reason  for  being  un- 
their  approbation.  The  planters  came  into  30  able  to  deny  his  good  word  any  longer,  and 
it  to  a  man,  and,  in  proportion  to  his  deserving  that  it  is  a  service  to  the  person  to  whom  he 
the  quite  contrary,  the  words  justice,  gener-  recommends,  to  comply  with  what  is  asked: 
osity,  and  courage,  were  inserted  in  his  com-  all  which  are  necessary  circumstances  both 
mission,  n'^t  omitting  the  general  good-liking  in  justice  and  good-breeding,  if  a  man  would 
of  people  of  all  conditions  in  the  colony.  The  35  ask  so  as  to  have  reason  to  complain  of  a  de- 
gentleman  returns  for  England,  and  within  a  nial;  and  indeed  a  man  should  not  in  strictness 
few  months  after  came  back  to  them  their  ask  otherwise.  In  hopes  the  authority  of 
governor,  on  the  strength  of  their  own  testi-  Horace,  who  perfectly  understood  how  to 
monials.  live  with  great  men,  may  have  a  good  effect 

Sych  a  rebuke  as  this  cannot  indeed  happen  40  towards  amending  this  facility  in  people  of 
to  easy  recommenders,  in  the  ordinary  course      condition,   and  the  confidence  of  those  who 
of  things,  from  one  hand  to  another;  but  how      apply  to  them  without  merit,  I  have  translated 
would  a  man  bear  to  have  it  said  to  him,  "The      the  epistle, 
person  I  took  into  confidence  on  the  credit  you 

gave  him,  has  proved  false,  unjust,  and  has  not  45.  '^^  Claudius  nero 

answered  any  way,  the  character  you  gave  me      "Sir, 
of  him?"  "Septimius,  who  waits  upon  you  with  this, 

I  cannot  but  conceive  very  good  hopes  of  is  very  well  acquainted  with  the  place  you  are 
that  rake  Jack  Toper  of  the  Temple,  for  an  pleased  to  allow  me  in  your  friendship.  For 
honest  scrupulousness  in  this  point.  A  friend  50  when  he  beseeches  me  to  recommend  him 
of  his  meeting  with  a  servant  that  had  formerly  to  your  notice,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  be  re- 
lived with  Jack,  and  having  a  mind  to  take  him,  ceived  by  you,  who  are  delicate  in  the  choice 
sent  to  him  to  know  what  faults  the  fellow  had,  of  your  friends  and  domestics,  he  knows  our 
since  he  could  not  please  such  a  careless  fellow  intimacy,  and  understands  my  ability  to  serve 
as  he  was.    His  answer  was  as  follows: —         65  him  better  than  I  do  myself.    I  have  defended 

„-,.  1  Confused  with  drink. 

'  Sir,  2  i.  e.,  telling  him  to  create  a  disturbance,  or  play  some 

"TKr^moa  fViaf    li'irorl    wi*+Vi    TY1P    wfl<3    fiimpH       mad  prank,  that  would  call  out  the  watch;  the  police. 

i  nomas  that    lived    Wltn    me    was    turnea           ^  Tiberius  Claudiua   Nero,  a  step-son  of  Augustus;  ». 

away  because  he  was  too  good  for  me.    You      Hor.,  Evist.,  I,  ix. 


348 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


myself  against  his  ambition  to  be  yours,  as 
long  as  I  possibly  could;  but  fearing  the  impu- 
tation of  hiding  my  power  in  you  out  of  mean 
and  selfish  considerations,  I  am  at  last  pre- 
vailed upon  to  give  you  this  trouble.  Thus  to 
avoid  the  appearance  of  a  greater  fault,  I 
have  put  on  this  confidence.  If  you  can  for- 
give this  transgression  of  modesty  in  behalf  of 
a  friend,  receive  this  gentleman  into  your 
interests  and  friendship,  and  take  it  from  me 
that  he  is  an  honest  and  a  brave  man." 

^tnt^  g>t*  Jloljn,  Wiiitonnt 
Bolmgbrokei 

1678-1751 

FROM   REFLECTIONS  UPON  EXILE 

(1716) 

Dissipation  of  mind,  and  length  of  time,  are 
the  remedies  to  which  the  greatest  part  of 
mankind  trust  in  their  afflictions.  But  the 
first  of  these  works  a  temporary,  the  second 
a  slow,  effect:  and  both  are  unworthy  of  a  wise 
man.  Are  we  to  fly  from  ourselves  that  we 
may  fly  from  our  misfortunes,  and  fondly  to 
imagine  that  the  disease  is  cured,  because  we 
find  means  to  get  some  moments  of  respite 
from  pain?  Or  shall  we  expect  from  time,  the 
physician  of  brutes,  a  Ungering  and  uncertain 
deliverance?  Shall  we  wait  to  be  happy  till 
we  can  forget  that  we  are  miserable,  and  owe 
to  the  weakness  of  our  faculties  a  tranquillity 
which  ought  to  be  the  effect  of  their  strength? 
Far  otherwise.  Let  us  set  all  our  past  and  our 
present  afflictions  at  once  before  our  eyes.  Let 
us  resolve  to  overcome  them,  instead  of  flying 
from  them,  or  wearing  out  the  sense  of  them  by 
long  and  ignominious  patience.  Instead  of 
palliating  remedies,  let  us  use  the  incision- 
knife  and  the  caustic,  search  the  wound  to  the 
bottom,  and  work  an  immediate  and  radical 
cure. 

The  recalling  of  former  misfortunes  serves 
to  fortify  the  mind  against  latter.  He  must 
blush  to  sink  under  the  anguish  of  one  wound, 
who  surveys  a  body  seamed  over  with  the  scars 
of  many,  and  who  has  come  victorious  out  of 
r 

^  Henry  St.  John,  Viscount  Bolingbroke,  wit,  politi- 
cian, and  philosopher,  the  friend  of  Pope,  the  political 
ally  of  Swift,  and  the  political  antagonist  of  Walpole, 
was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  figures  in  the  England  of 
Queen  Anne.  Shortly  before  the  Queen's  death,  he  was 
prominent  in  an  intrigue  to  secure  the  succession  of  the 
Stuarts,  and  after  the  triumph  of  the  house  of  Hanover, 
in  1715,  he  was  compelled  to  take  refuge  in  France.  It 
was  during  this  enforced  residence  abroad,  after  the 
collapse  of  his  political  schemes  that,  endeavoring,  or 
perhaps  affecting  to  console  himself  with  philosophy,  he 
wrote  his  Reflections  Upon  Exile. 


all  the  conflicts  wherein  he  received  them.  Let 
sighs  and  tears,  and  fainting  under  the  lightest 
strokes  of  adverse  fortune,  be  the  portion  of 
those  unhappy  people  whose  tender  minds  a 
5 long  course  of  felicity  has  enervated:  while 
such,  as  have  passed  through  years  of  calamity, 
bear  up,  with  a  noble  and  immovable  con- 
stancy, against  the  heaviest.  Uninterrupted 
misery  has  this  good  effect,  as  it  continually 

10  torments,  it  finally  hardens. 

Such  is  the  language  of  philosophy:  and 
happy  is  the  man  who  acquires  the  right  of 
holding  it.  But  this  right  is  not  to  be  acquired 
by  pathetic  discourse.    Our  conduct  can  alone 

15  give  it  us;  and  therefore,  instead  of  presuming 
on  our  strength,  the  surest  method  is  to  con- 
fess our  weakness,  and,  without  loss  of  time, 
to  apply  ourselves  to  the  study  of  wisdom. 
This  was  the  advice  which  the  oracle  gave  to 

20  Zeno,^  and  there  is  no  other  way  of  securing 
our  tranquillity  amidst  all  the  accidents  to 
which  human  life  is  exposed.  Philosophy  has, 
I  know,  her  Thrasos,^  as  well  as  war:  and  among 
her  sons  many  there  have  been,  who,  while 

25  they  aimed  at  being  more  than  men,  became 
something  less.  The  means  of  preventing  this 
danger  are  easy  and  sure.  It  is  a  good  rule  to 
examine  well  before  we  addict  ourselves  to 
any  sect:  but  I  think  it  is  a  better  rule,  to  ad- 

30  diet  ourselves  to  none.  Let  us  hear  them  all, 
with  a  perfect  indifferency,  on  which  side  the 
truth  lies:  and,  when  we  come  to  determine, 
let  nothing  appear  so  venerable  to  us  as  our 
own  understandings.    Let  us  gratefully  accept 

35  the  help  of  every  one  who  has  endeavoured  to 
correct  the  vices,  and  strengthen  the  minds 
of  men;  but  let  us  choose  for  ourselves,  and 
jdeld  universal  assent  to  none.  Thus,  that  I 
may    instance    the    sect    already    mentioned, 

40  when  we  have  laid  aside  the  wonderful  .and 
surprising  sentences,  and  all  the  paradoxes  of 
the  Portique,^  we  shall  find  in  that  school  such 
doctrines  as  our  unprejudiced  reason  submits 
to  with  pleasure,  as  nature  dictates,  and  as 

45  experience  confirms.  Without  this  precaution, 
we  run  the  risk  of  becoming  imaginary  kings, 

2  A  Greek  stoic  philosopher  of  the  third  century. 
Upon  Zeno's  consulting  the  oracle,  what  course  was 
fittest  for  a  man  to  take  that  intended  to  regulate  and 
50  govern  his  life  after  the  best  manner?  the  Deity  re- 
turned for  answer  that  he  should  keep  consortship  with 
the  dead.  Upon  which  he  fell  to  reading  the  lives  of  the 
ancients.  "Life  of  Zeno,"  in  Diogenes  Laertius'  Lives  of 
the  Philosophers. 

3i.  e.,  her  men  like  Thrasos,  a  blustering,  braggart, 
captain  in  one  of  Terence's  comedies.  Cf.  thrasonical, 
boasting,  vain-glorious. 

*  i.  e.,  the  Portico,  or  the  Porch.  The  school  of  philos- 
ophy founded  by  Zeno  of  Cyprus,  was  called  Stoic, 
from  the  Greek  word  Stoa,  a  porch,  because  Zeno  taught 
in  a  famous  portico  in  Athens,  known  as  the  "Painted 
Porch,"  or  "the  Porch."  Hence  paradoxes  of  the 
Portique  =paradoxe8  of  the  stoics,  or  of  the  philosophers 
of  the  Porch. 


HENRY  ST.  JOHN,  VISCOUNT  BOLINGBROKE  349 

and  real  slaves.    With  it  we  may  learn  to  assert      dained.    But  the  greatest  part  of  their  ordi- 

our  native  freedom,  and  live  independent  on     nances  are  abrogated  by  the  wise. 

fortune.  Rejecting  therefore  the  judgment  of  those 

In  order  to  which  great  end,  it  is  necessary  who  determine  according  to  popular  opinions, 
that  we  stand  watchful,  as  sentinels,  to  dis-  5  or  the  first  appearances  of  things,  let  us  ex- 
cover  the  secret  wiles  and  open  attacks  of  amine  what  exile  really  is.  It  is  then,  a  change 
this  capricious  goddess,  before  they  reach  us.  of  place;  and,  lest  you  should  say  that  I  di- 
Where  she  falls  upon  us  unexpected,  it  is  hard  minish  the  object,  and  conceal  the  most  shock- 
to  resist;  but  those  who  wait  for  her,  will  repel  ing  parts  of  it,  I  add,  that  this  change  of  place 
her  with  ease.  The  sudden  invasion  of  an  lo  is  frequently  accompanied  by  some  or  all  of 
enemy  overthrows  such  as  are  not  on  their  the  following  inconveniences:  by  the  loss  of 
guard;  but  they  who  foresee  the  war,  and  the  estate  which  we  enjoyed,  and  the  rank 
prepare  themselves  for  it  before  it  breaks  out,  which  we  held;  by  the  loss  of  that  considera- 
stand,  without  diflficulty,  the  first  and  the  tion  and  power  which  we  were  in  possession 
fiercest  onset.  I  learned  this  important  lesson  15  of;  by  a  separation  from  our  family  and  our 
long  ago,  and  never  trusted  to  fortune  even  friends;  by  the  contempt  which  we  may  fall 
while  she  seemed  to  be  at  peace  with  me.  The  into;  by  the  ignominy  with  which  those  who 
riches,  the  honours,  the  reputation,  all  the  have  driven  us  abroad,  will  endeavour  to  sully 
advantages  which  her  treacherous  indulgence  the  innocence  of  our  characters,  and  to  justify 
poured  upon  me,  I  placed  so,  that  she  might  20  the  injustice  of  their  own  conduct.  .  .  . 
snatch  them  away  without  giving  me  any  dis-  Banishment,  with  all  its  train  of  evils,  is 
turbance.  I  kept  a  great  interval  between  so  far  from  being  the  cause  of  contempt,  that 
me  and  them.  She  took  them,  but  she  could  he  who  bears  up  with  an  undaunted  spirit 
not  tear  them  from  me.  No  man  suffers  by  against  them,  while  so  many  are  dejected  by 
bad  fortune,  but  he  who  has  been  deceived  25  them,  erects  on  his  very  misfortunes  a  trophy 
by  good.  If  we  grow  fond  of  her  gifts,  fancy  to  his  honour:  for  such  is  the  frame  and  temper 
that  they  belong  to  us,  and  are  perpetually  of  our  minds,  that  nothing  strikes  us  with 
to  remain  with  us,  if  we  lean  upon  them,  and  greater  admiration  than  a  man  intrepid  in  the 
expect  to  be  considered  for  them;  we  shall  midst  of  misfortunes.  Of  all  ignominies  an 
sink  into  all  the  bitterness  of  grief,  as  soon  as  30  ignominious  death  must  be  allowed  to  be  the 
these  false  and  transitory  benefits  pass  away,  greatest;  and  yet  where  is  the  blasphemer  who 
as  soon  as  our  vain  and  childish  minds,  un-  will  presume  to  defame  the  death  of  Socrates? 
fraught  with  solid  pleasures,  become  destitute  This  saint  entered  the  prison  with  the  same 
even  of  those  which  are  imaginary.  But  if  countenance  with  which  he  reduced  thirty 
we  do  not  suffer  ourselves  to  be  transported  35  tyrants,  and  he  took  off  ignominy  from  the 
by  prosperity,  neither  shall  we  be  reduced  by  place:for  how  could  it  be  deemed  a  prison  when 
adversity.  Our  souls  will  be  of  proof  against  Socrates  was  there?  Phocion^  was  led  to  ex- 
the  dangers  of  both  these  states:  and,  having  ecution  in  the  same  city.  All  those  who  met 
explored  our  strength,  we  shall  be  sure  of  it;  the  sad  procession,  cast  their  eyes  to  the  ground, 
for  in  the  midst  of  felicity,  we  shall  have  tried  40  and  with  throbbing  hearts  bewailed,  not  the 
how  we  can  bear  misfortune.  innocent  man,  but  Justice  herself,  who  was  in 

It  is  much  harder  to  examine  and  judge,  him  condemned.  Yet  there  was  a  wretch 
than  to  take  up  opinions  on  trust;  and  there-  found,  for  monsters  are  sometimes  produced 
fore  the  far  greatest  part  of  the  world  borrow,  in  contradiction  to  the  ordinary  rules  of  nature, 
from  others,  those  which  they  entertain  con- 45  who  spit  in  his  face  as  he  passed  along.  Phocion 
cerning  all  the  affairs  of  life  and  death.  Hence  wiped  his  cheek,  smiled,  turned  to  the  magis- 
it  proceeds  that  men  are  so  unanimously  eager  trate,  and  said,  "Admonish  this  man  not  to 
in  the  pursuit  of  things,  which,  far  from  having  be  so  nasty  for  the  future." 
any  inherent  real  good,  are  varnished  over  Ignominy  then  can  take  no  hold  on  virtue; 
with  a  specious  and  deceitful  gloss,  and  contain  50  for  virtue  is  in  every  condition  the  same,  and 
nothing  answerable  to  their  appearances,  challenges  the  same  respect.  We  applaud 
Hence  it  proceeds,  on  the  other  hand,  that,  the  world  when  she  prospers;  and  when  she 
in  those  things  which  are  called  evils,  there  is  falls  into  adversity  we  applaud  her.  Like  the 
nothing  so  hard  and  terrible  as  the  general  cry  temples  of  the  gods,  she  is  venerable  even  m 
of  the  world  threatens.  The  word  exile  comes  55  her  ruins.  After  this  must  it  not  appear  a 
indeed  harsh  to  the  ear,  and  strikes  us  hke  a  ^  ^^  Athenian  statesman  «ind  soldier,  who  helped  to  de- 
melancholy  and  execrable  sound,  through  a  feat  the  Spartans  in  a  sea-fight  ofif  Naxos,  and  who  re- 
,    .  .  ,.1  u^,,^  v^u;+„olKr       Dulsed  on  land  the  army  of  Philip  of  Macedon.    Coming, 

certam  persuasion  which  men  have  habitually       fater,  into  opposition  to  Demosthenes,  he  was  falsely  ac 
concurred    in.      Thus    the    multitude    has    or-       cused  of  treason  and  executed  at  Athens,  B.  C.  317. 


350  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

degree  of  madness  to  defer  one  moment  ac-  pitch  of  nature  and  truth.  A  spirit  of  opposi- 
quiring  the  only  arms  capable  of  defending  tion  to  another  doctrine,  which  grew  into  great 
us  against  attacks  which  at  every  moment  we  vogue  while  Zeno  flourished,  might  occasion 
are  exposed  to?  Our  being  miserable,  or  not  this  excess.  Epicurus^'^  placed  the  sovereign 
miserable,  when  we  fall  into  misfortunes,  5  good  in  pleasure.  His  terms  were  wilfully,  or 
depends  on  the  manner  in  which  we  have  accidentally  mistaken.  His  scholars  might 
enjoyed  prosperity.  If  we  have  applied  our-  help  to  pervert  his  doctrine,  but  rivalship 
selves  betimes  to  the  study  of  wisdom,  and  enflamed  the  dispute;  for  in  truth  there  is  not 
to  the  practice  of  virtue,  these  evils  become  so  much  difference  between  stoicism  reduced 
indifferent;  but  if  we  have  neglected  to  do  so,  10  to  reasonable  intelhgible  terms,  and  genuine 
they  become  necessary.  In  one  case  they  are  orthodox  epicurism,  as  is  imagined.  The 
evils,  in  the  other  they  are  remedies  for  greater  felicis  animi  immoto.  tranquillitas,^^  and  the 
evils  than  themselves.  Zeno^  rejoiced  that  a  voluntas  of  the  latter,  are  near  enough  a-kin: 
shipwreck  had  thrown  him  on  the  Athenian  and  I  much  doubt  whether  the  firmest  hero  of 
coast:  and  he  owed  to  the  loss  of  his  fortune  15  the  Portique  would  have  borne  a  fit  of  the 
the  acquisition  which  he  made  of  virtue,  of  stone,  on  the  principles  of  Zeno,  with  greater 
wisdom,  of  immortality.  There  are  good  and  magnanimity  and  patience  than  Epicurus  did 
bad  airs  for  the  mind,  as  well  as  for  the  body,  on  those  of  his  own  philosophy.  However, 
Prosperity  often  irritates  our  chronical  dis-  Aristotle  took  a  middle  way,  or  explained  him- 
tempers,  and  leaves  no  hopes  of  finding  any  20  self  better,  and  placed  happiness  in  the  joint 
specific  but  in  adversity.  In  such  cases  banish-  advantages  of  the  mind,  of  the  body,  and  of 
^ent  is  like  change  of  air,  and  the  evils  we  fortune.  They  are  reasonably  joined;  but  cer- 
suffer  are  like  rough  i|;iedicines  applied  to  tain  it  is,  that  they  must  not  be  placed  on  an 
inveterate  diseases.  What  Anacharsis'  said  equal  foot.  We  can  much  better  bear  the 
of  the  vine,  may  aptly  enough  be  said  of  pros- 25  privation  of  the  last,  than  of  the  others;  and 
perity.  She  bears  the  three  grapes  of  drunken-  poverty  itself,  which  mankind  is  so  afraid  of, 
ness,  of  pleasure,  and  of  sorrow:  and  happy  it  per  Tnare  pauperism  fugiens,  per  saxa,  per  ignes,^^ 
is  if  the  last  can  cure  the  mischief  which  the  is  surely  preferable  to  madness,  or  the  stone, 
former  work.  When  aflQictions  fail  to  have  though  Chrysippu^^^  thought  it  better  to  live 
their  due  effect,  the  case  is  desperate.  They  30  mad,  than  not  to  live!  If  banishment  there- 
are  the  last  remedy  which  indulgent  Provi-  fore,  by  taking  from  us  the  advantages  of  for- 
dence  uses:  and  if  they  fail,  we  must  languish  tune,  cannot  take  from  us  the  more  valuable 
and  die  in  misery  and  contempt.  Vain  men!  advantages  of  the  mind  and  the  body,  when  we 
how  seldom  do  we  know  what  to  wish  or  to  have  them;  and  if  the  same  accident  is  able  to 
pray  for?  When  we  pray  against  misfortunes,  35  restore  them  to  us,  when  we  have  lost  them, 
and  when  we  fear  them  most,  we  want  them  banishment  is  a  very  slight  misfortune  to  those 
most.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  Pythagoras  who  are  already  under  the  dominion  of  reason, 
forbid  his  disciples  to  ask  anything  in  particular  and  a  very  great  blessing  to  those  who  are 
of  God.  The  shortest  and  the  best  prayer  still  plunged  in  vices  which  ruin  the  health 
which  we  can  address  to  him,  who  knows  our  40  both  of  body  and  mind.  It  is  to  be  wished  for, 
wants,  and  our  ignorance  in  askiiig,^  is  this:  in  favour  of  such  as  these,  and  to  be  feared 
"Thy  will  be  done."  by  none.    If  we  are  in  this  case,  let  us  second 

Tully^  says,  in  some  part  of  his  works,  that  the  designs  of  Providence  in  our  favour,  and 
as  happiness  is  the  object  of  all  philosophy,  make  some  amends  for  neglecting  former 
so  the  disputes  among  philosophers  arise  from  45  opportunities  by  not  letting  slip  the  last.  Si 
their  different  notions  of  the  sovereign  good.  Tiolis  sanvs,  curres  hydropicusM  We  may 
Reconcile  them  in  that  point,  you  reconcile  shorten  the  evils  which  we  might  have  pre- 
them  in  the  rest.  The  school  of  Zeno  placed  vented,  and  as  we  get  the  better  of  our  dis- 
this  sovereign  good  in  naked  virtue,  and  wound 
the  principle  up  to  an  extreme  beyond  the50.."^^»<^"^  1342-270  BC.)  was  the  founder  of  th» 

^  ^  ^  •'  "Epicurean  School     of  philosophy.     His  teachings  were 

,  .  almost  directly  opposed  to  those  of  Zeno   and  other 

\Zeno  of  Cyprus,  the  founder  of  the  Stoic  school  of  Stoic  philosophers. 

philosophy.  ""The    immovable    serenity    of    the    happy    soul." 

7  A  Scythian  philosopher,  who  resided  for  some  time  in  Marcus  Aurelius.  Epictetus.  Seneca,  and  the  other  Stoic 

Athens.     Diogenes  Laertius  reports  him  as  saying  "That  philosophers,  laid  great  stress  on  the  attainment  of  a 


the  vine  bears  three  sorts  of  clusters:  the  first,  of  pleasure,  lofty  tranquility  of  mind,  which  all  earthly  shocks  or 

the  second,  of  debauchery,  and  the  third,  of  discontent  accidents  would  be  powerless  to  disturb. 

and  repentance."                                          _  12  "piying  poverty  through  the  sea,  through  the  rocks, 

8  This  expression  occurs  in  a  prayer  in  the  church  of  through  the  flames." 

England   service:    "Almighty  God,  .  .  .  who    knoweth  '*  A  Stoic  philosopher  who  resided  in  Athens,  and  lived 

our  necessities  before  we  ask,  and  our  ignorance  in  asking,"  about  200  B.  C. 

etc.  1*  "  If  you  are  unwilling  when  well,  you  shall  run  when 

•Cicero,  whose  full  name  was  Marcus  TuUius  Cicfro.  you  are  dropsical." 


HENRY  ST.  JOHN,  VISCOUNT  BOLINGBROKE  351 

orderly  passions,  and  vicious  habits,  we  shall  Rural  amusements,  and  philosophical  medita- 
feel  our  anxiety  diminish  in  proportion.  All  tions,  will  make  your  hours  glide  smoothly 
the  approaches  to  virtue  are  comportable.  on;  and  if  the  indulgence  of  Heaven  has  given 
With  how  much  joy  will  the  man,  who  im-  you  a  friend  like  LcbUus,^^  nothing  is  wanting 
proves  his  misfortunes  in  this  manner,  dis-  5  to  make  you  completely  happy, 
cover  that  those  evils,  which  he  attributed  to  These  are  some  of  those  reflections  which 

his  exile,  sprung  from  his  vanity  and  folly,  may  serve  to  fortify  the  mind  under  banish- 
and  vanish  with  them!  He  will  see  that,  in  ment,  and  under  the  other  misfortunes  of  life, 
his  former  temper  of  mind,  he  resembled  the  which  it  is  every  man's  interest  to  prepare  for, 
effeminate  princess  ^^o  could  drink  no  water  10 because  they  are  common  to  all  men:  I  say, 
but  that  of  the  river  Choaspes;  or  the  simple  they  are  common  to  all  men;  because  even 
queen,  i«  in  qne  of  the  tragedies  of  Euripides,  they  who  escape  them  are  equally  exposed  to 
who  complained  bitterly,  that  she  had  not  them.  The  darts  of  adverse  fortune  are  always 
lighted  the  nuptial  torch,  and  that  the  river  levelled  at  our  heads.  Some  reach  us,  some 
Ismenus  had  not  furnished  the  water  at  her  15  graze  against  us,  and  fly  to  wound  our  neigh- 
son's  wedding.  Seeing  his  former  state  in  this  bours.  Let  us  therefore  impose  an  equal 
ridiculous  light,  he  will  labour  on  with  pleasure  temper  on  our  minds,  and  pay  without  mur- 
to wards  another  as  contrary  as  possible  to  it;  muring  the  tribute  which  we  owe  to  humanity, 
and  when  he  arrives  there,  he  will  be  convinced  The  winter  brings  cold,  and  we  must  freeze, 
by  the  strongest  of  all  proofs,  his  own  experi-  20  The  summer  returns  with  heat,  and  we  must 
ence,  that  he  was  unfortunate  because  he  was  melt.  The  inclemency  of  the  air  disorders  our 
^'^icious,  not  because  he  was  banished.  health,  and  we  must  be  sick.    Here  we  are  ex- 

If  I  was  not  afraid  of  being  thought  to  refine  pgsed  to  wild  beasts,  and  there  to  men  more 
<;oo  much,  I  would  venture  to  put  some  ad-  savage  than  the  beasts;  and  if  we  escape  the 
vantages  of  fortune,  which  are  due  to  exile,  25  inconveniencies  and  dangers  of  the  air  and  the 
into  the  scale  against  those  which  we  lose  by  earth,  there  are  perils  by  water  and  perils  by 
exile.  If  you  are  wise,  your  leisure  will  be  fire.  This  established  course  of  things  it  is 
worthily  employed,  and  your  retreat  will  add  not  in  our  power  to  change;  but  it  is  in  our 
new  lustre  to  your  character.  Imitate  Thucyd-  power  to  assume  such  a  greatness  of  mind  as 
ides  in  Thracia,  or  Xenophon  in  his  little  farm  30  becomes  wise  and  virtuous  men ;  as  may  en- 
at  Scillus.  In  such  a  retreat  you  may  sit  able  us  to  encounter  the  accidents  of  life  with 
down,  like  one  of  the  inhabitants  of  Elis,  who  fortitude,  and  to  conform  ourselves  to  the 
judged  of  the  Olympic  games,  without  taking  order  of  nature,  who  governs  her  great  king- 
any  part  in  them.  Far  from  the  hurry  of  the  dom,  the  world,  by  continual  mutations.  Let 
world,  and  almost  an  unconcerned  spectator  35  us  submit  to  this  order,  let  us  be  persuaded 
of  what  passes  in  it,  having  paid  in  a  public  life  that  whatever  does  happen  ought  to  happen, 
'^hat  you  owed  to  the  present  age,  pay  in  a  and  never  be  so  foolish  as  to  expostulate  with 
private  life  what  you  owe  to  posterity.  Write  nature.  The  best  resolution  we  can  take  is  to 
as  you  live,  without  passion;  and  build  your  suffer  what  we  cannot  alter,  and  to  pursue, 
reputation,  as  you  build  your  happiness,  on  40  without  repining,  the  road  which  Providence, 
the  foundations  of  truth.  If  you  want  the  who  directs  everything,  has  marked  out  to 
talents,  the  inclination,  or  the  necessary  ma-  us:  for  it  is  not  enough  to  follow;  and  he  is 
terials  for  such  a  work,  fall  not  however  into  but  a  bad  soldier  who  sighs,  and  marches 
sloth.  Endeavour  to  copy  after  the  example  on  with  reluctancy.  We  must  receive  the 
of  Scijrio^''  at  Linturnum.  Be  able  to  say  to  45  orders  with  spirit  and  cheerfulness,  and  not 
yourself,  endeavour  to  sink  out  of  the  post  which  is 

assigned   us   in   this  beautiful   disposition  of 
Innocuas  amo  delidas  dodamque  quietem.^^         things,  whereof  even   our  sufferings  make  a 

necessary  part.    Let  us  address  ourselves  to 

»5The  water  of  the  Choaspes  "was  so  pure  that  the  ^q  Qq^j     ^j^q    governs    all,    as    Cleanthes^'^    did    in 
Persian  kings  used  to  carry  it  with  them  in  silver  vessels        , ,  i     •     i  i„    „^„„«„     xTTliioli    oro    oth'tio-    in 

when  on  foreign  expeditions."    The  allusion  in  the  text      those   admirable  verses,  which   are  going  to 

seems  to  have  been  suggested  by  a  passage  in  Plutarch's  Iq^q    part    of    their    grace    and    energy   m    my 

Morals,    in    which,    after   declaring   that   we   should   be  |^    .           «  +v,Qr« 

thankful  for  those  restrictions  which  we  impose  on  our-  translation  01  tnem. 

selves.  Plutarch  adds — "  yet  we  mock  the  Persian  Kings,  •     j  <■     i,-_  *u„  „„^» 

for  that  (if  it  be  true  which  is  reported  of  them)  they  "  Gains  Lcelius,  whose  wisdom  gained  for  him  the  name 

drijik  of  all  the  water  only  of  the  river  Choaspes,"  etc.  of  Sapius,  a  philosopher,  orator,  and  lover  ot  country  iile, 

16  Jocaste,  in  The  Phoenician  Virgins  of  Euripides.  and   a  close   friend  of,  Scipio  Afncanus,   the  younger. 

"  Publius  Cornelius  Scipio,  the  conqueror  of  Hannibal,  Lcelius  is  given  a  prominent  part  in  Uicero  s  dialogue  on 

who  gained  the  name  of  ^/ricanus.     In  spite  of  his  great  Friendship  (De  Amicitia).   ,.     .   ,          ,                       ,_ 

services,  he  lost  the  popular  favor,  and  was  forced  to  ^o  A  Stoic  philosopher;  disciple  and  successor  of  Zeno. 

retire  to  his  country  place  at  Liternum.             .  His  Hymn  to  Jupiter  is  all  that  remains  of  his  numerous 

w  "  I  love  harmless  pleasures  and  learned  quiet."  works. 


352 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


Parent  of  nature!  master  of  the  world! 
Where'er  thy  Providence  directs,  behold 
My  steps  with  cheerful  resignation  turn. 
Fate  leads  the  wiUing,  drags  the  backward  on. 
Why  should  I  grieve,  when  grieving  I  must 

bear? 
Or  take  with  guilt,  what  guiltless  I  might  share? 

Thus  let  us  speak,  and  thus  let  us  act.  Resigna- 
tion to  the  will  of  God  is  true  magnanimity. 
But  the  sure  mark  of  a  pusillanimous  and  base 
spirit,  is  to  struggle  against,  to  censure  the 
order  of  Providence,  and  instead  of  mending 
our  own  conduct,  to  set  up  for  correcting  that 
of  our  Maker. 


THE  FORERUNNERS  OF  THE 
ROMANTIC  SCHOOL 

1679-1718 

A  NIGHT-PIECE  ON  DEATH 

(PubUshed,  1721) 
By  the  blue  taper's  trembhng  light, 
No  more  I  waste  the  wakeful  night, 
Intent  with  endless  view  to  pore 
The  schoolmen  and  the  sages  o'er: 
Their  books  from  wisdom  widely  stray,        5 
Or  point  at  best  the  longest  way. 
I'll  seek  a  readier  path,  and  go 
Where  wisdom's  surely  taught  below. 

How  deep  yon  azure  dyes  the  sky, 

Where  orbs  of  gold  unnumber'd  he,  lo 

While  through  their  ranks  in  silver  pride 

The  nether  crescent  seems  to  glide! 

The  slumbering  breeze  forgets  to  breathe, 

The  lake  is  smooth  and  clear  beneath, 

Where  once  again  the  spangled  show  15 

Descends  to  meet  our  eyes  below. 

The  grounds  which  on  the  right  aspire, 

In  dimness  from  the  view  retire: 

The  left  presents  a  place  of  graves. 

Whose  wall  the  silent  water  laves.  20 

That  steeple  guides  thy  doubtful  sight 

Among  the  livid  gleams  of  night. 

There  pass,  with  melancholy  state. 

By  all  the  solemn  heaps  of  fate. 

And  think,  as  softly-sad  you  tread  25 

Above  the  venerable  dead, 

"Time  was,  like  thee  they  life  possest, 

And  time  shall  be,  that  thou  shalt  rest." 

Those  graves,  with  bending  osier  bound. 

That  nameless  heave  the  crumbled  ground,  30 

Quick  to  the  glancing  thought  disclose. 

Where  toil  and  poverty  repose. 

The  flat  smooth  stones  that  bear  a  name, 

The  chisel's  slender  help  to  fame, 

(Which  ere  our  set  of  friends  decay  35 

Their  frequent  steps  may  wear  away), 

A  middle  race  of  mortals  own, 

Men,  half  ambitious,  all  unknown. 


The  marble  tombs  that  rise  on  high. 

Whose  dead  in  vaulted  arches  lie,  40 

Whose  pillars  swell  with  sculptur'd  stones. 

Arms,  angels,  epitaphs,  and  bones. 

These,  all  the  poor  remains  of  state. 

Adorn  the  rich,  or  praise  the  great; 

Who  while  on  earth  in  fame  they  live,  45 

Are  senseless  of  the  fame  they  give. 

Hah!  while  I  gaze,  pale  Cynthia  fades, 
The  bursting  earth  unveils  the  shades! 
All  slow,  and  wan,  and  wrapp'd  with  shrouds, 
5  They  rise  in  visionary  crowds,  so 

And  all  with  sober  accent  cry, 
"Think,  mortal,  what  it  is  to  die." 

Now  from  yon  black  and  funeral  yew. 

That  bathes  the  charnel-house  with  dew, 

Methinks  I  hear  a  voice  begin;  55 

(Ye  ravens,  cease  your  croaking  din, 

Ye  tolling  clocks,  no  time  resound 

O'er  the  long  lake  and  midnight  ground!) 

It  sends  a  peal  of  hollow  groans, 

Thus  speaking  from  among  the  bones.  60 

"When  men  my  scythe  and  darts  supply. 

How  great  a  king  of  fears  am  I ! 

They  view  me  like  the  last  of  things: 

They  make,  and  then  they  dread,  my  stings. 

Fools!  If  you  less  provok'd  your  fears,  65 

No  more  my  spectre  form  appears. 

Death's  but  a  path  that  must  be  trod, 

If  man  would  ever  pass  to  God; 

A  port  of  calms,  a  state  of  ease 

From  the  rough  rage  of  swelhng  seas.  70 

"Why  then  thy  flowing  sable  stoles, 
Deep  pendant  cypress,  mourning  poles. 
Loose  scarfs  to  fall  athwart  thy  weeds. 
Long  palls,  drawn  hearses,  cover'd  steeds. 
And  plumes  of  black,  that,  as  they  tread,       75 
Nod  o'er  the  scutcheons  of  the  dead? 

"  Nor  can  the  parted  body  know, 

Nor  wants  the  soul,  these  forms  of  woe. 

As  men  who  long  in  prison  dwell. 

With  lamps  that  glimmer  round  the  cell,  80 

Whene'er  their  suffering  years  are  run. 

Spring  forth  to  greet  the  glittering  sun : 

Such  joy,  though  far  transcending  sense. 

Have  pious  souls  at  parting  hence. 

On  earth,  and  in  the  body  plac'd,  85 

A  few  and  evil  years  they  waste; 

But  when  their  chains  are  cast  aside, 

See  the  glad  scene  unfolding  wide, 

Clap  the  glad  wing,  and  tower  away, 

And  mingle  with  the  blaze  of  day."  90 


A  HYMN  TO  CONTENTMENT 

(Published,  1721) 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind! 
Sweet  delight  of  human  kind! 
Heavenly-born,  and  bred  on  high. 
To  crown  the  favorites  of  the  sky 


THOMAS  PARNELL 


353 


With  more  of  happiness  below, 
Than  victors  in  a  triumph  know! 
Whither,  O  whither  art  thou  fled, 
To  lay  thy  meek,  contented  head; 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease! 


10 


Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 

Of  pomp  and  state,  to  meet  thee  there. 

Encreasing  Avarice  would  find 

Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrin'd. 

The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way  15 

Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming  sea, 

To  gain  thy  love;  and  then  perceives 

Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves. 

The  silent  heart,  which  grief  assails, 

Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o'er  the  vales,     20 

Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run. 

And  seeks,  as  I  have  vainly  done. 

Amusing  thought;  but  learns  to  know 

That  solitude's  the  nurse  of  woe. 

No  real  happiness  is  found  25 

In  trailing  purple  o'er  the  ground; 

Or  in  a  soul  exalted  high. 

To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky. 

Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 

All  nature  in  its  forms  below;  30 

The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies, 

And  doubts  at  last,  for  knowledge,  rise. 


Lovely,  lasting  peace,  appear! 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 


35 


'Twas  thus,  as  under  shade  I  stood, 

I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood, 

And  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceiv'd 

The  branches  whisper  as  they  wav'd :         40 

It  seem'd,  as  all  the  quiet  place 

Confess'd  the  presence  of  the  Grace. 

When  thus  she  spoke-"  Go  rule  thy  will, 

Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still, 

Know  God — and  bring  thy  heart  to  know    45 

The  joys  which  from  reUgion  flow: 

Then  every  Grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 

And  I'll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest." 


Oh!  by  yonder  mossy  seat. 

In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat,  50 

Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ. 

With  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy! 

Rais'd  as  ancient  prophets  were. 

In  heavenly  vision,  praise,  and  prayer; 

Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none,  55 

Pleas'd  and  bless'd  with  God  alone: 

Then  while  the  gardens  take  my  sight, 

With  all  the  colours  of  delight; 

While  silver  waters  glide  along. 

To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song;        60 

I'll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string, 

And  thee,  great  source  of  nature,  sing. 


The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way. 
To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day; 
The  moon  that  shines  with  borrow'd  Hght;  05 
The  stars  that  gild  the  gloomy  night; 
The  seas  that  roll  unnumber'd  waves; 
The  wood  that  spreads  its  shady  leaves; 
The  field  whose  ears  conceal  the  grain. 
The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain;  70 

All  of  these,  and  all  I  see. 
Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me: 
They  speak  their  maker  as  they  can, 
But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 

Go  search  among  your  idle  dreams,  73 

Your  busy  or  your  vain  extremes; 
And  find  a  life  of  equal  bliss, 
Or  own  the  next  begun  in  this. 


A  HYMN  FOR   MORNING 

See,  the  star  that  leads  the  day, 

Rising  shoots  a  golden  ray, 

To  make  the  shades  of  darkness  go 

From  Heaven  above  and  earth  below, 

And  warn  us  early  with  the  sight  5 

To  leave  the  beds  of  silent  night, 

From  an  heart  sincere  and  sound, 

From  its  very  deepest  ground. 

Send  devotion  up  on  high, 

Wing'd  with  heat,  to  reach  the  sky.  10 

See  the  time  for  sleep  has  run. 

Rise  before  or  with  the  sun, 

Lift  thine  hands,  and  humble  pray 

The  Fountain  of  eternal  day^ 

That  as  the  light  serenely  fair  15 

Illustrates  all  the  tracts  of  air. 

The  sacred  Spirit  so  may  rest 

With  quickening  beams  upon  thy  breast, 
And  kindly  clean  it  all  within 

From  darker  blemishes  of  sin,  20 

And  shine  with  grace,  until  we  view 

The  realm  it  gilds  with  glory  too. 

See  the  day  that  dawns  in  air. 

Brings  along  its  toil  and  care, 

From  the  lap  of  Night  it  springs  25 

With  heaps  of  business  on  its  wings; 

Prepare  to  meet  them  in  a  mind 

That  bows  submissively  resign'd, 

That  would  to  works  appointed  fall. 

And  knows  that  God  has  order'd  all.  3G 

And  whether  with  a  small  repast 

We  break  the  sober  morning  fast, 

Or  in  our  thoughts  and  houses  lay 

The  future  methods  of  the  day. 

Or  early  walk  abroad  to  meet  36 

Our  business,  with  industrious  feet, 

Whate'er  we  think,  whate'er  we  do, 

His  glory  still  be  kept  in  view. 

O  Giver  of  eternal  bliss! 

Heavenly  Father!  grant  me  this,  40 

Grant  it  all  as  well  as  me. 

All  whose  hearts  are  fix'd  on  Thee, 

Who  revere  thy  Son  above, 

Who  thy  sacred  Spirit  love. 


354 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


1681-1765 

ON  LIFE,  DEATH  AND  IMMORTALITY 

(From    The    Complaint;    or    Night    Thoughts, 
1742-1745) 

Tir'd  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep! 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 
Where  Fortune  smiles;  the  wretched  he  for- 
sakes : 
Swift  on  his  downy  pinion  flies  from  woe, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsully'd  with  a  tear.  ...  5 

Night,  sable  goddess!  from  her  ebon  throne, 
In  rayless  majesty,  now  stretches  forth 
Her  leaden  sceptre  o'er  a  slumb'ring  world. 
Silence,  how  dead!  and  darkness,   how  pro- 
found ! 
Nor  eye,  nor  list'ning  ear,  an  object  finds;        10 
Creation  sleeps.    'Tis  as  the  gen'ral  pulse 
Of  life  stood  still,  and  Nature  made  a  pause; 
An  awful  pause!  prophetic  of  her  end. 
And  let  her  prophecy  be  spon  fulfill'd: 
Fate!  drop  the  curtain;  I  can  lose  no  more.       15 
Silence  and  Darkness!  solemn  sisters!  twins 
P>om   ancient  Night,   who  nurse  the  tender 

thought 
To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve, 
(That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man), 
Assist  me:  I  will  thank  you  in  the  grave;  20 

The  grave,  your  kingdom:  there  this  frame 

shall  fall 
A  victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 
But  what  are  ye? — 

Thou  who  didst  put  to  flight 
Primeval  silence,  when  the  morning  stars,        25 
Exulting,  shouted  o'er  the  rising  ball; 

0  Thou!    whose   word   from   solid   darkness 

struck 
That  spark,  the  sun;  strike  wisdom  from  my 

soul; 
My  soul,  which  flies  to  Thee,  her  trust,  her 

treasure. 
As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest.  30 

Through  this  opaque  of  nature,  and  of  soul, 
This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitying  ray, 
To  lighten  and  to  cheer.  O  lead  my  mind, 
(A  mind  that  fain  would  wander  from  its  woe), 
Lead  it  through  various  scenes  of  life  and 
death;  35 

And  from  each  scene,  the  noblest  truths  in- 
spire. 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct,  than  my  song: 
Teach  my  best  reason,  reason ;  my  best  will 
Teach  rectitude;  and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear;         40 
Nor  let  the  phial  of  thy  veng'ance,  pour'd 
On  this  devoted  head,  be  pour'd  in  vain. 

The  bell  strikes  one.    We  take  no  note  of 
time, 
But  from  its  loss.    To  give  it  then  a  tongue. 
Is  wise  in  man.   As  if  an  angel  spoke,  45 

1  feel  the  solemn  sound.    If  heard  aright, 


It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours: 

Where  are  they;  with  the  years  beyond  the 

flood. 
It  is  the  signal  that  demands  dispatch. 
How  much  is  to  be  done?  my  hopes  and  fears  50 
Start  up  alarm'd,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 
Look  down — on  what?  a  fathomless  abyss; 
A  dread  eternity!  how  surely  mine! 
And  can  eternity  belong  to  me. 
Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour?      55 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august. 

How  complicate,  how  wonderful,  is  man! 

How  passing  wonder  HE,  who  made  him  such! 

Who  center'd  in  our  make  such  strange  ex- 
tremes! 

From  diff 'rent  natures  marvellously  mix'd,      60 

Connexion  exquisite  of  distant  worlds ! 

Distinguish'd  link  in  being's  endless  chain! 

Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity! 

A  beam  ethereal,  sully'd,  and  absorpt! 

Tho'  sully'd  and  dishonour'd,  still  divine!        65 

Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute ! 

An  heir  of  glory!  a  frail  child  of  dust! 

Helpless  immortal!  insect  infinite! 

A  worm!  a  god! — I  tremble  at  myself, 

And  in  myself  am  lost !   At  home  a  stranger,    70 

Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surpriz'd, 
aghast. 

And  wond'ring  at  her  own:  how  reason  reels! 

O  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man ! 

Triumphantly  distress'd!  what  joy,  what 
dread! 

Alternately  transported,  and  alarm'd!  75 

What  can  preserve  my  life?  or  what  destroy? 

An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the 
grave; 

Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there.  .  .  . 

War,  famine,  pest,  volcano,  storm,  and  fire, 
Intestine  broils,  oppression,  with  her  heart      80 
Wrapt  ug^in  triple  brass,  besiege  mankind. 
God's  image,  disinherited  of  day,         a 
Here,   plung'd  in  mines,   forgets  af  sun  was 

made; 
There,  beings  deathless  as  their  haughty  lord, 
Are  hammer'd  to  the  galling  oar  for  life;  85 

And  plough  the  winter's  wave,  and  reap  despair; 
Some,  for  hard  masters,  broken  under  arms, 
In  battle  lopt  away  with  half  their  limbs. 
Beg  bitter  bread  through  realms  their  valour 

sav'd. 
If  so  the  tyrant,  or  his  minion,  doom.  90 

Want,  and  incurable  disease  (fell  pair!) 
On  hopeless  multitudes  remorseless  seize 
At  once,  and  make  a  refuge  of  the  grave. 
How  groaning  hospitals  eject  their  dead! 
What  numbers  groan  for  sad  admission  there!  95 
What  numbers,  once  in  Fortune's  lap  high-fed, 
Solicit  the  cold  hand  of  charity ! 
To  shock  us  more,  solicit  it  in  vain ! 
Ye  silken  sons  of  pleasure!  since  in  pains 
You  rue  more  modish  visits,  visit  here,  lOO 

And  breathe  from  your  debauch:  give,  and  re- 
duce 
Surfeit's  dominion  o'er  you:  but,  so  great 
Your  impudence,  you  blush  at  what  is  right.  >  .  . 


ALLAN  RAMSAY 


355 


By  Nature's  law,  what  may  be,  may  be  now; 
There's  no  prerogative  in  human  hours.  105 

In  human  hearts  what  bolder  thought  can  rise 
Than  man's  presumption  on  to-morrow's  dawn? 
Where  is  to-morrow?    In  another  world. 
For  numbers  this  is  certain;  the  reverse 
Is  sure  to  none :  and  yet  on  this  perhaps,  110 

This  peradventure,  infamous  for  lies, 
As  on  a  rock  of  adament,  we  build 
Our  mountain  hopes;  spin  our  eternal  schemes, 
As  we  the  fatal  sisters  could  out-spin, 
And,  big  with  life's  futurities,  expire.  lis 

Not  ev'n  Philander  had  bespoke  his  shroud. 
Nor  had  he  cause;  a  warning  was  deny'd, 
How  many  fall  as  sudden,  not  as  safe! 
As  sudden,  though  for  years  admonish'd,  home. 
Of  human  ills,  the  last  extreme  beware;  120 

Beware,  Lorenzo!  a  slow  sudden  death. 
How  dreadful  that  deliberate  surprise! 
Be  wise  to-day,  'tis  madness  to  defer; 
Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead; 
Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  push'd  out  of  life.        125 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time; 
Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled. 
And  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 
If  not  so  frequent,  would  not  this  be  strange?  130 
That  'tis  so  frequent,  this  is  stranger  still. 


Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes,  this  bears 
The  palm,  "That  all  men  are  about  to  live," 
For  ever  on  the  brink  of  being  born. 
All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think  135 
They,  one  day,  shall  not  drivel;  and  their  pride 
On  this  reversion  takes  up  ready  praise; 
At  least,   their  own,  their  future  selves  ap- 
plauds. 
How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead! 
Time  lodg'd  in  their  own  hands  is  Folly's 
vails;  140 

That  lodg'd  in  Fate's,  to  wisdom  they  consign; 
The  thing  they  can't  but  purpose,  they  post- 
pone; 
'Tis  not  in  Folly,  not  to  scorn  a  fool; 
And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 
All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man,  145 

And  that  thro'  every  stage;  when  young,  in- 
deed, 
In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 
Unanxious  for  ourselves ;  and  only  wish 
As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were  more  wise: 
At  thirty,  man  suspects  himself  a  fool ;  150 

Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan; 
At  fifty,  chides  his  infamous  delay. 
Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve; 
In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought 
Resolves,  and  re-resolves;  then  dies  the  same. 

And  why?  because  he  thinks  himself  im- 
mortal. 156 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal,  but  themselves; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  Fate 
Strikes    through    their    wounded   hearts    the 
sudden  dread: 


But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded 
air,  160 

Soon  close;  where  pass'd  the  shaft,  no  trace  is 
found. 

As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains; 

The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel; 

So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death. 

Ev'n  with  the  tender  tear  which  Nature  sheds 

O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave.  166 


George  Berlkele^ 

1685-1753 

VERSES  ON  THE  PROSPECT  OF  PLANT- 
ING ARTS  AND  LEARNING  IN  AMERICA 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime. 

Barren  of  every  glorious  theme. 
In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time, 

Producing  subjects  worthy  fame: 

In  happy  climes,  where  from  the  genial  sun       5 
And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue. 

The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone. 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true: 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 

Where  nature  guides,  and  virtue  rules,  10 

Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools: 


There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age. 
The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts, 

The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage. 
The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 


15 


Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay; 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 

By  future  poets  shall  be  sung.  20 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way; 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day; 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 


aUan  Hamsfa^ 

1686-1758 

AN  ODE  TO  PH— 1 

(1721) 

Look  up  to  Pentland's  tow'ring  top. 
Buried  beneath  great  wreaths  of  snaw, 

O'er  ilka  cleugh,^  ilk  scar,^  and  slap,^ 
As  high  as  any  Roman  wa'.^ 

1  Evidently  a  reminiscence  of  Horace,  Odes,  Book  I,  C 
»  Gorge,  or  ravine.  '  ^rn 

*  A  narrow  pass  between  mils.  *  W  all. 


356 


DRYDEN   TO   THE   DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


DriviDg  their  baws^  frae  whins'  or  tee,  5 

There's  no  nae  gowfers^  to  be  seen, 

Nor  douffer  fowk  wysing  a-jee^ 

The  byast  bouls^^  on  Tamson's  green. 

Then  fling  on  coals,  and  ripe  the  ribs,^^ 

And  beek^^  i\^q  house  baith  but  and  ben;    10 

That  mutchkin^^  stoup  it  hands  but  dribs, ^^ 
Then  let's  get  in  the  tappit  hen.^^ 

Good  claret  best  keeps  out  the  cauld, 
And  drives  away  the  winter  soon; 

It  makes  a  man  baith  gash^^  and  bauld,         15 
And  heaves  his  saul  beyond  the  moon.  .  .  . 

Be  sure  ye  dinna  quat^'  the  grip 

Of  ilka  joy  when  ye  are  young. 
Before  auld  age  your  vitals  nip. 

And  lay  ye  twafold  o'er  a  rung.^^  20 

SONG  "MY  PEGGY  IS  A  YOUNG  THING" 

(From  The  Gentle  Shepherd,  1725) 

My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing, 
Just  enter'd  in  her  teens, 
Fair  as  the  day  and  sweet  as  May, 
Fair  as  the  day  and  always  gay. 

My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing,  5 

And  I'm  nae  very  auld. 
Yet  well  I  like  to  meet  her  at 
The  wauking  of  the  fauld.^ 


My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly, 
Whene'er  we  meet  alane, 
I  wish  nae  mair  to  lay  my  care, — 
I  wish  nae  mair  o'  a'  that's  rare. 
My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly,    ^ 

To  a'  the  lave^  I'm  cauld. 
But  she  gars^  a'  my  spirits  glow, 
At  wauking  o'  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly. 

Whene'er  I  whisper  love. 

That  I  look  down  on  a'  the  town, — 

That  I  look  down  upon  a  crown. 

My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly. 

It  makes  me  blithe  and  bauld. 
And  naething  gies  me  sic  delyte. 
As  wauking  o'  the  fauld. 


10 


15 


20 


25 


My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly. 
When  on  my  pipe  I  play. 
By  a'  the  rest  it  is  confest, — 
By  a'  the  rest  that  she  sings  best. 
My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly. 

And  in  her  sangs  are  tauld,  30 

Wi'  innocence,  the  wale*  o'  sense. 
At  wauking  o'  the  fauld. 

«  Balls.  7  Furze  bushes.  8  Golfers. 

»  More  sober  or  sedate  folk,  directing  or  sending  to  one 
side. 

*<>  The  bowls  or  balls,  used  in  the  game  of  bowling. 

J'  Poke  the  grate. 

12  Warm  the  house,  both  outer  and  inner  room. 

"  Pint.  1*  Drops.       **  Quart  measure. 

"  Sagacious.  "  Quit.  ^^  Doubled  over  a  staff. 

1  Watching  of  the  fold.  ^  The  rest,  the  others. 

'  Makes.  *  Pick,  i.  e.  the  best. 


William  §)omert)ilU 

1692-1742 

FIELD-SPORTS 

(From  The  Chase,  Pub.  1742) 

'Tis  instinct  that  directs  the  jealous  hare 
To  choose  her  soft  abode:  With  step  revers'd 
She  forms  the  doubling  maze:  then,  ere  the 

morn 
Peeps  through  the  clouds,  leaps  to  her  close 
recess. 
As    wandering   shepherds    on    th'    Arabian 
plains  5 

No  settled  residence  observe,  but  shift 
Their  moving  camp,  now  on  some  cooler  hill 
With    cedars    crown'd,    court    the    refreshing 

breeze; 
And  then,  below,  where  trickling  streams  distil 
From    some    penurious    source,    their    thirst 
allay,  10 

And  feed  their  fainting  flocks:  so  the  wise  hares 
Oft  quit  their  seats,  lest  some  more  curious  eye 
Should  mark  their  haunts,  and  by  dark  treach- 
erous wiles, 
Plot  their  destruction;  or  perchance  in  hopes 
Of  plenteous  forage,  near  the  ranker  mead,  1 5 
Or  matted  blade,  wary  and  close  they  sit. 
When  spring  shines  forth,  season  of  love  and 

joy, 

In  the  moist  marsh,  'mong  beds  of  rushes  hid. 
They  cool  their  boiling  blood:  When  summer 

suns 
Bake  the  cleft  earth,  to  thick  wide  waving 

fields  20 

Of  corn  fuU  grown  they  lead  their  helpless 

young: 
But  when  autumnal  torrents  and  fierce  rains 
Deluge  the  vale,  in  the  dry  crumbling  bank 
Their  forms  they  delve,  and  cautiously  avoid 
The  dripping  covert:  Yet  when  winter's  cold   25 
Their  limbs  benumbs,  thither  with  speed  re- 

turn'd 
In  the  long  grass  they  skulk,  or  shrinking  creep 
Among  the  wither'd  leaves;  thus  changing  still, 
As  fancy  prompts  them,  or  as  food  invites. 
But  every  season  carefully  observ'd,  30 

Th'  inconstant  winds,  the  fickle  element. 
The  wise  experienc'd  huntsman  soon  may  find 
His  subtle,  various  game,  nor  waste  in  vain 
His  tedious  hours,  till  his  impatient  hounds. 
With   disappointment   vex'd,    each   springing 

lark  35 

Babbling  pursue,  far  scatter'd  o'er  the  fields. 

Now  golden  Autumn  from  her  open  lap 
Her  fragrant  bounties  showers;  the  fields  are 

shorn; 
Inwardly  smiling,  the  proud  farmer  views 
The  rising  pyramids  that  grace  his  yard,  40 

And  counts  his  large  increase;  his  barns  are 

stor'd 
And  groaning  staddles^  bend  beneath  their  load. 
All  now  is  free  as  air,  and  the  gay  pack 
In  the  rough  bristly  stubbles  range  unblam'd; 

1  Props. 


JOHN  DYER 


357 


No  widow's  tears  o'erflow,  no  secret  curse  45 
Swells  in  the  farmer's  breast,  which  his  pale  lips 
Trembling  conceal,  by  his  fierce  landlord  aw'd: 
But  courteous  now  he  levels  every  fence, 
Joins  in  the  common  cry,  and  halloos  loud, 
Charm'd  with  the  rattling  thunder  of  the 
field.  50 

Oh  bear  me,  some  kind  power  invisible! 
To  that  extended  lawn,  where  the  gay  court 
View  the  swift  racers,  stretching  to  the  goal; 
Games  more  renown'd,  and  a  far  nobler  train, 
Than  proud  Elean  fields^  could  boast  of  old.     55 
Oh!  were  a  Theban  lyre  not  wanting  here, 
And  Pindar's  voice,  to  do  their  merit  right ! 
Or  to  those  spacious  plains,  where  the  strain'd 

eye 
In  the  wide  prospect  lost,  beholds  at  last 
Sarum's^  proud  spire,  that  o'er  the  hills  as- 
cends, 60 
And  pierces  through  the  clouds.     Or  to  thy 

downs, 
Fair  Cotswold,  where  the  well-breath'd  beagle 

climbs 
With  matchless  speed,  thy  green  aspiring  brow. 
And  leaves  the  lagging  multitude  behind. 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  AUTHOR'S  ELBOW 
CHAIR   NEW-CLOTHED 

My  dear  companion,  and  my  faithful  friend! 

If  Orpheus  taught  the  hstening  oaks  to  bend; 

If  stones  and  rubbish,  at  Amphion's  call, 

Danc'd  into  form,  and  built  the  Theban  wall; 

Why  shouldst  not  thou  attend  my  humble 
lays,  5 

And  hear  my  grateful  harp  resound  thy  praise? 
True,  thou  art  spruce  and  fine,  a  very  beau; 

But  what  are  trappings  and  external  show? 

To  real  worth  alone  I  make  my  court, 

Knaves  are  my  scorn,  and  coxcombs  are  my 
sport.  10 

6nce  I  beheld  thee  far  less  trim  and  gay; 

Ragged,    disjointed,    and   to   worms   a   prey; 

The  safe  retreat  of  every  lurking  mouse; 

Derided,  shunn'd;  the  lumber  of  my  house! 

Thy  robe  how  chang'd  from  what  it  was  be- 
fore! 15 

Thy  velvet  robe,  which  pleas'd  my  sires  of  yore! 

'Tis  thus  capricious  fortune  wheels  iis  round; 

Aloft  we  mount— then  tumble  to  the  ground. 

Yet  grateful  then,  my  constancy  I  prov'd ; 

I  knew  thy  worth ;  my  friend  in  rags  I  lov'd ;     20 

I  lov'd  thee  more;  nor  like  a  courtier,  spurn'd 

My  benefactor,  when  the  tide  was  turn'd. 

with  conscious  shame,  yet  frankly,  I  confess. 

That  in  my  youthful  days— I  lov'd  thee  less. 

Wliere  vanity,  where  pleasure  call'd,  I  stray'd; 

And  every  wayward  appetite  obey'd.  26 

But  sage  experience  taught  me  how  to  prize 

Myself;  and  how,  this  world;  she  bade  me  rise 

To  nobler  flights  regardless  of  a  race 

Of  factious  emmets ;  pointed  where  to  place     30 

2  The  Olympic  games  were  held  on  a  site  which  hat! 
belonged  to  the  Eleans,  the  inhabitants  of  Elis,  Greece. 

a  The  old  name  for  Salisbury;  its  "spire"  is  one  of  the 
beauties  of  Salisbury  Cathedral. 


My  bliss,  and  lodg'd  me  in  thy  soft  embrace. 

Here  on  thy  yielding  down  I  sit  secure; 
And,  patiently,  what  Heaven  has  sent  endure; 
From  all  the  futile  cares  of  business  free; 
Not  fond  of  life,  but  yet  content  to  be:  35 

Here  mark  the  fleeting  hours;  regret  the  past; 
And  seriously  prepare  to  meet  the  last. 

So  safe  on  shore  the  pension'd  sailor  lies; 
And  all  the  malice  of  the  storm  defies: 
With  ease  of  body  blest,  and  peace  of  mind, 
Pi  ti  es  the  restless  crew  he  lef  t  behind ;  41 

Whilst,  in  his  cell,  he  meditates  alone 
On  his  great  voyage,  to  the  world  unknown. 

0.  1698-1758 
GRONGAR  HILLi 

(1727) 
Silent  Nymph,  with  curious  eye! 
Who,  the  purple  ev'ning,  lie 
On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 
Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man, 
Painting  fair  the  form  of  things,  5 

While  the  yellow  linnet  sings. 
Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 
Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale; 
Come,  with  all  thy  various  dues, 
Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse;  10 

Now  while  Phoebus,  riding  high, 
Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky, 
Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song; 
Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong; 
Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells,  15 

Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells; 
Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade, 
For  the  modest  Muses  made, 
So  oft  I  have,  the  ev'ning  still, 
At  the  fountain  of  a  rill  20 

Sat  upon  a  flow'ry  bed. 
With  my  hand  beneath  my  head. 
While  stray'd  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood, 
Over  mead  and  over  wood. 
From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill,        25 
Till  Contemplation  had  her  fill. 

About  his  chequer'd  sides  I  wind. 
And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind. 
And  groves  and  grottoes  where  I  lay, 
And  vistoes  shooting  beams  of  day.  30 

Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale. 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal: 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate! 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height. 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies,     35 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise: 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads; 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still, 
And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill.  40 

Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow, 
What  a  landscape  lies  below! 
No  clouds,  no  vapours  intervene; 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene, 

1  Dyer  was  born  at  the  foot  of  Grongar  Hill,  Canaar- 
thensbire,  South  Wales. 


358 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


Does  the  face  of  Nature  show,  45 

In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow, 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 
Proudly  tow'ring  in  the  skies;  60 

Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires; 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads. 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks,  55 

And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumber'd  rise. 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes; 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable-yew,  60 

The  slender  fir,  that  taper  grows. 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs, 
And  beyond  the  purple  grove. 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love! 
Gaudy  as  the  op'ning  dawn,  65 

Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wand'ring  eye: 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood. 
His  sides  are  cloth'd  with  waving  wood,     70 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow. 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps. 
And  with  her  arms  from  falHng  keeps; 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind  75 

On  mutual  dependence  find. 
'Tis  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode; 
'Tis  now  th'  apartment  of  the  toad; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds, 
And  there  the  pois'nous  adder  breeds,         80 
Conceal'd  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds ;^ 
While,  ever  and  anon,  there  falls 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary  moulder'd  walls. 
Yet  Time  has  seen,  that  hfts  the  low, 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow,  85 

Has  seen  this  broken  pile  compleat, 
Big  with  the  vanity  of  state: 
But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate! 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day,  90 

Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers  how  they  run 
Thro'  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun! 
Sometimes  swift  and  sometimes  slow,         95 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep. 
Like  human  hfe,  to  endless  sleep: 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought. 
To  instruct  our  wand'ring  thought;  100 

Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay. 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new, 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view! 
The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow,  105 

The  woody  valleys  warm  and  low; 
The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high. 
Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky! 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruin'd  tow'r, 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bow'r;  no 


The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm, 
Each  gives  each  a  double  charm. 
As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain's  southern  side, 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide,  115 

Where  the  ev'ning  gilds  the  tide. 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie! 
What  streaks  of  meadows  cross  the  eye! 
A  step,  methinks,  may  pass  the  stream. 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem;  120 

So  we  mistake  the  future's  face, 
Ey'd  through  Hope's  deluding  glass; 
As  yon  summits  soft  and  fair, 
Clad  in  colours  of  the  air, 
Which,  to  those  who  journey  near,  125 

Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear. 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way; 
The  present's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

O  may  I  with  myself  agree. 
And  never  covet  what  I  see;  130 

Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 
My  passions  tam'd,  my  wishes  laid; 
For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll. 
We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul; 
'Tis  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air,  135 

And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  ev'n  now,  my  joys  run  high. 
As  on  the  mountain-turf  I  lie; 
While  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings. 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings;  140 

While  the  waters  murmur  deep; 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly. 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky. 
Now,  ev'n  now,  my  joys  run  high.  145 

Be  full,  ye  courts;  be  great  who  will; 
Search  for  peace  with  all  your  skill; 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor. 
In  vain  you  search,  she  is  not  there;  150 

In  vain  ye  search  the  domes  of  care! 
Grass  and  flowers  quiet  treads. 
On  the  meads  and  mountain-heads,      t^ 
Along  with  pleasure,  close  ally'd. 
Ever  by  each  other's  side;  155 

And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill. 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still. 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 


AN  EPISTLE 

TO   A   FRIEND   IN   TOWN 

Have  my  friends  in  the  town,  in  the  gay  busy 
town. 

Forgot  such  a  man  as  John  Dyer? 
Or  heedless  despise  they,  or  pity  the  clown. 

Whose  bosom  no  pageantries  fire?  4 

No  matter,  no  matter — content  in  the  shades —    \ 
(Contented! — why  everything  charms  me) 

Fall  in  tunes  all  adown  the  great  steep,  ye 
cascades! 
Till  hence  rigid  virtue  alarms  me: 


JOHN  DYER 


369 


Till  outrage  arises,  or  misery  needs 
The  swift,  the  intrepid  avenger; 

Till  sacred  rehgion  or  liberty  bleeds. 
Then  mine  be  the  deed  and  the  danger. 


10 


Alas!  what  a  folly,  that  wealth  and  domain 

We  heap  up  in  sin  and  in  sorrow! 
Immense  is  the  toi,l,  yet  the  labour  how  vain !  15 

Is  not  life  to  be  over  to-morrow? 

Then  glide  on  my  moments,  the  few  that  I  have, 
Smooth-shaded,  and  quiet,  and  even. 

While  gently  the  body  descends  to  the  grave, 
And  the  spirit  arises  to  heaven.  20 

THE  FLEECE 

(1757) 

(Selections,  from  Book  I) 

Ah!  gentle  Shepherd!  thine  the  lot  to  tend, 
Of  all  that  feel  distress,  the  most  assail'd, 
Feeble,  defenceless:  lenient  be  thy  care; 
But  spread  around  thy  tend'rest  diligence 
In  flow'ry  spring-time,  when  the  new-dropp'd 

lamb,  5 

Tott'ring  with  weakness  by  his  mother's  side, 
"7eels  the  fresh  world  about  him;  and  each 

thorn. 
Hillock,  or  furrow,  trips  his  feeble  feet: 
O !  guard  his  meek  sweet  innocence  from  all 
Th'  innumerous  ills  that  rush  around  his  life;  10 
Mark  the  quick  kite,  with  beak  and  talons 

prone. 
Circling  the  skies  to  snatch  him  from  the  plain; 
Observe  the  lurking  crows;  beware  the  brake. 
There  the  sly  fox  the  careless  minute  waits; 
Nor  trust  thy  neighbour's  dog,  nor  earth,  nor 

sky:  15 

Thy  bosom  to  a  thousand  cares  divide. 
Eurus  oft  slings  his  hail;  the  tardy  fields 
Pay  not  their  promis'd  food;  and  oft  the  dam 
O'er  her  weak  twins  with  empty  udder  mourns, 
Or  fails  to  guard  when  the  bold  bird  of  prey      20 
Ahghts,  and  hops  in  many  turns  around. 
And  tires  her,  also  turning:  to  her  aid 
Be  nimble,  and  the  weakest,  in  thine  arms. 
Gently  convey  to  the  warm  cot,  and  oft. 
Between  the  lark's  note  and  the  nightingale's, 25 
His  hungry  bleating  still  with  tepid  milk : 
In  this  soft  office  may  thy  children  join, 
And  charitable  habits  learn  in  sport  :^ 
Nor  yield  him  to  himself  ere  vernal  airs 
Sprinkle  thy  Uttle  croft  with  daisy  flowers :      30 
Nor  yet  forget  him;  life  has  rising  ills: 
Various  as  ether  is  the  past'ral  care: 
Thro'  slow  experience,  by  a  patient  breast, 
The  whole  long  lesson  gradual  is  attain'd, 
By  precept  after  precept,  oft  receiv'd  35 

With  deep  attention;  such  as  Nuceus^  sings 
To  the  full  vale  near  Soar's^  enamour'd  brook, 
While  all  is  silence:  sweet  Hinclean  swain! 
Whom  rude  obscurity  severely  clasps: 

1  Mr.  Joseph  Nutt,  an  apothecary  at  Hinckley.    Lat. 
nuceus,  of  a  nut  tree. 

2  A  river  in  Leicestershire. 


The  Muse,  howe'er,  will  deck  thy  simple  cell   40 
With  purple  violets  and  primrose  flowers, 
Well-pleas'd  thy  faithful  lessons  to  repay.  .  .  . 

Could  I  recall  those  notes  which  once  the 

Muse 
Heard  at  a  shearing  near  the  woody  sides 
Of    Blue-topp'd    Wreakin!^    Yet    the    carols 

sweet  45 

Thro'  the  deep  maze  of  the  memorial  cell 
Faintly  remurmur.    First  arose  in  song 
Hoar-headed  Damon,  venerable  swain! 
The  soothest  shepherd  of  the  flow'ry  vale, 
* '  This  is  no  vulgar  scene ;  no  palace  roof  50 

Was  e'er  so  lofty,  nor  so  nobly  rise 
Their  polish'd  pillars  as  these  aged  oaks, 
Which  o'er  our  Fleecy  wealth  and  harmless 

sports 
Thus    have   expanded    wide    their    shelt'ring 

arms, 
Thrice    told    an    hundred    summers.      Sweet 

Content,  55 

Ye  geutle  shepherds!  pillow  us  at  night." 

''Yes,  tuneful  Damon,  for  our  cares  are  short, 
Rising  and  falling  with  the  cheerful  day," 
Colin  reply 'd;  "and  pleasing  weariness 
Soon  our  unacjiing  heads  to  sleep  inclines.        60 
Is  it  in  cities  so?  where,  poets  tell. 
The  cries  of  Sorrow  sadden  all  the  streets, 
And  the  diseases  of  intemp'rate  wealth. 
Alas!  that  any  ills  from  wealth  should  rise! 
"May    the    sweet    nightingale    on    yonder 

spray,  65 

May  this  clear  stream,  these  lawns,  those  snow- 
white  lambs, 
Which,  with  a  pretty  innocence  of  look. 
Skip  on  the  green,  and  race  in  little  troops; 
May  that  great  lamp  which  sinks  behind  the 

hills. 
And  streams  around  variety  of  lights,  70 

Recall  them  erring!  this  is  Damon's  wish." 
"Huge    Bredon's  *    stony    summit   once    I 

climb'd 
After  a  kidling:  Damon,  what  a  scene! 
What  various  views  unnumber'd  spread  be- 
neath ! 
Woods,  tow'rs,  vales,  caves,  dells,  cliffs,  and 

torrent  floods,  75 

And  here  and  there,  between  the  spiry  rocks, 
The  broad  flat  sea.    Far  nobler  prospects  these 
Than    gardens   black   with   smoke  in   dusty 

towns. 
Where  stenchy  vapours  often  blot  the  sun: 
Yet,  flying  from  his  quiet,  thither  crowds         80 
Each  greedy  wretch  for  tardy-rising  wealth, 
Which  comes  too  late;  that  courts  the  taste  in 

vain, 
Or  nauseates  with  distempers.   Yes,  ye  Rich ! 
Still,  still  be  rich,  if  thus  ye  fashion  life; 
And  piping,  careless,  silly  shepherds  we,  85 

We  silly  shepherds,  all  intent  to  feed 
Our  snowy  flocks,  and  wind  the  silky  Fleece!" 
"Deem  not,  however,  our  occupation  mean," 
Damon  reply'd,  "while  the  Supreme  accounts 

»  A  high  hill  in  Shropshire. 

*  A  hill  on  the  borders  of  Montgomeryshire. 


360 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


Well  of  the  faithful  shepherd,  rank'd  alike        90 
With  king  and  priest:  they  also  shepherds  are; 
For  so  th'  all-Seeing  styles  them,  to  remind 
Elated  man,  forgetful  of  his  charge." 

TO  AURELIA 

See,  the  flowery  Spring  is  blown, 

Let  us  leave  the  smoky  Town: 

From  the  Mall,  and  from  the  Ring,^ 

Every  one  has  taken  wing; 

Cloe,  Strephon,  Corydon,  5 

To  the  meadows  all  are  gone; 

What  is  left  you  worth  your  stay? 

Come,  Aurelia,  come  away. 

Come,  Aurelia,  come  and  see 

What  a  lodge  I've  dress'd  for  thee,  10 

But  the  seat  you  cannot  see, 

'Tis  so  hid  with  jessamy, 

With  the  vine  that  o'er  the  walls, 

And  in  every  window,  crawls; 

Let  us  there  be  blithe  and  gay!  15 

Come,  AureUa,  come  away. 

Come  with  all  thy  sweetest  wiles, 

With  thy  graces  and  thy  smiles; 

Come,  and  we  will  merry  be, 

Who  shall  be  so  blest  as  we?  20 

We  will  frolic  all  the  day. 

Haste,  Aurelia,  while  we  may: 

Ay!  and  should  not  life  be  gay? 

Yes,  Aurelia,  come  away. 

blames?  tCljom^on 

1700-1748 

SPRING 

(1728) 

(From  The  Seasons) 

Come,  gentle  Spring,  etherial  mildness,  come. 
And  from  the  bosom  of  yon  dropping  cloud. 
While  music  wakes  around,  veil'd  in  a  shower 
Of  shadowing  roses,  on  our  plains  descend.  .  .  . 
And  see  where  surly  Winter  passes  off,  1 1 

Far  to  the  north,  and  calls  his  ruffian  blasts: 
His  blasts  obey,  and  quit  the  howling  hill. 
The  shatter'd  forest,  and  the  ravag'd  vale; 
While  softer  gales  succeed,  at  whose  kind  touch. 
Dissolving  snows  in  livid  torrents  lost,  16 

The  mountains  lift  their  green  heads  to  the  sky. 
As  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirm'd. 
And  Winter  oft  at  eve  resumes  the  breeze, 
Chills  the  pale  morn,  and  bids  his  driving  sleets 
Deform  the  day  delightless ;  so  that  scarce       2 1 
The  bittern  knows  his  time,  with  bill  engulf'd 
To  shake  the  sounding  marsh;  or  from  the  shore 
The  plovers  when  to  scatter  o'er  the  heath. 
And  sing  their  wild  notes  to   the  listening 
waste.  25 

1  The  Mall,  a  shady  walk  in  St.  James's  Park,  and  the 
Ring,  in  Hyde  Park,  London,  were  places  of  fashionable 
resort. 


At  last  from  Aries ^  rolls  the  bounteous  Sun. 
And  the  bright  BulP  receives  him.    Then  no 

more 
Th'   expansive  atmosphere   is   cramp'd   with 

cold; 
But,  full  of  life  and  vivifying  soul, 
Lifts  the  light  clouds  sublime,  and  spreads  them 

thin,  i  30 

Fleecy  and  white,  o'er  all-surrounding  heaven. 
Forth  fly  the  tepid  airs;  and  unconfin'd. 
Unbinding  earth,  the  moving  softness  strays. 
Joyous,  the  impatient  husbandman  perceives 
Relenting  Nature,  and  his  lusty  steers  35 

Drives  from  their  stalls,  to  where  the  well-us'd 

plough 
Lies  in  the  furrow,  loosen'd  from  the  frost. 
There,  unrefusing,  to  the  harness'd  yoke 
They  lend  their  shoulder,  and  begin  their  toil, 
Cheer'd  by  the  simple  song  and  soaring  lark.  40 
Meanwhile  incumbent  o'er  the  shining  share 
The  master  leans,  removes  th'  obstructing  clay, 
Winds  the  whole  work,  and  sidelong  lays  the 

glebe. 
While  thro'  the  neighb'ring  fields  the  sower 

stalks, 
With  measur'd  step;  and  liberal  throws  the 

grain  45 

Into  the  faithful  bosom  of  the  ground : 
The  harrow  follows  harsh,  and  shuts  the  scene. 
Be  gracious.  Heaven!  for  now  laborious  Man 
Has  done  his  part.    Ye  fostering  l^eezes,  blow! 
Ye  softening  dews,  ye  tender  showers,  descend! 
And  temper  all,  thou  world-reviving  sun,         51 
Into  the  perfect  year!    Nor  ye  who  live 
In  luxury  and  ease,  in  pomp  and  pride. 
Think  these  lost  themes  unworthy  of  your  ear: 
Such  themes  as  these  the  rural  Maro^  sung       55 
To  wide  imperial  Rome,  in  the  full  height 
Of  elegance  and  taste,  by  Greece  refin'd. 
In  ancient  times,  the  sacred  plough  employ'd 
The  kings  and  awful  fathers  of  mankind : 
And  some,  with  whom  compar'd  your  insect- 
tribes  60 
Are  but  the  beings  of  a  summer's  day, 
Have  held  the  scale  of  empire,  rul'd  the  storm 
Of  mighty  war;  then,  with  victorious  hand, 
Disdaining  little  delicacies,  seiz'd 
The  plough,  and  greatly  independent,  scorn'd  65 
All  the  vile  stores  Corruption  can  bestow. 

Ye  generous  Britons,  venerate  the  plough; 
And  o'er  your  hills,  and  long-withdrawing  vales, 
Let  Autumn  spread  his  treasures  to  the  sun, 
Luxuriant  and  unbounded :  as  the  Sea,  70 

Far  thro'  his  azure  turbulent  domain. 
Your  empire  owns,  and  from  a  thousand  shores 
Wafts  all  the  pomp  of  life  into  your  ports; 
So  with  superior  boon  may  your  rich  soil, 
Exuberant,  Nature's  better  blessings  pour       75 
O'er  every  land,  the  naked  nations  clothe. 
And  be  th'  exhaustless  granary  of  a  world!  .  .  . 
From  the  moist  meadow  to  the  wither'd  hill, 
Led  by  the  breeze,  the  vivid  verdure  runs        88 

1-2  Aries,  the  Ram,  is  the  first  of  the  Zodiac  Signs,  and 
Taurus,  the  Bull,  the  second.  The  date  the  poet  indi- 
cates is  the  latter  part  of  April. 

*  Vergil,  whose  full  name  was  Publius  Vergilius  Maro. 


JAMES  THOMSON 


361 


And  swells,  and  deepens,  to  the  cherish'd  eye. 
The  hawthorn  whitens;  and  the  juicy  groves    90 
Put  forth  their  buds,  unfolding  by  degrees, 
Till  the  whole  leafy  forest  stands  display'd, 
In  full  luxuriance  to  the  sighing  gales; 
Where  the  deer  rustle  through  the  twining 

brake, 
And  the  birds  sing  conceal'd.    At  once  array'd  95 
In  all  the  colours  of  the  flushing  year, 
By  Nature's  swift  and  secret-working  hand. 
The  garden  glows,  and  fills  the  liberal  air 
With  lavish  fragrance;  while  the  promis'd  fruit 
Lies  yet  a  little  embryo,  unperceiv'd,  100 

Within  its  crimson  fold.    Now  from  the  tow|i. 
Buried    in    smoke,    and    sleep,    and    noisome 

damps. 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  dewy  fields. 
Where  freshness  breathes,  and  dash  the  trem- 
bling drops 
From  the  bent  bush,  as  thro'  the  verdant  maze 
Of  sweet-briar  hedges  I  pursue  my  walk ;        1 06 
Or  taste  the  smell  of  dairy,  or  ascend 
Some  eminence,  Augusta,^  in  thy  plains. 
And  see  the  country,  far  diffused  around, 
One   boundless   blush,    one   white   empurpled 
shower  no 

Of  mingled  blossoms;  where  the  raptur'd  eye 
Hurries  from  joy  to  joy,  and,  hid  beneath 
The  fair  profusion,  yellow  Autumn  spies. 


SUMMER 

(1727) 
From  brightening  fields  of  ether  fair  disclos'd. 
Child  of  the  Sun,  refulgent  Summer  comes. 
In  pride  of  youth,  and  felt  through  Nature's 

depth: 
He  comes  attended  by  the  sultry  Hours, 
And  ever-fanning  breezes,  on  his  way;  5 

While,  from  his  ardent  look,  the  turning  Spring, 
Averts  her  blushful  face;  and  earth,  and  skies. 
All-smiling,  to  his  hot  dominion  leaves. 

Hence,  let  me  haste  into  the  mid- wood  shade, 
Where  scarce  a  sunbeam  wanders  thro'   the 
gloom;  10 

And  on  the  dark-green  grass,  beside  the  brink 
Of  haunted  stream,  that  by  the  roots  of  oak 
Rolls  o'er  the  rocky  channel,  lie  at  large. 
And  sing  the  glories  of  the  circling  year.  ...  14 

Now   swarms   the   village   o'er   the   joyful 
mead:  352 

The  rustic  youth,  brown  with  meridian  toil. 
Healthful  and  strong;  full  as  the  sumnaer  rose 
Blown  by  prevailing  suns,  the  ruddy  maid,     355 
Half  naked,  swelling  on  the  sight,  and  all 
Her  kindled  graces  burning  o'er  her  cheek. 
E'en  stooping  age  is  here;  and  infant  hands 
Trail  the  long  rake,  or,  with  the  fragrant  load 
O'ercharg'd,  amid  the  kind  oppression  roll.     360 
Wide  flies  the  tedded  grain ;i  all  in  a  row 
Advancing  broad,  or  wheeling  round  the  field. 


*  London.     (See   Dryden's  Mac-Flecknoe,  p. 
-  ■        ■  the 


275,  and 

n.  7).  in  Thomson's  time  many  elevations  on  the  outskirts 
of  London  afforded  a  good  view  of  the  fields. 
>i.  e.,  grain  which  is  spread  to  dry. 


They  spread  their  breathing  harvest  to  the  sun, 
That  throws  refreshful  round  a  rural  smell. 
Or,  as  they  take  the  green-appearing  ground,365 
And  drive  the  dusky  wave  along  the  mead. 
The  russet  hay-cock  rises  thick  behind. 
In  order  gay :  While,  heard  from  dale  to  dale, 
Waking  the  breeze,  resounds  the  blended  voice 
Of  happy  labour,  love,  and  social  glee.  370 

Or  rushing  thence,  in  one  diffusive  band. 
They  drive  the  troubled  flocks,  by  many  a  dog 
Compell'd,  to  where  the  mazy-running  brook 
Forms  a  deep  pool:  this  bank  abrupt  and  high. 
And  that  fair  spreading  in  a  pebbled  shore.  375 
Urg'd  to  the  giddy  brink,  much  is  the  toil. 
The  clamour  much,  of  men,  and  boys,  and 

dogs, 
Ere  the  soft  fearful  people  to  the  flood 
Commit  their  woolly  sides.    And  oft  the  swain. 
On  some  impatient  seizing,  hurls  them  in:      380 
Embolden 'd  then,  nor  hesitating  more. 
Fast,  fast,  they  plunge  amid  the  flashing  wave. 
And,  panting,  labour  to  the  farther  shore. 
Repeated  this,  till  deep  the  well-wash'd  fleece 
Has  drunk  the  flood,  and  from  his  lively  haunt 
The  trout  is  banish'd  by  the  sordid  stream ;    386 
Heavy,  and  dripping  to  the  breezy  brow 
Slow  move  the  harmless  race;  where,  as  they 

spread 
Their  swelling  treasures  to  the  sunny  ray. 
Inly  disturb'd,  and  wond'ring  what  this  wild  390 
Outrageous   tumult   means,    their   loud   com- 
plaints 
The  country  fill;  and,  tost  from  rock  to  rock, 
Incessant  bleatings  run  around  the  hills. 
At  last,  of  snowy  white,  the  gather'd  flocks 
Are  in  the  wattled  pen  innumerous  press'd,     395 
Head  above  head:  and,  rang'd  in  lusty  rows. 
The  shepherds  sit,   and   whet   the  sounding 

shears. 
The  housewife  waits  to  roll  her  fleecy  stores. 
With  all  her  gay-drest  maids  attending  round. 
One,  chief,  in  gracious  dignity  enthron'd,       400 
Shines  o'er  the  rest,  the  pastoral  queen,  and 

rays 
Her  smiles,  sweet  beaming,  on  her  shepherd 

king; 
While  the  glad  circle  round  them  yield  their 

souls 
To  festive  mirth,  and  wit  that  knows  no  gall. 


AUTUMN 

(1730) 

Crown'd  with  the  sickle  and  the  wheaten  sheaf, 
While  Autumn,  nodding  o'er  the  yellow  plain. 
Comes  jovial  on;  the  Doric  reed^  once  more, 
Well  pleas'd,  I  tune.     Whate'er  the  Wintry 

frost  , 

Nitrous  prepar'd,  the  various-blossom  d  Spring 
Put  in  white  promise  forth;  and  Summer's 

suns  .     6 

Concocted  strong;  rush  boundless  now  to  view, 
Full,    perfect    all,    and    swell    my    glorious 

theme.  ...  8 

1  The  pipe,  or  oaten  reed,  of  the  poet. 


362 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


But  see,  the  fading  many-colour'd  woods,  949 
Shade  deepening  over  shade,  the  country  round 
Imbrown;    a    crowded    umbrage,    dusk,    and 

dun, 
Of  every  hue,  from  wan  declining  green 
To  sooty  dark.    These  now  the  lonesome  Muse, 
Low-whispering,   lead    into   their  leaf-strown 

walks, 
And  give  the  season  in  its  latest  view.  955 

Meantime,  light  shadowing  all,  a  sober  calm 
Fleeces  unbounded  ether  ;2  whose  least  wave 
Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn 
The  gentle  current;  while,  illumin'd  wide, 
The  dewy-skirted  clouds  imbibe  the  sun,        960 
And  thro'  their  lucid  veil  his  soften'd  force 
Shed  o'er  the  peaceful  world.     Then  is  the 

time, 
For  those  whom  Wisdom  and  whom  Nature 

charm, 
To  steal  themselves  from  the  degenerate  crowd, 
And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things ;       965 
To   tread  low- though  ted  Vice  beneath  their 

feet; 
To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace, 
And  woo  lone  Quiet  in  her  silent  walks. 

Thus  solitary,  and  in  pensive  guise. 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  russet  mead,  970 

And  thro'  the  sadden'd  grove,  where  scarce  is 

heard 
One  dying  strain,  to  cheer  the  woodman's  toil. 
Haply  some  widow'd  songster  pours  his  plaint, 
Far,  in  faint  warblings,  thro'  the  tawny  copse; 
While  congregated  thrushes,  linnets,  larks,  975 
And  each  wild  throat,  whose  artless  strains  so 

late 
Swell'd  all  the  music  of  the  swarming  shades, 
Robb'd  of  their  tuneful  souls,  now  shivering 

sit 
On  the  dead  tree,  a  dull  despondent  flock; 
With  not  a  brightness  waving  o'er  their  plumes, 
And  nought  save  chattering  discord  in  their 

note.  981 

Oh,  let  not,  aim'd  from  some  inhuman  eye. 
The  gun  the  music  of  the  coming  year 
Destroy;  and  harmless,  unsuspecting  harm, 
Lay  the  weak  tribes  a  miserable  prey,  985 

In  mingled  murder,  fluttering  on  the  ground! 

The  pale  descending  year,  yet  pleasing  still, 
A  gentler  mood  inspires;  for  now  the  leaf 
Incessant  rustles  from  the  mournful  grove; 
Oft  startling  such  as,  studious,  walk  below,     990 
And  slowly  circles  thro'  the  waving  air. 
But  should  a  quicker  breeze  amid  the  boughs 
Sob,  o'er  the  sky  the  leafy  deluge  streams; 
Till  chok'd,  and  matted  with  the  dreary  shower, 
The  forest-walks,  at  every  rising  gale,  995 

Roll   wide   the   wither'd   waste,    and   whistle 

bleak. 
Fled  is  the  blasted  verdure  of  the  fields: 
And,  shrunk  into  their  beds,  the  flowery  race 
Their  sunny  robes  resign.    Even  what  remain'd 
Of  stronger  fruits  fall  from  the  naked  tree;   looo 
And  woods,  fields,  gardens,  orchards,  all  around 
The  desolated  prospect  thrills  the  soul. 

2  The  calm  spreads  over  the  atmosphere  as  sofi  as  a 
fleece  of  wool. 


WINTER 

(1726) 

See,  Winter  comes,  to  rule  the  varied  year, 
Sullen  and  sad,  with  all  his  rising  train — 
Vapours,  and  clouds,  and  storms.    Be  these  my 

theme; 
These,  that  exalt  the  soul  to  solemn  thought. 
And    heavenly    musing.      Welcome,    kindred 
glooms!  5 

Congenial  horrors,  hail!     With  frequent  foot, 
Pleas'd  have  I,  in  my  cheerful  morn  of  life. 
When  nurs'd  by  careless  Solitude  I  liv'd. 
And  sung  of  Nature  with  unceasing  joy, — 
Pleas'd  have  I  wander'd  through  your  rough 
domain;  lo 

Trod  the  pure  virgin-snows,  myself  as  pure; 
Heard  the  winds  roar,  and  the  big  torrent  burst; 
Or  seen  the  deep-fermenting  tempest  brew'd, 
In  the  grim  evening  sky.     Thus  pass'd  the 

time, 
Till  through  the  lucid  chambers  of  the  South 
Look'd  out  the  joyous  Spring,  look'd  out,  and 
smil'd.  ...  16 

The  keener  tempests  conie:  and  fuming^  dun 
From  all  the  livid  East,  or  piercing  North,      224 
Thick  clouds  ascend;  in  whose  capacious  womb 
A  vapoury  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congeal'd. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along, 
And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gather'd  storm. 
Thro'  the  hush'd  air  the  whitening  shower  de- 
scends, 
At  first  thin-wavering;  till  at  last  the  flakes    230 
Fall  broad  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the 

day 
With  a  continual  flow.    The  cherish'd  fields 
Put  on  their  winter-robe  of  purest  white. 
'Tis  brightness  all;  save  where  the  new  snow 

melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.   Low  the  woods       235 
Bow  their  hoar  head;  and,  ere  the  languid  Sun 
Faint  from  the  West  emits  his  evening  ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep-hid,  and  chill, 
Is  one  wild  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  Man.    Drooping,  the  labourer-o:^ 
Stands  cover'd  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  de- 
mands 24^ 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.   The  fowls  of  heaven, 
Tam'd  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.    One  alone,  245 
The  red-breast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  th'  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.    Half  afraid,  he  first             250 
Against  the  window  beats;  then,  brisk,  alights 
On  .the  warm  hearth;  then,  hopping  o'er  the 

floor. 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance. 
And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  be  is: 
Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs  25« 
Attract  his  slender  feet.   The  foodless  wilds 
Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.    The  haire 
Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 
*  The  dark  colored  clouds  fume  or  swirl  from  the  Bastc 


JAMES  THOMSON 


363 


By  death  in  various  forms — dark  snares,  and 

dogs, 
And  more  unpitying  men — the  garden  seeks,260 
Urg'd  on  by  fearless  want.    The  bleating  kind 
Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next  the  glistening 

earth, 
With  looks  of  dumb  despair;  then,  sad-dispers'd 
Dig   for   the   wither'd   herb   thro'    heaps   of 

snow.  ...  264 

Ah !  little  think  the  gay  licentious  proud,  322 
Whom  pleasure,  pow'r,  and  affluence  surround; 
They  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in   giddy 

mirth 
And  wanton,  often  cruel,  riot  waste; —  325 

Ah!  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along. 
How  many  feel,  this  very  moment,  death 
And  all  the  sad  variety  of  pain. 
How  many  sink  in  the  devouring  flood, 
Or  more  devouring  flame;  how  many  bleed,    330 
By  shameful  variance  betwixt  man  and  man: 
How  many  pine  in  want  and  dungeon  glooms. 
Shut  from  the  common  air,  and  common  use 
Of  their  own   limbs:   How  many  drink  the 

cup 
Of  baleful  grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread  335 

Of  misery:  sore  pierc'd  by  wintry  winds, 
How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty:  how  many  shake 
With  all  the  fiercer  tortures  of  the  mind, — 
Unbounded  passion,  madness,  guilt,  remorse; 
Whence  tumbled  headlong  from  the  height  of 

life,  341 

They  furnish  matter  for  the  tragic  Muse: 
Ev'n  in  the  vale  where  wisdom  loves  to  dwell, 
With  Friendship,   Peace,  and  Contemplation 

join'd. 
How  many,  rack'd  with  honest  passions,  droop 
In  deep-retir'd  distress:  how  many  stand        346 
Around  the  death-bed  of  their  dearest  friends. 
And  point  the  parting  anguish.    Thought  fond 

man 
Of  these,  and  all  the  thousand  nameless  ills. 
That  one  incessant  struggle  render  life,  350 

One  scene  of  toil,  of  suff'ring,  and  of  fate; 
Vice  in  his  high  career  would  stand  appall'd. 
And  heedless  rambling  Impulse  learn  to  think; 
The  conscious  heart  of  Charity  would  warm, 
And  her  wide  wish  Benevolence  dilate;  355 

The  social  tear  would  rise,  the  social  sigh; 
And  into  clear  perfection,  gradual  bliss. 
Refining  still,  the  social  passions  work. 
And  here  can  I  forget  the  generous  band,^ 
Who,    touch'd    with    human    woe,    redressive 

search'd  360 

Into  the  horrors  of  the  gloomy  jail? 
Unpitied  and  unheard,  where  misery  moans; 
Where  Sickness  pines;  where  Thirst  and  Hun- 
ger burn, 
And  poor  Misfortune  feels  the  lash  of  Vice. 
While  in  the  land  of  liberty— the  land  365 

Whose  every  street  and  public  meeting  glow 
With  open  freedom— little  tyrants  rag'd; 

2  A  Parliamentary  Committee,  appointed  at  the 
instance  of  Oglethorpe  to  investigate  the  condition  of  the 
Fleet  and  Marshalaea  prisons,  1729. 


Snatch'd  the  lean  morsel  from  the  starving 

mouth; 
Tore  from  cold  wintry  limbs  the  tatter'd  weed; 
Even  robb'd  them  of  the  last  of  comforts, 

sleep;  370 

The  free-born  Briton  to  the  dungeon  chain'd, 
Or,  as  the  lust  of  cruelty  prevail'd. 
At  pleasure  mark'd  him  with  inglorious  stripes; 
And  crush'd  out  lives,   by  secret  barbarous 

ways. 
That  for  their  country  would  have  toil'd,  or 

bled.  375 

Oh  great  design!  if  executed  well, 
With  patient  care  and  wisdom-temper'd  zeal. 
Ye  sons  of  mercy!  yet  resume  the  search; 
Drag  forth  the  legal  monsters  into  light. 
Wrench  from  their  hands  Oppression's  iron 

rod,  380 

And  bid  the  cruel  feel  the  pangs  they  give. 
Much  still  untouched  remains;  in  this  rank 

age. 
Much  is  the  patriot's  weeding  hand  requir'd. 
The  toils  of  law, — what  dark  insidious  men 
Have  cumbrous  added,  to  perplex  the  truth,  385 
And  lengthen  simple  justice  into  trade, — 
How  glorious  were  the  day  that  saw  these 

broke. 
And  every  man  within  the  reach  of  right! 


RULE  BRITANNIA 

(1740) 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command 

Arose  from  out  the%azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  her  land. 

And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain: 
Rule,  Britannia!  Britannia  rules  the  waves  I    5 

Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 
Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall, 

While  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all.  10 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise,  \ 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame;  XI 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 

Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame. 
And  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shme;         20 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine! 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair; 
Blest  Isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crown  d      21 

And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair:— 
Rule,  Britannia!  Britannia  rules  the  wavtsi 

Britons  never  shall  be  slavesi 


364 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


THE  CiVSTLE  OF  INDOLENCE 

(1748) 

(Selections) 

The  castle  hight^  of  indolence, 

And  its  false  luxury; 
Where  for  a  Utile  time,  alas! 

We  liv'd  right  jollily. 


O  mortal  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil, 

Do  not  complain  of  this  thy  hard  estate; 

That  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moil, 

Is  a  sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date; 

And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great;  5 

For,  though  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep 

and  wail. 
And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge  and 

late, 
Withouten  that  would  come  an  heavier  bale, 
Loose  Ufe,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale. 

II 
In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side,  lo 

With  woody  hill  o'er  hill  encompass'd  round, 
A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide. 
Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere 

found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground; 
And  there  a  season  atween  June  and  May,  15 
Half  prankt  with  spring,  with  summer  half 

imbrown'd, 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth  to  say, 
No  living  wight  could  work,  ne  cared  even  for 

play. 

Ill 
Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest: 
Sleep-soothing    groves,     and    quiet    lawns 

between;  20 

And  flowery  beds  that  slumbrous  influence 

kest,2 
From  poppies  breath'd;  and  beds  of  pleasant 

green, 
Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 
Meantime,  unnumber'd  glittering  streamlets 

play'd. 
And  hurled  everywhere  their  waters  sheen  ;25 
That,  as  they  bicker'd  through  the  sunny 

glade, 
Though    restless    still    themselves,    a    lulling 

murmur'  made. 


Join'd  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills. 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  vale. 
And  flocks  loud-bleating  from  the  distant 
^  h|Us>  30 

Aud  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale: 
And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would  wail 
Or  stock-doves  plain  amid  the  forest  deep. 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale; 
And  still  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep ;      35 
1  et  all  these  sounds  yblent  inclined  all  to  sleep. 

» Called.  s  q^^^ 


Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood; 
Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  was 

to  move. 

As  Idless  fancy'd  in  her  dreaming  mood:  40 
And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  aye  waving  to  and  fro. 
Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the  blood; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out,  below. 
The  murmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely 
heard,  to  flow.  45 

VI 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-nead  it  was, 

Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut 

eye; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass. 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer-sky: 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly50 
Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast, 
And  the  calm  pleasures  always  hover'd  nigh; 
But  whate'er  smack'd  of  noyance,  or  unrest, 
Was  far,  far  off  expell'd  from  this  delicious  nest. 


VII 

The  landscape  such,  inspiring  perfect  ease,  55 
Where  Indolence  (for  so  the  wizard  hight) 
Close-hid  his  castle  mid  embowering  trees. 
That  half  shut  out  the  beams  of  Phoebus 

bright, 
And  made  a  kind  of  checker'd  day  and  night; 
Meanwhile,  unceasing  at  the  massy  gate,  60 
Beneath  a  spacious  palm,  the  wicked  wight 
Was  plac'd;  and  to  his  lute,  of  cruel  fate. 
And  labour  harsh,  complain'd,  lamenting  man's 
estate. 

VIII 

Thither  continual  pilgrims  crowded  still. 
From  all  the  roads  of  earth  that  pass  there 
by:  05 

For,  as  they  chanc'd  to  breathe  on  neigh- 
bouring hill. 
The  freshness  of  this  valley  smote  their  eye. 
And  drew  them  ever  and  anon  more  nigh; 
'Till   cluster'ng   round   th'    enchanter  false 

they  hung, 
Ymolten  with  his  syren  melody;  70 

While  o'er  th'  enfeebling  lute  his  hand  he 
flung, 
And  to  the  trembling  chords  these  tempting 
verses  sung: 

IX 

"Behold!  ye  pilgrims  of  this  earth,  behold! 
See  all  but  man  with  unearn'd  pleasure  gay- 
See  her  bright  robes  the  butterfly  unfold,  75 
Broke  from  her  wintry  tomb  in  prime  of  May! 
What  youthful  bride  can  equal  her  array?  \ 

Who  can  with  her  for  easy  pleasure  vie?  ^ 

From  mead  to  mead  with  gentle  wing  to     ' 

stray. 
From  flower  to  flower  on  balm}'^  gales  to  fly,  so 
Is  all  she  has  to  do  beneath  the  radiant  sky. 


JAMES  THOMSON 


365 


"Behold  the  merry  minstrels  of  the  mom, 
The  swarming  songsters  of  the  careless  grove, 
Ten  thousand  throats!  that,  from  the  flower- 
ing thorn. 
Hymn  their  good  God,  and  carol  sweet  of 
love;  85 

Such  grateful  kindly  raptures  them  emove: 
They  neither  plough,  nor  sow;  ne,  fit  for 

flail. 
E'er  to  the  barn  the  nodding  sheaves  they 

drove; 
Yet  theirs  each  harvest  dancing  in  the  gale, 
Whatever  crowns  the  hill,  or  smiles  along  the 
vale.  90 


XI 

"Outcast  of  nature,  man!  the  wretched  thrall 
Of  bitter-dropping  sweat,  of  sweltry  pain, 
Of  cares  that  eat  away  thy  heart  with  gall, 
And  of  the  vices,  an  inhuman  train. 
That  all  proceed  from  savage  thirst  of  gain:  95 
For  when  hard-hearted  Interest  first  began 
To  poison  earth,  Astrcea  left  the  plain; 
Guile,  violence,  and  murder  seiz'd  on  man, 
And,  for  soft  milky  streams,  with  blood  the 
rivers  ran. 


"Come,  ye,  who  still  the  cumbrous  load  of 
life  100 

Push  hard  up  hill;  but,  as  the  farthest  steep 
You  trust  to  gain,  and  put  an  end  to  strife, 
Down  thunders  back  the  stone  with  mighty 

sweep. 
And  hurls  your  labours  to  the  valley  deep. 
For  ever  vain:  come,  and  withouten  fee  105 
I  in  obUvion  will  your  sorrows  steep, 
Your  cares,  your  toils,  will  steep  you  in  a  sea 
Of  full  delight:  O  come,  ye  weary  wights,  to 
me! 


xm 
"With  me,  you  need  not  rise  at  early  dawn, 
To  pass  the  joyless  day  in  various  stounds;' 
Or,  louting  low,  on  upstart  fortune  fawn,     ill 
And  sell  fair  honour  for  some  paltry  pounds; 
Or  through  the  city  take  your  dirty  rounds. 
To  cheat,  and  dun.  and  lie,  and  visit  pay; 
Now    flattering    base,    now    giving    secret 
wounds;  115 

Or  prowl  in  courts  of  law  for  human  prey. 
In  venal  senate  thieve,  or  rob  on  broad  high- 
way. 

XIV 

"No  cocks,  with  me,  to  rustic  labour  call. 
From  village  on  to  village  sounding  clear; 
To   tardy    swain   no   shrill-voic'd   matrons 
squall;  120 

No  dogs,  no  babes,  no  wives,  to  stun  your  ear; 
No  hammers  thump;  no  horrid  blacksmith 


»  Troubles,  efforts. 


Ne  noisy  tradesman  your  sweet  slumbers 

start. 
With  sounds  that  are  a  misery  to  hear: 
But  all  is  calm,  as  would  delight  the  heart  125 
Of  Sybarite'^  of  old,  all  nature,  and  all  art.  .  .  . 


XIX 

*  *  O  grievous  folly !  to  heap  up  estate,  1 63 

Losing  the  days  you  see  beneath  the  sun; 

When,  sudden,  comes  blind  unrelenting  fate, 

And  gives  th'  untasted  portion  you  have 
won  itj6 

With  ruthless  toil,  and  many  a  wretch  un- 
done 

To  those  who  mock  you,  gone  to  Pluto's 
reign. 

There  with  sad  ghosts  to  pine,  and  shadows 
dun: 

But  sure  it  is  of  vanities  most  vain,  170 

To  toil  for  what  you  here  untoiling  may  ob- 
tain." 

XX 

He  ceas'd.     But  still  their  trembling  ears 

retain'd 
The  deep  vibrations  of  his  witching  song : 
That,  by  a  kind  of  magic  power,  constrain'd 
To  enter  in,  pell-mell,  the  listening  throng. 
Heaps  pour'd  on  heaps,  and  yet  they  slipt 

along,  177 

In  silent  ease:  as  when  beneath  the  beam 

Of  summer-moons,  the  distant  woods  among, 

Or  by  some  flood  all  silver'd  with  the  gleam. 

The  soft-embodied  Fays  through  airy  portal 

stream. 

XXI 

By  the  smooth  demon  so  it  order'd  was,  182 
And  here  his  baneful  bounty  first  began: 
Though  some  there  were  who  would  not 

further  pass. 
And  his  alluring  baits  suspected  han .  ^  185 

The  wise  distrust  the  too  fair-spoken  man. 
Yet  through  the  gate  they  cast  a  wishful  eye 
Not  to  move  on,  perdie,^  is  all  they  can; 
For  do  their  very  best  they  cannot  fly,        189 
But  often  each  way  look,  and  often  sorely  sigh. 

XXII 

When  this  the  watchful  wizard  saw. 

With  sudden  spring  he  leaped  upon  them 

straight; 
And  soon  as  touch'd  by  his  unhallow  d  paw. 
They  found  themselves  within  the  cursed 

gate;  195 

Full  hard  to  be  repass'd,  like  that  of  fate. 
Not  stronger  were  of  old  the  giant-crew, 
Who  sought  to  pull  high  Jove  from  regal 

state ; 
Though  feeble  wretch  he  seem'd,  of  sallow 

hue:  200 

Certes,  who  bides  his  grasp,  will  that  encounter 


*  Inhabitants  of  Sybaris,  a  Greek  city  in  southern  Italy, 
were  proverbial  for  their  luxurious  living. 

*Have.  •  « Truly. 


366 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


XXVI 

Mean  time  the  master-porter  wide  displayed 

Great  store  of  caps,  of  slippers,  and  of  gowns; 

Wherewith  he  those  who  enter'd  in,  ar- 
ray'd  231 

Loose,  as  the  breeze  that  plays  along  the 
downs, 

And  waves  the  summer-woods  when  evening 
frowns. 

0  fair  undress,  best  dress!  it  checks  no  vein, 
But  every  flowing  limb  in  pleasure  drowns, 
And  heightens  ease  with  grace.    This  done, 

right  fain,  236 

Sir  porter  set  him  down,  and  turned  to  sleep 
again.  .  .  . 

XXVIII 

This  rite  performed,  all  inly  pleas'd  and  still, 
Withouten  tromp,^  was  proclamation  made. 
"Ye  sons  of  INDOLENCE,  do  what  you 

will;  258 

"And  wander  where  you  list,  thro'  hall  or 

glade! 
"Be  no  man's  pleasure  for  another  staid; 
"Let  each  as  likes  him  best  his  hours  employ, 
"And  curs'd  be  he  who  minds  his  neighbour's 

trade! 
"Here  dwells  kind  ease  and  unreproving  joy: 
"He  little  merits  bliss  who  others  can  annoy." 

XXIX 

Straight  of  these  endless  numbers,  swarming 
round,  265 

As  thick  as  idle  motes  in  sunny  ray. 
Not  one  eftsoons  in  view  was  to  be  found. 
But  every  man  stroU'd  off  his  own  glad  way. 
Wide  o'er  this  ample  court's  blank  area, 
With  all  the  lodges  that  thereto  pertain'd,  270 
No  living  creature  could  be  seen  to  stray; 
While  solitude,  and  perfect  silence  reign'd: 
So  that  to  think  you  dreamt  you  almost  was 
constrain'd. 

XXX 

As  when  a  shepherd  of  the  Hebrid  Isles, 
Plac'd  far  amid  the  melancholy  main,         275 
(Whether  it  be  lone  fancy  him  beguiles; 
Or  that  aerial  beings  sometimes  deign 
To  stand,  embodied,  to  our  senses  plain) 
Sees  on  the  naked  hill,  or  valley  low, 
The  whilst  in  ocean  Phoebus  dips  his  wain, 
A  vast  assembly  moving  to  and  fro :  281 

Then  all  at  once  in  air  dissolves  the  wondrous 
show. 

XXXI 

Ye  gods  of  quiet,  and  of  sleep  profound! 
Whose  soft  dominion  o'er  this  castle  sways. 
And  all  the  widely-silent  places  round,        285 
Forgive  me,  if  my  trembling  pen  displays 
What  never  yet  was  sung  in  mortal  lays. 
But  how  shaU  I  attempt  such  arduous  string, 

1  who  have  spent  my  nights,  and  nightly 
days,  289 

In  this  soul-deadening  place,  loose-loitering? 
Ah!  how  shall  I  for  this  uprear  my  moulted 
wing? 

^  Trump,  trumpet. 


Come  on,  my  muse,  nor  stoop  to  low  despair. 
Thou  imp  of  Jove,  touch'd  by  celestial  fire! 
Which  yet  shall  sing  of  war,  and  actions 
fair,  294 

Which  the  bold  sons  of  Britain  will  inspire; 
Of  ancient  bards  thou  yet  shalt  sweep  the  lyre; 
Thou  yet  shall  tread  in  tragic  pall  the  stage. 
Paint  love's  enchanting  woes,  the  hero's  ire. 
The  sage's  calm,  the  patriot's  noble  rage,  299 
I)ashing  corruption  down  through  every  worth- 


AGE  OF  JOHNSON 
g>amuri  31ot)n0on 

1709-1784 
LONDON:   A  POEM 

(1738) 

IN  IMITATION  OF  THE  THIRD  SATIRE 
OF  JUVENAL 

— Quis  iniquae 
Tarn  patiens  urbis,   tarn  ferreus  ut  teneat  sef 

Juv.  1.  30,  1. 
(Who  so  patient  of  the  unjust  town,  so  unfeeling 
as  to  restrain  himself?) 

Though  grief  and  fondness  in  my  breast  rebel. 
When  injured  Thales^  bids  the  town  farewell. 
Yet  still  my  calmer  thoughts  his  choice  com- 
mend, 
(I  praise  the  hermit,  but  regret  the  friend,) 
Who  now  resolves,  from  vice  and  London  far,    5 
To  breathe  in  distant  fields  a  purer  air; 
And,  fix'd  on  Cambria's^  solitary  shore, 
Give  to  St.  David^  one  true  Briton  more. 

For  who  would  leave,  unbrib'd,  Hibernia's 
land," 
Or  change  the  rocks  of  Scotland  for  the  Strand?^ 
There  none  are  swept  by  sudden  fate  away,      ]  i 
But  all,  whom  hunger  spares,  with  age  decay: 
Here  malice,  rapine,  accident,  conspire, 
And  now  a  rabble  rages,  now  a  fire; 
Their  ambush  here  relentless  ruffians  lay,         15 
And  here  the  fell  attorney  prowls  for  prey; 
Here  falling  houses  thunder  on  your  head. 
And  here  a  female  atheist  talks  you  dead. 

While  Thales  waits  the  wherry  that  contains 
Of  dissipated  wealth  the  small  remains,  20 

On  Thames's  banks  in  silent  thought  we  stood. 
Where  Greenwich  smiles  upon  the  silver  flood; 
Struck  with  the  seat  that  gave  Eliza^  birth. 
We  kneel,  and  kiss  the  consecrated  earth ; 
In  pleasing  dreams  the  blissful  age  renew,        25 
And  call  Britannia's  glories  back  to  view; 
Behold  her  cross  triumphant  on  the  main. 
The  guard  of  Commerce  and  the  dread  of  Spain, 

1  Presumably  Johnson's    unfortunate   friend    Richard 
Savage,  the  poet,  who  was  forced  to  retire  from  London  V 
to  Swansea  in  Wales.    .  ^ 

2  Ancient  name  of  Wales. 

3  Patron  saint  of  Wales. 

*  Ireland. 

*  In  Johnson's  time,  one  of  the  most  fashionable  streets 
of  London. 

«  Queen  Elizabeth  was  born  at  Greenwich,  1533. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


367 


Ere  masquerades  debauch'd,  excise  oppress'd,^ 
Or  English  honour  grew  a  standing  jest.  30 

A  transient  calm  the  happy  scenes  bestow, 
And  for  a  moment  lull  the  sense  of  woe. 
At  length  awaking,  with  contemptuous  frown 
Indignant  Thales  eyes  the  neighb'ring  town. 
"Since  worth,"  he  cries,  "in  these  degen'rate 

days,  _  35 

Wants  ev'n  the  cheap  reward  of  empty  praise; 
In  those  curs'd  walls,  devote  to  vice  and  gain. 
Since  unrewarded  science^  toils  in  vain; 
Since  hope  but  soothes  to  double  my  distress. 
And  ev'ry  moment  leaves  my  little  less;  40 

While  yet  my  steady  steps  no  staff  sustains. 
And  life  still  vig'rous  revels  in  my  veins. 
Grant  me,  kind  Heaven,  to  find  some  happier 

place. 
Where  honesty  and  sense  are  no  disgrace ; 
Some    pleasing    bank    where    verdant    osiers 

play,  45 

Some  peaceful  vale  with  Nature's  paintings 

gay, 
Where  once  the  harass'd  Briton  found  repose. 
And  safe  in  poverty  defy 'd  his  foes ; 
Some  secret  cell,  ye  Pow'rs  indulgent  give. 

Let live  here,  for has  learn'd  to  live.  50 

Here  let  those  reign,  whom  pensions  can  incite 
To  vote  a  patriot  black,  a  courtier  white; 
Explain    their    country's    dear-bought    rights 

away. 
And  plead  for  pirates  in  the  face  of  day; 
With  slavish  tenets  taint  our  poison'd  youth,  55 
And  lend  a  lie  the  confidence  of  truth. 
Let  such  raise  palaces,  and  manors  buy. 
Collect  a  tax,  or  farm  a  lottery;^ 
With  warbling  eunuchs  fill  our  licensed  stage,  i° 
And  lull  to  servitude  a  thoughtless  age.  60 

"Heroes,  proceed!  what  bounds  your  pride 

shall  hold? 
What  check  restrain  your  thirst  of  pow'r  and 

gold? 
Behold  rebellious  Virtue  quite  o'erthrown, 
Behold  our  fame,  our  wealth,  our  lives  your 

own. 
To  such  the  plunder  of  a  land  is  giv'n,  65 

When    public    crimes    inflame    the    wrath    of 

Heav'n; 
But  what,  my  friend,  what  hope  remains  for  me, 
Who  start  at  theft,  and  blush  at  perjury? 
Who  scarce  forbear,  though  Britain's  court  he 


smg. 


70 


To  pluck  a  titled  poet's  borrow'd  wing; 
A  statesman's  logic  unconvinc'd  can  hear. 
And  dare  to  slumber  o'er  the  Gazetteer;" 

'  Excise  duties,  which  began  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I., 
-cvere  very  unpopular  in  England,  and  in  1733  Walpole  s 
Excise  Bill  was  withdrawn  in  consequence  of  general 
opposition. 

*  Learning,  knowledge. 

9  To  take  the  profits  or  proceeds  by  a  lottery,  on  pay- 
ment of  a  fixed  sum.  Lotteries  were  most  popular  at 
the  time  and  even  came  to  be  established  by  acts  of 
Parliament.  ,    ,  ^    , 

•0  The  famous  Playhouse  Bill  had  recently  been  enacted, 
declaring  that  "every  actor  without  a  legal  settlement  or 
license  from  the  Lord  Chamberlain  should  be  deemed  a 
rogue  and  a  vagabond."  , 

11  The  official  newspaper,  containmg  announcements  ot 
pensions,  promotions,  etc. 


Despise  a  fool  in  half  his  pension  dress'd, 

And  strive  in  vain  to  laugh  at  Clodio's  jest.^'' 

"Others,  with  softer  smiles  and  subtler  art,  75 
Can  sap  the  principles,  or  taint  the  heart; 
With  more  address  a  lover's  note  convey, 
Or  bribe  a  virgin's  innocence  away. 
Well   may   they   rise,   while   I,   whose   rustic 

tongue 
Ne'er  knew  to  puzzle  right,  or  varnish  wrong,  80 
Spum'd  as  a  beggar,  dreaded  as  a  spy, 
Live  unregarded,  unlamented  die. 

"For  what  but  social  guilt  the  friend  endears? 
Who    shares    OrgiHo's^^    crimes,    his    fortune 

shares. 
But  thou,  should  tempting  villany  present       85 
All   Marlb'rough^'^   hoarded,    or   all   ViUiers^^ 

spent. 
Turn  from  the  glitt'ring  bribe  thy  scornful  eye. 
Nor  sell  for  gold  what  gold  could  never  buy, 
The  peaceful  slumber,  self-approving  day, 
Unsullied  fame,  and  conscience  ever  gay.  90 

"The  cheated  nation's  happy  fav'rites,  see! 
Mark  whom  the  great  caress,  who  frown  on  me! 
London!  the  needy  villain's  gen'ral  home. 
The  common  sewer  of  Paris  and  of  Rome; 
With  eager  thirst,  by  folly  or  b^  fate,  95 

Sucks  in  the  dregs  of  each  corrupted  state. 
Forgive  my  transports  on  a  theme  like  this, 
I  cannot  bear  a  French  metropolis. 

"Illustrious  Edward!  16  from  the  realms  of 
day. 
The  land  of  heroes  and  of  saints  survey;         lOO 
Nor  hope  the  British  lineaments  to  trace. 
The  rustic  grandeur,  or  the  surly  grace; 
But,  lost  in  thoughtless  ease  and  empty  show, 
Behold  the  warrior  dwindled  to  a  beau; 
Sense,  freedom,  piety,  refin'd  away,  105 

Of  France  the  mimic,  and  of  Spain  the  prey. 

"All  that  at  home  no  more  can  beg  or  steal. 
Or  Hke  a  gibbet ^^  better  than  a  wheel  ;i8 
Hiss'd  from  the  stage,  or  hooted  from  the  court, 
Their  air,  their  dress,  their  poHtics  import ;     no 
Obsequious,  artful,  voluble,  and  gay. 
On  Britain's  fond  credulity  they  prey. 
No  gainful  trade  their  industry  can 'scape. 
They    sing,    they    dance,    clean    shoes,    theu: 

fiddles  scrape: 
All  sciences  a  fasting  Monsieur  knows,  1 15 

And,  bid  him  go  to  hell,  to  hell  he  goes. 

"Ah!  what  avails  it  that,  from  slav'ry  far, 
I  draw  the  breath  of  life  in  English  air ; 
Was  early  taught  a  Briton's  right  to  prize. 
And  lisp  the  tale  of  Henry's  victories;!^  120 

12  There  is  a  bragging  character  of  this  name,  given  to 
strange  oaths,  in  Cibber's  play.  Love  nmkes  a  Man. 
Johnson  may,  however,  have  had  one  of  his  own  con- 
temporaries in  mind.  .  ,      ,         i^u 

13  A  personification  of  the  pride  of  wealth.    .      ,       , 

H  The  Duke  of  Marlborough  (d.  1722)  who  has  been 
called  "the  greatest  and  meanest  of  mankind. 

15  George  Villiers.  Duke  of  Buckingham  (d.  1687)  was 
one  of  the  most  extravagant  and  profligate  of  the  courtiers 

16  Edward  IIL,  illustrious  because  of  his  exploits  in 

"^fv^fs^The  Gibbet  was  an  English,  the  wheel  a  French  mode 

of  execution.  .      „  •  n       *   a  „;« 

19  Henry  V.'s  victories  in  France,  especially  at  Agm- 

court. 


368 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


If  the  giill'd  conqueror  receives  the  chain. 
And  flattery  prevails  when  arms  are  vain? 

"Studious  to  please,  and  ready  to  submit, 
The  supple  Gaul  was  born  a  parasite: 
Still  to  his  int'rest  true,  where'er  he  goes,        125 
Wit,  brav'ry,  worth,  his  lavish  tongue  bestows; 
In  ev'ry  face  a  thousand  graces  shine, 
From  ev'ry  tongue  flows  harmony  divine. 
These  arts  in  vain  our  rugged  natives  try, 
Strain  out  with  falt'ring  diffidence  a  lie,  130 

And  gain  a  kick  for  awkward  flattery. 

"Besides,  with  justice,  this  discerning  age 
Admires  their  wondrous  talents  for  the  stage: 
Well  may  they  venture  on  the  mimic's  art. 
Who  play  from  mom  till  night  a  borrow' d 
part;  135 

Practis'd  their  master's  notions  to  embrace, 
Repeat  his  maxims,  and  reflect  his  face; 
With  ev'ry  wild  absurdity  comply. 
And  view  each  object  with  another's  eye; 
To  shake  with  laughter  ere  the  jest  they  hear, 
To  pour  at  will  the  counterfeited  tear ;  14 1 

And,  as  their  patron  hints  the  cold  or  heat, 
To  shake  in  dog  days,  in  December  sweat. 

"How,  when  competitors  like  these  contend, 
Can  surly  Virtue  hope  to  fix  a  friend?  145 

Slaves  that  with  serious  impudence  beguile. 
And  lie  without  a  blush,  without  a  smile;  .  .  . 
Can  Balbo's^"  eloquence  applaud,  and  swear  150 
He  gropes^i  his  breeches  with  a  monarch's  air! 

"For    arts    Uke    these    preferr'd,    admir'd, 
caress'd. 
They  first  invade  your  table,  then  your  breast; 
Explore  your  secrets  with  insidious  art. 
Watch  the  weak  hour,  and  ransack  all  the 
heart;  155 

Then  soon  your  ill-placed  confidence  repay. 
Commence  your  lords,  and  govern  or  betray. 

"  By  numbers  here  from  shame  or  censure  free. 
All  crimes  are  safe  but  hated  poverty: 
This,  only  this,  the  rigid  law  pursues,  160 

This,  only  this,  provokes  the  snarling  Muse. 
The  sober  trader  at  a  tatter' d  cloak 
Wakes  from  his  dream,  and  labours  for  a  joke; 
With  brisker  air  the  silken  courtiers  gaze. 
And  turn  the  varied  taunt  a  thousand  ways.  165 
Of  all  the  griefs  that  harass  the  distress'd. 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest; 
Fate  never  wounds  more  deep  the  gen'rous 

heart. 
Than  when  a  blockhead's  insult  points  the  dart, 

"Has  Heaven  reserv'd,  in  pity  to  the  poor,  170 
No  pathless  waste,  or  undiscover'd  shore? 
No  secret  island  in  the  boundless  main? 
No  peaceful  desert  yet  unclaim'd  by  Spain? 
Quick  let  us  rise,  the  happy  seats  explore. 
And  bear  Oppression's  insolence  no  more.       175 
This  mournful  truth  is  everywhere  confess'd, 
Slow  rises  worth,  by  poverty  depress'd  : 
But  here  more  slow,  where  all  are  slaves  to  gold. 
Where  looks  are  merchandise,  and  smiles  are 

sold: 
Where,  won  by  bribes,  by  flatteries  implor'd,  180 
The  groom  retails  the  favors  of  his  lord. 

**  Lat.  batbiis,  stammering,  stuttering. 
*i  Takes  hold  of.    Examines  by  touch. 


"  But  hark !  th'  affrighted  crowd's  tumultuo 

cries 
Roll  through  the  streets,  and  thunder  to  the 

skies: 
Rais'd  from  some  pleasing  dream  of  wealth  and 

pow'r. 
Some  pompous  palace,  or  some  blissful  bow'r. 
Aghast   you    start,    and    scarce   with   aching 

sight  ^  186 

Sustain    th'    approaching    fire's    tremendous 

light; 
Swift  from  pursuing  horrors  take  your  way. 
And  leave  your  little  all  to  flames  a  prey; 
Then  through  the  world  a  wretched  vagrai:t 

roam,  190 

For  where  can  starving  Merit  find  a  home? 
In  vain  your  mournful  narrative  disclose. 
While  all  neglect,  and  most  insult  your  woes. 
"Should  Heaven's  just  bolts  Orgilio's  wealth 

confound, 
And  spread  his  flaming  palace  on  the  ground,  193 
Swift  o'er  the  land  the  dismal  rumour  flies. 
And  public  mournings  pacify  the  skies; 
The  laureat  tribe22  in  venal  verse  relate, 
How  Virtue  wars  with  persecuting  fate; 
With    well-feign'd    gratitude    the    pension'd 

band  200 

Refund  the  plunder  of  the  beggar'd  land. 
See!  while  he  builds,  the  gaudy  vassals  come. 
And  crowd  with  sudden  wealth  the  rising  dome; 
The  price  of  boroughs  and  of  souls  restore, 
And  raise  his  treasures  higher  than  before :     205 
Now  blessed  with  all  the  baubles  of  the  great. 
The  polish'd  marble  and  the  shining  plate, 
Orgilio  sees  the  golden  pile  aspire, 
And  hopes  from  angry  Heaven  another  fire. 
"Could'st  thou  resign  the  park  and  play  con- 
tent, 210 
For  the  fair  banks  of  Severn  or  of  Trent; 
There  might'st  thou  find  some  elegant  retreat, 
Some  hireling  senator's  deserted  seat; 
And  stretch  thy  prospects  o'er  the  smiling 

land. 
For  less  than  rent  the  dungeons  of  the  Strand;  ^s 
There  prune  thy  walks,  support  thy  drooping 

flow'rs,  216 

Direct  thy  rivulets,  and  twine  thy  bow'rs; 
And,  while  thy  grounds  a  cheap  repast  afford, 
Despise  the  dainties  of  a  venal  lord: 
There  ev'ry  bush  with  Nature's  music  rings,  220 
There  ev'ry  breeze  bears  health  upon  its  wings; 
On  all  thy  hours  security  shall  smile. 
And  bless  thine  ever\ing  walk  and  morning  toil. 
"Prepare  for  death,   if  here  at  night  you 

roam. 
And  sign  your  will  before  you  sup  from  home. 
Some  fiery  fop,  with  new  commission  vain,     220 
Who  sleeps  on  brambles  till  he  kills  his  man; 
Some  frolic  drunkard,  reeling  from  a  feast, 
Provokes  a  broil,  and  stabs  you  for  a  jest. 
Yet  ev'n  these  heroes,  mischievously  gay,       233 
Lords  of  the  street,  and  terrors  of  the  way ; 

22  The  crowd  of  poetasters  who  sought  favor  by  flat- 
tering the  great  in  verae. 

23  The  mansions  and  palaces  of  the  wealthy  on  the 
Strand. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


369 


Flush'd  as  they  are  with  folly,  youth,  and  wine, 
Their  prudent  insults  to  the  poor  confine; 
Afar    they   mark   the   flambeau's   bright   ap- 
proach. 
And  shun  the  shining  train  and  golden  coach.  235 
"In  vain,  these  dangers  past,  your  doors  you 
close. 
And  hope  the  balmy  blessings  of  repose; 
Cruel  with  guilt,  and  daring  with  despair, 
The  midnight  murd'rer  bursts   the  faithless 

bar; 
I  nvades  the  sacred  hour  of  silent  rest,  240 

And  plants,  unseen,  a  dagger  in  your  breast. 
"Scarce    can    our    fields,    such    crowds    at 
Tyburn24  die, 
With  hemp  the  gallows  and  the  fleet  supply. 
Propose  your  schemes,  ye  senatorian  band. 
Whose  ways  and  means  support  the  sinking 
land:  245 

Lest  ropes  be  wanting  in  the  temptmg  sprmg. 
To  rig  another  convoy  for  the  king.^^ 

"A  single  gaol,  in  Alfred's  golden  reign, 
Could  half  the  nation's  criminals  contain; 
Fair  Justice,  then,  without  constraint  ador'd. 
Held  high  the  steady  scale,  but  sheath'd  the 
sword;  ^  251 

No  spies  were  paid,  no  special  juries  known; 
Blest  age!  but  ah,  how  difl'rent  from  our  own! 
"Much  could  I  add,  but  see  the  boat  at  hand. 
The  tide  retiring  calls  me  from  the  land :         255 
Farewell! — When  youth,  and  health,  and  for- 
tune spent, 
Thou  fly'st  for  refuge  to  the  wilds  of  Kent 
And,  tir'd  like  me  with  follies  and  with  crimes. 
In  angry  numbers  warn'st  succeeding  times; 
Then  shall  thy  friend,  nor  thou  refuse  his  aid, 
Still  foe  to  vice,  forsake  his  Cambrian  shade; 
In  Virtue's  cause  once  more  exert  his  rage,      262 
Thy  satire  point,  and  animate  thy  page." 


PROLOGUE 

spoken  by  mr.  garrick  at  the  opening  op 
The  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane,  1747 

When  Learning's  triumph  o'er  her  barb'rous 

foes 
First  rear'd  the  stage,  immortal  Shakespeare 

rose; 
Each  change  of  many-color'd  life  he  drew. 
Exhausted  worlds,  and  then  imagin'd  new: 
Existence  saw  him  spurn  her  bounded  reign,      5 
And  panting  Time  toil'd  after  him  in  vain. 
His  pow'rful  strokes  presiding  Truth  impress  d. 
And  unresisted  Passion  storm'd  the  breast. 
Then    Jonson    came,    instructed    from    the 

school. 
To  please  in  method,  and  invent  by  rule ;  10 

His  studious  patience  and  laborious  art, 
By  regular  approach ,  assail'  d  the  heart : 
Cold    Approbation   gave   the   ling'rmg   bays, 
For  those,  who  durst  not  censure,  scarce  could 

praise. 

2*  The  chief  place  of  execution  in  London.  . 

25  A  reference  to  the  frequent  and  unpopular  visits  ot 
George  II.  to  his  continental  possessions. 


A  mortal  born,  he  met  the  gen'ral  doom,  15 

But  left,  like  Egypt's  kings,  a  lasting  tomb. 

The  wits  of  Charles  found  easier  ways  to 

fame, 
Nor  wish'd  for  Jonson's  art,  or  Shakespeare's 

flame. 
Themselves  they  studied;  as  they  felt,  they 

writ; 
Intrigue  was  plot,  obscenity  was  wit.  20 

Vice  always  found  a  sympathetic  friend; 
They  pleas'd  their  age,  and  did  not  aim  to 

mend. 
Yet  bards  like  these  aspir'd  to  lasting  praise. 
And  proudly  hoped  to  pimp  in  future  days. 
Their  cause  was  gen'ral,  their  supports  were 

strong,  25 

Their  slaves  were  willing,  and  their  reign  was 

long: 
Till  Shame  regain'd  the  post  that  Sense  be- 

tray'd, 
And  Virtue  call'd  Oblivion  to  her  aid. 

Then,   crush'd  by  rules,  and  weaken'd  as 

refin'd. 
For  years  the  power  of  Tragedy  declined ;         30 
From  bard  to  bard  the  frigid  caution  crept. 
Till  Declamation  roar'd  whilst  Passion  slept; 
Yet  still  did  Virtue  deign  the  state  to  tread. 
Philosophy  remain'd,  though  Nature  fled. 
But  forc'd,   at  length,   her  ancient  reign  to 

quit,  35 

She  saw  great  Faustus^  lay  the  ghost  of  Wit; 
Exulting  Folly  hail'd  the  joyful  day. 
And    Pantomime    and    Song    confirm'd    her 

sway. 

But  who  the  coming  changes  can  presage, 

And  mark  the  future  periods  of  the  Stage?       40 

Perhaps,  if  skill  could  distant  times  explore. 

New  Behns,2  new   Durfeys,'  yet  rfemain  in 

store; 
Perhaps  where  Lear  has  rav'd,  and  Hamlet 

died, 
On  flying  cars  new  sorcerers  may  ride: 
Perhaps    (for   who    can   guess   th'    effects   of 

chance?)  45 

Here    Hunt*    may    box,    or    Mahomet^    may 

dance. 
Hard  is  his  lot  that  here  by  Fortune  plac  d 
Must  watch  the  wild  vicissitudes  of  taste; 
With  ev'ry  meteor  of  caprice  must  play, 
And  chase  the  new-blown  bubbles  of  the  day. 50 
Ah!  let  not  Censure  term  our  fate  our  choice, 
The  stage  but  echoes  back  the  public  voice; 
The  drama's  laws,  the  drama's  patrons  give, 
For  we  that  live  to  please,  must  please  to  live. 
Then  prompt  no  more  the  follies  you  de- 

crv  ^^ 

As  tyrants  doom  their  tools  of  guilt  to  die; 

1  The  story  of  Dr.  Faustus  was  made  the  subject  of  a 
farcical  pantomime  by  Thurmond,  produced  at  Drury 
Lane  in  1724.  Similar  farces  were  much  in  vogue  tor 
several  seasons  in  London,  and  were  satirized  by  Pope  m 
the/)uncmd,III,11.233,ff.  ,.  ,        ,     ,  -v.. 

2  Aphra  Behn  (1640-1689),  a  novelist  and  playwright. 
Her  plays  were  noted  for  their  low  moral  tone. 

3  Thomas  Durfey  (1653-1723)  a  minor  poet,  and  a 
writer  of  comedies  and  songs. 

*  Hunt  was  a  famous  boxer  on  the  stage. 
6  Mahomet,  a  famous  rope-dancer. 


0 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


Tis  yours,  this  night,  to  bid  the  reign  com- 
mence 
Of  rescued  Nature  and  reviving  Sense; 
To  chase  the  charms  of  Sound,  the  pomp  of 

Show, 
For  useful  Mirth  and  salutary  Woe;  60 

Bid  scenic  Virtue  form  the  rising  age. 
And  Truth  diffuse  her  radiance  from  the  stage. 

31ot)n  annsftrong 

1709-1779 

THE   ART   OF   PRESERVING   HEALTH 

(1744) 
Ye,  who  amid  this  feverish  world  would  wear 
A  body  free  of  pain,  of  cares  a  mind; 
Fly  the  rank  city,  shun  its  turbid  air; 
Breathe  not  the  chaos  of  eternal  smoke 
And  volatile  corruption,  from  the  dead,  5 

The  dying,  sick'ning  and  the  living  world 
Exhal'd,  to  sully  Heaven's  transparent  dome 
With  dim  mortality.    It  is  not  air 
That  from  a  thousand  lungs  reeks  back  to  thine. 
Sated  with  exhalations  rank  and  fell,  10 

The  spoils  of  dunghills,  and  the  putrid  thaw 
Of  nature;  when  from  shape  and  texture  she 
Relapses  into  fighting  elements: 
It  is  not  air,  but  floats  a  nauseous  mass 
Of  all  obscene,  corrupt,  offensive  things.  15 

Much  moisture  hurts;  but  here  a  sordid  bath. 
With  oily  rancour  fraught,  relaxes  more 
The  soUd  frame,  than  simple  moisture  can. 
Besides,  immur'd  in  many  a  sullen  bay 
That  never  felt  the  freshness  of  the  breeze,       20 
This    slumb'ring    deep    remains,    and    ranker 

grows 
With  sickly  rest;  and  (though  the  lungs  abhor 
To  drink  the  dun  fuliginous  abyss)  ^ 
Did  not  the  acid  vigor  of  the  mine, 
Roll'd  from  so  many  thundering  chimneys, 

tame  25 

The  putrid  steams  that  overswarm  the  sky; 
This  caustic  venom  would  perhaps  corrode 
Those  tender  cells  that  draw  the  vital  air, 
In  vain  with  all  their  unctuous  rills  bedew'd.  .  .  . 
While  yet  you  breathe,  away;  the  rural  wilds 
Invite;  the  mountains  call  you,  and  the  vales;  35 
The  woods,  the  streams,  and  each  ambrosial 

breeze 
That  fans  the  ever  undulating  sky; 
A  kindly  sky!  whose  fost'ring  pow'r  regales 
Man,  beast,  and  all  the  vegetable  reign.  ...    39 
Behold  the  laborer  of  the  glebe,  who  toils 
In  dust,  in  rain,  in  cold  and  sultry  skies! 
Save  but  the  grain  from  mildews  and  the  flood, 
Nought  anxious  he  what  sickly  stars  ascend.    45 
He  knows  no  laws  by  Esculapius'^  given; 
He  studies  none.   Yet  him  nor  midnight  fogs 
Infest,  nor  those  envenom'd  shafts  that  fly 
When  rabid  Sirius^  fires  th'  autumnal  noou . 

»  Dark,  sooty  abyss. 

»  A  physician  mentioned  by  Homer,  afterwards  con- 
sidered to  be  the  god  of  medicine. 
»  The  dog-star. 


His  habit  pure  with  plain  and  temperate  meals, 
Robust  with  labour,  and  by  custom  steel'd       51 
To  every  casualty  of  varied  life; 
Serene  he  bears  the  peevish  eastern  blast, 
And  uninfected  breathes  the  mortal  south. 

Such  the  reward  of  rude  and  sober  life;  55 

Of  labor  such.     By  health  the  peasant's  toil 
Is  well  repaid :  if  exercise  were  pain 
Indeed,  and  temperance  pain.     By  arts  like 

these 
Laconia"  nurs'd  of  old  her  hardy  sons; 
And  Rome's  unconquer'd  legions  urg'd  their 

way  60 

Unhurt,  through  every  toil,  in  every  clime. 

Toil,  and  be  strong.     By  toil  the  flaccid 

nerves 
Grow  firm,  and  gain  a^more  compacted  tone; 
The  greener  juices,  are  by  toil  subdu'd, 
Mellow'd  and  subtiliz'd,  the  vapid  old  65 

Expell'd,  and  all  the  rancor  of  the  blood. 
Come,  my  companions,  ye  who  feel  the  charms 
Of  Nature  and  the  year;  come,  let  us  stray 
Where  chance  or  fancy  leads  our  roving  walk. 
Come,  while  the  soft  voluptuous  breezes  fan    70 
The  fleecy  heavens,  enwrap  the  limbs  in  balm, 
And  shed  a  charming  langour  o'er  the  soul. 
Nor  when  bright  Winter  sows  with  prickly 

frost 
The  vigorous  ether,  in  unmanly  warmth 
Indulge  at  home;  nor  even  when  Eurus'  blasts  75 
This  way  and  that  convolve  the  lab'ring  woods. 
My  liberal  walks,  save  when  the  skies  in  rain 
Or  fogs  relent,  no  season  should  confine 
Or  to  the  cloister'd  gallery  or  arcade. 
Go,   climb  the  mountain;  from  th'   ethereal 

source  80 

Imbibe  the  recent  gale.    The  cheerful  mom 
Beams  o'er  the  hills;  go,  mount  th'  exulting 

steed. 
Already,  see,  the  deep-mouth'd  beagles  catch 
The  tainted  mazes;  and,  on  eager  sport 
Intent,  with  emulous  impatience  try  85 

Each  doubtful  trace.    Or,  if  a  nobler  prey 
Delight  you  more,  go  chase  the  desperate  deer; 
And  through  its  deepest  solitude  awake 
The  vocal  forest  with  the  jovial  horn. 

But  if  the  breathless  chase  o'er  hill  and  dale  90 
Exceed  your  strength,  a  sport  of  less  fatigue, 
Not  less  delightful,  the  prolific  stream 
Affords.    The  crystal  rivulet,  that  o'er 
A  stony  channel  rolls  its  rapid  maze. 
Swarms  with  the  silver  fry.    Such,  through  the 

bounds  95 

Of  pastoral  Stafford, ^  runs  the  brawling  Trent; 
Such  Eden,8  sprung  from  Cumbrian  mountains; 

such 
The  Esk,  o'erhung  with  woods;  and  such  the 

stream 
On  whose  Arcadian  banks  I  first  drew  air, 
Liddel;^  till  now,  except  in  Doric  lays  lOO 

Tun'd  to  her  murmurs  by  her  love-sick  swains. 
Unknown  in  song;  though  not  a  purer  stream, 

*  Sparta.  *  Used  for  Staffordshire. 

«  A  small  river  in  Cumberland. 

^  A  small  river  in  Roxburgshire.    Armstrong  was  born 
at  Castleton  in  that  shire. 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE 


371 


Through  meads  more  flowery,  or  more  romantic 

groves, 
Rolls  toward  the  western  main.    Hail,  sacred 

flood! 
May  still  thy  hospitable  swains  be  blest  105 

In  rural  innocence;  thy  mountains  still 
Teem  with  the  fleecy  race;  thy  tuneful  woods 
For  ever  flourish ;  and  thy  vales  look  gay 
With  painted  meadows,  and  the  golden  grain ! 
Oft,  with  thy  blooming  sons,  when  life  was  new, 
Sportive  and  petulant,  and  charm'd  with  toys. 
In  thy  transparent  eddies  have  I  lav'd:        112 
Oft  trac'd  with  patient  steps  thy  fairy  banks, 
With  the  well-imitated  fly  to  hook 
The  eager  trout,  and  with  the  slender  line       1 15 
And  yielding  rod  solicit  to  the  shore 
The   struggling,   panting  prey:   while  vernal 

clouds 
And  tepid  gales'  obscur'd  the  ruffled  pool. 
And  from  the  deeps  called  forth  the  wanton 

swarms. 
Form'd  on  the  Samian  school,^  or  those  of 

Ind,  120 

There  are  who  think  these  pastimes  scarce 

humane: 
Yet  in  my  mind  (and  not  relentless) 
His  life  is  pure  that  wears  no  fouler  stains.  .  .  . 

Ah!  in  what  perils  is  vain  life  engag'd! 
What    slight    neglects,    what    trivial    faults 

destroy  125 

The  hardiest  frame!  of  indolence,  of  toil, 
We  die;  of  want,  of  superfluity : 
The  all-surrounding  Heaven,  the  vital  air. 
Is  big  with  death.     And,  thoi^gh  the  putrid 

South 
Be  shut :  though  no  convulsive  agony  130 

Shake,  from  the  deep  foundations  of  the  world, 
Th'  imprisoned  plagues;  a  secret  venom  oft 
Corrupts  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  land. 
What  livid  deaths  has  sad  Bysantium  seen! 
How  oft  has  Cairo,  with  a  mother's  woe,         135 
Wept  o'er  her  slaughter'd  sons,   and  lonely 

streets! 
Even  Albion,  girt  with  less  malignant  skies, 
Albion  the  poison  of  the  gods  has  drunk. 
And  felt  the  sting  of  monsters  all  her  own. 

William  ^\)m&tont 

1714-1763 

THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS 
(From  The  Schoolmistress,  1742) 
Ah  me!  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn. 
To  think  how  modest  worth  neglected  lies! 
While  partial  fame  doth  with  her  blast  adorn 
Such  deeds  alone,  as  pride  and  pomp  dis- 
guise; . 
Deeds  of  iU  sort,  and  mischievous  emprize!    5 
Lend  me  thy  clarion,  goddess!  let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  merit,  ere  it  dies; 
Such  as  I  oft  have  chanced  to  espy. 
Lost  in  the  dreary  shades  of  dull  obscurity. 

8  The  school  of  Pythagoras,  who  prescribed  abstinence 
from  animal  food,  as  did  many  of  the  Hindus  and  Bud- 
dhists. 


In  ev'ry  village  mark'd  with  little  spire,        10 
Embower'd  in  trees,  and  hardly  known  to 

fame. 
There  dwells,  in  lowly  shed,  and  mean  attire, 
A  matron  old,  whom  we  school-mistress  name; 
Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch  to  tame; 
They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  durance  pent,  15 
Aw'd  by  the  pow'r  of  this  relentless  dame; 
And  oft  times,  on  vag'ries  idly  bent, 
For  unkempt  hair,  or  task  unconn'd,  are  sorely 

shent.^ 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a  birchen  tree. 
Which  learning  near  her  little  dome*  did 

stowe;  20 

Whilom  a  twig  of  small  regard  to  see. 
Though  now  so  wide  its  waving  branches 

flow; 
And  work  the  simple  vassal  mickle  woe; 
For  not  a  wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that 

blew. 
But  their  limbs  shudder'd,  and  their  pulse 

beat  low;  25 

And,  as  they  look'd,  they  found  their  horror 

grew. 
And  shap'd  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the  view. 

So  have  I  seen  (who  has  not,  may  conceive), 
A  lifeless  phantom  near  a  garden  plac'd; 
So  doth  it  wanton  birds  of  peace  bereave,     30 
Of  sport,  of  song,  of  pleasure,  of  repast; 
They  start,  they  stare,  they  wheel,  they  look 

aghast; 
Sad  servitude!  such  comfortless  annoy 
May  no  bold  Briton's  riper  age  e'er  taste! 
Ne  superstition  clog  his  dance  of  joy,  35 

Ne  vision  empty,  vain,  his  native  bliss  destroy. 

Near  to  his  dome  is  found  a  patch  so  green, 
On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  display; 
And  at  the  door  impris'ning  board  is  seen. 
Lest  weakly  wights  of  smaller  size  should 
stray;  40 

Eager,  perdie,^  to  bask  in  sunny  day! 
The  noises  intermix'd,  which  thence  resound, 
Do  learning's  little  tenement  betray: 
Where  sits  the  dame,  disguis'd  in  look  pro- 
found. 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  hW  wheel 
around.  45 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow, 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield: 
Her  apron  dy'd  in  grain,  as  blue,  I  trow, 
As  is  the  hare-bell  that  adorns  the  field: 
And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield  50 
Tway^  birchen  sprays;  with  anxious  fear  en- 

twin'd; 
With    dark   distrust,    and    sad    repentance 

fill'd; 
And    stedfast    hate,    and    sharp    affliction 
join'd. 
And  fury  uncontroll'd,  and  chastisement  un- 
kind. .  .  . 


1  Disgraced. 
'  Forsooth. 


2  Home. 
*Two. 


372 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown; 
A  russet  kirtle  fene'd  the  nipping  air;  65 

'Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own; 
'Twas  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fair; 
'Twas  her  own  labour  did  the  fleece  prepare; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  rang'd  around, 
Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing  rare! 
For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound,  71 
And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest 
wight*  on  ground. 

Albeit  ne  flatt'ry  did  corrupt  her  truth, 

Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear; 

Goody,"  good-woman,  gossip,  n'aunt,  for- 
sooth, 75 

Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear; 

Yet  these  she  challeng'd,  these  she  held  right 
dear! 

Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  behove. 

Who  should  not  honour'd  eld  with  these 
revere;^ 

For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 

But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did  that  title 

love.  81 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 
The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame; 
Which  ever  and  anon,  impell'd  by  need,  84 
Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came! 
Such  favour  did  her  past  deportment  claim: 
And,  if  neglect  had  lavish'd  on  the  ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the 

same; 
For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  ex- 
pound, 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb 
she  found.  90 

Herbs  too  she  knew,  and  well  of  each  could 

speak 
That  in  her  garden  sipt  the  silv'ry  dew; 
Where  no  vain  flow'r  disclos'd  a  gaudy  streak; 
But  herbs  for  use,  and  physic,  not  a  few,       94 
Of  grey  renown,  within  those  borders  grew: 
The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 
Fresh  balm,  and  marygold  of  cheerful  hue; 
The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb; 
And  more  I  fain  would  sing,  disdaining  here  to 

rhyme.  ...  99 

In  elbow-chair,  like  that  of  Scottish  stem,^ 
By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cank'ring  eld  defac'd, 
In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem. 
Our  sov'reign  prince  and  liefest  liege  is  plac'd, 
The  matron  sat;  and  some  with  rank  she 

grac'd,  140 

(The  source  of  children's  and  of  courtier's 

pride!) 
Redress'd  affronts,   for  vile  affronts  there 

pass'd; 
And  warn'd  them  not  the  fretful  to  deride, 
But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them  betide 

*  Person. 

•  Goodwife:  i7oasip=  godmother,  also  a  term  of  respect 
Have  revered  honored  old  age  with  these. 

» In  a  chair  like  that  in  which  the  English  Kings  are 
crowned,  containing  the  Stone  of  Scone.  It  was  the  stone, 
however,  not  the  chair  which  was  of  Scottish  origin  or 


Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry; 
To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to 

raise;  i46 

Some  with  vile  copper  prize  exalt  on  high, 
And   some   entice   with   pittance   small   of 

praise! 
And    other   some    with    baleful    sprig    she 

'frays  :9 
Ev'n  absent,  she  the  reins  of  pow'r  doth  hold. 
While  with  quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd  she 

sways;  isi 

Forewarn'd,  if  little  bird  their  pranks  behold, 

'Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene 

unfold. 

Lo  now  with  state  she  utters  the  command! 
Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair;  155 
Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in 

hand. 
Which  with  pellucid  horn^°  secured  are; 
So  save  from  finger  wet  the  letters  fair: 
The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 
St.  George's  high  achievements  does  declare; 
On  which  thilk  wight^^  that  has  y-gazing 

been,  lei 

Kens  the  forth-coming  rod,  impleasing  sight,  I 

ween! 

Ah  luckless  he,  and  bom  beneath  the  beam 

Of  evil  star!  it  irks  me  whilst  I  write! 

As  erst  the  bard^^  by  Mulla's  silver  stream, 

Oft,  as  he  told  of  deadly  dolourous  plight,  166 

Sigh'd  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite. 

For  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 

To  loose  the  brogues,^'  the  stripling's  late 

dehght! 
And  down  they  drop;  appears  his  dainty 

skin,  170 

Fair  as  the  furry  coat  of  whitest  ermilin.^^ 

O  ruthful  scene!  when  from  a  nook  obscure, 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see: 
All  playful  as  she  sat,  she  grows  demure; 
She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee;  175 
She  meditates  a  pray 'r  to  set  him  free : 
Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny, 
(If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree), 
To  her  sad  grief  that  dwells  in  either  eye, 
And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could 
die.  180 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  command; 
And  hardly  she  forbears,  thro'  awful  fear, 
To  rushen  forth,  and,  with  presumptuous 

hand, 
To  stay  harsh  justice  in  its  mid  career. 
On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee  her  parent  dear!  185 
(Ah!  too  remote  to  ward  the  shameful  blow!) 
She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near, 
And  soon  a  flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow; 
And  gives  a  loose  at  last  to  unavailing  woe. 

» Terrifies. 

1"  School  books  were  generally  protected  by  a  covering 
of  transparent  horn. 

"  Each  one.      "  Spenser.      "  Trousers.      "  Ermine. 


WILLIAM  SHI^NSTONE 


373 


But  ah!  what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may 

trace?  190 

Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  explain? 
The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face? 
The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks  amain? 
The  plenteous  show'r  that  does  his  cheek  dis- 

tain?i5  195 

When  he,  in  abject  wise,  implores  the  dame, 

Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to  gain; 

Or  when  from  high  she  levels  well  her  aim, 

And,  thro'  the  thatch,  his  cries  each  falling 

stroke  proclaim. 

The  other  tribe,  aghast,  with  sore  dismay, 
Attend,  and  conn  their  tasks  with  mickle 

care:  20i 

By  turns,  astony'd,  ev'ry  twig  survey, 
And,    from   their   fellow's   hateful  wounds, 

beware; 
Knowing,  I  wist,  how  each  the  same  may 

share; 
Till  fear  has  taught  them  a  performance 

meet. 
And  to  the  well-known  chest  the  dame  re- 
pair; "  206 
Whence  oft  with  sugar'd  cates^^  ghe  doth  'em 

greet, 
And  ginger-bread  y-rare;  now,  certes,  doubly 

sweet!  .  .  . 

His  face  besprent"  with  liquid  crystal  shines. 
His    blooming    face    that    seems    a    purple 

flow'r, 
Which  low  to  earth  its  drooping  head  de- 
clines, 220 
All  smeared  and  sully'd  by  a  vernal  show'r. 
O  the  hard  bosoms  of  despotic  pow'r! 
All,  all,  but  she,  the  author  of  his  shame, 
All,  all,  but  she,  regret  this  mournful  hour: 
Yet  hence  the  youth,  and  hence  the  flow'r, 
shall  claim,  225 
If  so  I  deem  aright,  transcending  worth  and 
fame. 

Behind  some  door,  in  melancholy  thought, 
Mindless  of  food,  he,  dreary  caitiff!  pines; 
Ne  for  his  fellow's  joyaunce  careth  aught, 
But  to  the  wind  all  merriment  resigns;  230 
And  deems  it  shame,  if  he  to  peace  inclines; 
And  many  a  sullen  look  askance  is  sent, 
Which  for  his  dame's  annoyance  he  designs; 
And  still  the  more  to  pleasure  him  she's  bent, 
The  more  doth  he,  perverse,  her  haviour  past 
resent.  235 

Ah  me!  how  much  I  fear  lest  pride  it  be! 
But  if  that  pride  it  be,  which  thus  mspires, 
Beware,  ye  dames,  with  nice  discernment  see. 
Ye  quench  not  too  the  sparks  of  nobler  fires: 
Ah !  better  far  than  all  the  muses'  lyres,  24 0 
All  coward  arts,  is  valour's  gen'rous  heat; 
The  firm  fix'd  breast  which  fit  and  right  re- 


Like    Vernon's^^  patriot  soul;   more  justly 
great 
Than  craft  that  pimps  for  ill,  or  flow'ry  false 
deceit. 

Yet  nurs'd  with  skill,  what  dazzling  fruits 


appear 


245 


quires, 


15  Discolor. 


w  Dainties. 


"  Besprinkled. 


Ev'n  now  sagacious  foresight  points  to  show 
A  little  bench  of  heedless  bishops  here. 
And  there  a  chancellor  in  embryo. 
Or  bard  sublime,  if  bard  may  e'er  be  so. 
As  Milton,  Shakespeare,  names  that  ne'er 

shall  die!  250 

Tho'  now  he  crawl  along  the  ground  so  low. 
Nor  weeting*^  how  the  muse  should  soar  on 

high, 
Wisheth,  poor  starv'ling  elf!  his  paper-kite  may 

fly. 

And  this  perhaps,  who,  cens'ring  the  design. 
Low  lays  the  house  which  that  of  cards  doth 
build,  255 

Shall  Dennis"^  be!  if  rigid  fates  incline, 
And  many  an  epic  to  his  rage  shall  yield; 
And  many  a  poet  quit  th'  Aonian  field ;2i 
And,  sour'd  by  age,  profound  he  shall  ap- 
pear, 
As  he  who  now  with  'sdainful  fury  thrill'd  260 
Surveys  mine  work;  and  levels  many  a  sneer, 
And  furls  his  wrinkly  front,  and  cries,  "What 
stuff  is  here?  " 

But  now  Dan  Phophus"^^  gains  the  middle  sky. 
And  liberty  unbars  her  prison-door; 
And  like  a  rushing  torrent  out  they  fly,       265 
And  now  the  grassy  cirque  han^^  cover'd  o'er 
With  boistrous  revel-rout  and  wild  uproar; 
A  thousand  ways  in  wanton  rings  they  run, 
Heav'n  shield  their  short-liv'd  pastimes,  I  im- 
plore! 
For  well  may  freedom,  erst  so  dearly  won,270 
Appear  to  British  elf  more  gladsome  than  the 
sun. 

Enjoy,  poor  imps!  enjoy  your  sportive  trade; 
And   chase  gay  flies,   and  cull  the  fairest 

flow'rs; 
For  when  my  bones  in  grass-green  sods  are 

laid; 
For  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless  hours 
In  knightly  castles,  or  in  ladies  bow'rs.        276 
O  vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  thing! 
But  most  in  courts  where  proud  ambition 

tow'rs; 
Deluded  wight!  who  weens  fair  peace  can 

spring 
Beneath  the  pompous  dome  of  kesar^*  or  of 

king.  280 

18  Edward  Vernon  (1684-1757)  an  English  naval  com- 
mander and  member  of  Parliament.  He  gained  distinc- 
tion by  the  capture  of  Porto  Bello  in  1739,  and  of  Carta- 
gena in  1740;  he  was  made  an  Admiral  in  1745. 

19  Knowing.  ,     ,        .  .      ,  .       .      ^ 

20  John  Demis,  whom  Pope  had  satirized  in  the  Dun- 
ciad. 

21  The  field  of  poetry. 

22  The  sun;  Dan,  an  abbreviation  of  dominus,  =rmaster, 
or  sir;  Cf .  Dan  Chaucer,  and  the  Spanish  don. 

23  Have.  **  Kaiser,  Csesar. 


374 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


WRITTEN  AT  AN  INN  AT  HENLEY 

To  thee,  fair  Freedom!  I  retire 

From  flatt'ry,  cards,  and  dice,  and  din; 

Nor  art  thou  found  in  mansions  higher 
Than  the  low  cot,  or  humble  inn. 

'Tis  here  with  boundless  pow'r  I  reign;        5 
And  ev'ry  health  which  I  begin. 

Converts  dull  port  to  bright  champaign  e; 
Such  freedom  crowns  it,  at  an  inn. 

I  fly  from  pomp,  I  fly  from  plate! 

I  fly  from  falsehood's  specious  grin!         10 
Freedom  I  love,  and  form  I  hate. 

And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn. 

Here,  waiter,  take  my  sordid  ore. 

Which  lacqueys  else  might  hope  to  win; 

It  buys  what  courts  have  not  in  store;        15 
It  buys  me  freedom,  at  an  inn. 

Whoe'er  has  travell'd  life's  dull  round. 
Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been. 

May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 
The  warmest  welcome,  at  an  inn.  20 


1728-1774 

THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

(1770) 

Sweet  Auburn!^  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  labouring 

swain. 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid. 
And  parting  sunmier's  Ungering  blooms  de- 

lay'd: 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease,         5 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could 

please, 
How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene! 
How  often  have  I  paus'd  on  every  charm, 
The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm ,  i  o 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighbouring 

hill. 
The  hawthorn  bush  with  seats  beneath  the 

shade. 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made! 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day  15 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

*  Some  of  the  details  of  the  poem  are  thought  to  have 
been  suggested  by  the  village  of  Lissoy  in  Ireland,  where 
Goldsmi til's  childhood  was  spent;  but  in  his  account  of 
the  desertion  of  the  village,  the  poet  is  true  to  conditions 
that  actually  prevailed  in  England  at  that  time.  Through- 
out the  land  a  new  aristocracy  of  wealth  was  pushing 
aside  the  small  farmer  (11.  270-280);  the  harvests  were 
correspondingly  diminished;  and  even  the  commons, 
formerly  opened  to  the  poor,  were  shut  off,  or  "denied" 
(1.  307).  Luxury,  which  Goldsmith  regards  as  the  source 
of  national  corruption,  was  also  increasing  in  consequence 
of  a  rapid  growth  in  material  prosperity. 


And  all  the  village  train  from  labour  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading 

tree; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd,       20 
And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went 

round! 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tir'd. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspir'd; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown  25 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down. 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  titter' d  round  the  place, 
The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks 

reprove.  30 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village!  sports 

like  these. 
With  sweet  succession,   taught  even  toil  to 

please; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence 

shed; 
These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms 

are  fled. 
Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn,  35 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  with- 
drawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green: 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain.        40 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day. 
But  chok'd  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest. 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies,        45 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries: 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's 

hand. 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land.  50 
III  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade — • 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has 

made — 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride,  55 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  supphed. 
A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began. 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man : 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome 

store, 
Just  gave  what  life  requir'd,   but  gave  no 

more; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health,     61 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter'd;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swair : 
Along  the  lawn  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose,  65 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom. 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  Httle  room,  70 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


375 


Those  healthful  sports  that  grac'd  the  peaceful 

scene, 
Liv'd   in   each   look   and   brighten 'd   all   the 

green — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour,  75 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 
Ami  !st  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruin'd  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elaps'd,  return  to  view 
Whore  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn 
grew,  80 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain . 
In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care 
In   all   my   griefs — and   God   has   given   my 

share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown,      85 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  fla*iie  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn' d 
skill,  90 

Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And  as  an  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past,  95 

Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine! 
How  happy  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease ;  100 

Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations 

try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
Nor  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state,  105 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend. 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceiv'd  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way,         110 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 
Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's 
close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingUng  notes  came  soften 'd  from  be- 
low: _  116 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whisper- 
ing wind,  121 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant 

mind — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fili'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail,  1 25 

No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 


No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 

For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled — 

All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 

That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring;  130 

She,  wretched  matron — forc'd  in  age,  for  bread. 

To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 

To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 

To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn — 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train,  i35 

The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain! 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden 

smil'd, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows 

wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  dis- 
close. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose.  140 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wish'd  to  change  his 

place; 
Unpractis'd  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power  145 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  skill'd  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train. 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  reliev'd  their 

pain;  iso 

The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest. 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  al- 

low'd; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay,         155 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away. 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch  and  show'd  how  fields 

were  won. 
Pleas'd  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to 

glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ;        1 60 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  even  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call,  165 

He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for 

all: 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 
Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way.    170 
Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismay 'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood:  at  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembHng  wretch  to 

raise,  175 

And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise. 
At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace. 
His  looks  adorn 'd  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway. 
And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man,  181 
With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 


376 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATPI  OF  JOHNSON 


Even  children  foUow'd,  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's 

smile: 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest,     185 
Their  welfare  pleas'd  him,  and  their  cares  dis- 

trest. 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were 

given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven : 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the 

storm,  190 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are 

spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the 

way,^ 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule,      195 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew: 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn' d  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ;  200 

Full  well  they  laugh'd  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,   circling  round, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd; 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught,  205 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declar'd  how  much  he  knew; 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too. 
Lands   he    could    measure,    terms    and    tides 

presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge.  210 
In  arguing  too  the  parson  own'd  his  skill. 
For  even  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering 

sound 
Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  rang'd  around; 
And  still  they  gaz'd,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew.2i6 

But  past  is  all  his  fame :  the  very  spot. 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing 

eye,  220 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nui>-brown  draughts 

inspir'd. 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retir'd. 
Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  pro- 
found. 
And  news  much  older  than   their  ale  went 

round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace  225 

The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place: 
The  whitewash'd  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the 

door; 
The  chest  contriv'd  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ;      230 
The  pictures  plac'd  for  ornament  and  use. 
The  twelve  good  rules,  2  the  royal  game  of 

goose; 

'Twelve  rules  of  conduct,  ascribed  to  Charles  1  and 
frequently  displayed  in  public  houses  and  inns. 


The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day. 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel 

gay, 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show,235 
Rang'd  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 
Vain  transitory  splendours!  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart. 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair        24 1 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his   ponderous   strength,   and   lean   to 
hear;  246 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  tg  be  prest. 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest.  250 

Yes!  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play. 
The  soul  adopts,   and  owns  their  first-born 
sway;  256 

Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfin'd. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade. 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array'd. 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain,      261 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain; 
And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand  267 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards  even  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around; 
Yet  count  our  gains:  this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.  The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied — 276 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds: 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their 
growth;  280 

His  seat,  where  solitary  spots  are  seen. 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 
While  thus  the  land,  adorn 'd  for  pleasure,  all  285 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign. 
Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  sup- 
plies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes;  290 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are 

frail. 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


377 


She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress: 

Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd;         295 

In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd, 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 

While,  scourg'd  by  famine  from  the  smiling 

land. 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band; 
And   while    he    sinks,    without    one    arm   to 

save,  301 

The  country  blooms — a  garden,  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah!  where  shall  poverty  reside. 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd  305 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there? 
To  see  prof usion  that  he  must  not  share ;         310 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combin'd 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know. 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade,    315 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps 

display, 
There,  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight 

reign, 
Here,    richly    deck'd,    admits    the    gorgeous 

train ;  320 

Tumultuous    grandeur    crowds    the    blazing 

square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts?    Ah,  turn  thine 

eyes  325 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest. 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  inrocence  distrest; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn; 
Now  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled — 331 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 
And,  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the 

shower. 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town,  335 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest 

train. 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led. 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread.  340 
Ah,  no!    To  distant  cHmes,  a  dreary  scene. 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  faintmg  steps  they 

Where  wild  Altama^  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far    different    there   from    all    that    charm'd 
before,  345 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore: 

»  The  river  AUamaha,  or  Alahamha,  in  Georgia. 


Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling;  350 

Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance 

crown 'd. 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  ratthng  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  pre:$^, 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than 

they;  356 

While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravag'd  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green,   360 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove. 
That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
Good  Heaven!  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that 

parting  day. 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past,      365 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd 

their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  th*^  first  prepar'd  to  go         371 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  other's  woe; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears,        375 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose,  380 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a 

tear. 
And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  Luxury !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree,  385 
How  ill  exchang'd  are  things  like  these  for  thee! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own :  390 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they 

grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe; 
Till  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  un- 
sound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 
Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun ,  395 

And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  Virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the 

sail 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale,  400 

Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderneae  are  there: 


378 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


And  Piety  with  wishes  placed  above,  405 

And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame        409 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame; 
Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride. 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
Thou  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me 

so; 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  noble  arts  excel,      415 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well! 
Farewell!  and  O  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried. 
On  Torno's*  chfifs  or  Pambamarca's^  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow. 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow,        420 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time. 
Redress  the  rigours  of  the  inclement  clime; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain; 
Teach   him,   that   states   of   native   strength 

possest,  425 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest; 
That   trade's  proud  empire  hastes   to  swift 

decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.  430 


THE  HERMIT 

A  BALLAD 

(1766) 

"Turn,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way. 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  valo 

With  hospitable  ray. 

"For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread,  5 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow; 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread. 
Seem  length'ning  as  I  go." 

"Forbear,  my  son,"  the  Hermit  cries, 
"To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom;        lo 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

"Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant,      is 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

"Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows. 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare. 

My  blessing  and  repose.  20 

"No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 

To  slaughter  I  condemn; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  leam  to  pity  them. 

*  Possibly  the  river  Tornea,  flowing  into  the  Gulf  of 
Bothnia;  or  Lake  Tornea  in  Northern  Sweden. 
'  Said  to  be  a  mountain  near  Quito,  Ecuador. 


"But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side        25 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  suppHed, 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

"Then  pilgrim,  turn;  thy  cares  forego; 

All  earth-bom  cares  are  wrong;  30 

Man  wants  but  httle  here  below. 

Nor  wants  that  Uttle  long." 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell: 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends,  35 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay, 
A  refuge  to  the  neighb'ring  poor 

And  strangers  led  astray.  40 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Required  a  master's  care; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire  45 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  Hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 

And  cheer'd  his  pensive  guest: 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 

And  gaily  pressed,  and  smiled;  50 

And,  skill'd  in  legendary  lore. 

The  hngering  hours  beguiled. 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries; 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth,  55 

The  crackhng  faggot  flies. 

But  nothmg  could  a  charm  impart 

To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe; 
For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  began  to  flow.  60 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied. 

With  answering  care  opprest; 
"And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 

"The  sorrows  of  thy  breast? 

"From  better  habitations  spurn'd,  65 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unretum'd 

Or  unregarded  love? 

"Alas!  the  joys  that  Fortune  brings 
Are  trifling,  and  decay;  70 

And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 
More  trifling  still  than  they. 

"And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep; 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame,  75 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep? 


PHILIP  DORMER  STANHOPE,  LORD  CHESTERFIELD        379 


"And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 
The  modem  fair-one's  jest; 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 


"For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 

And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said; 
But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 

Surprised  he  sees  new  beauties  rise,  85 

Swift  manthng  to  the  view : 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast. 

Alternate  spread  alarms;  90 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 
A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"And  ah!  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 

A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried; 
*' Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude         93 

Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

"But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray; 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 

Companion  of  her  way.  100 

"My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne; 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine, — 

He  had  but  only  me. 

"To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumber'd  suitors  came; 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms. 

And  felt  or  feign'd  a  flame. 


"Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn,  135 

80  In  secret,  where  he  d'ed. 

"But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  th«  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay.  140 

"And  there  forlorn,  despairing  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die; 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did. 

And  so  for  him  will  I." 

"Forbid  it,  Heaven!"  the  Hermit  cried,    145 
And  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast: 

The  wondering  fair  one  turn'd  to  chide, — 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  press'd. 

"Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see  150 

Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

"Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 

And  every  care  resign; 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part,  155 

My  hfe — ^my  all  that's  mine? 

"No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part. 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true. 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too."  160 


105 


"Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd 
But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

"In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad. 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

"And  when  beside  me  in  the  dale 

He  carroll'd  lays  of  love. 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 

And  music  to  the  grove. 

"The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined. 
Could  nought  of  purity  display. 

To  emulate  his  mind. 

"The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
With  charms  inconstant  shine; 

Their  charms  were  his,  but,  woe  to  me! 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

"For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art. 

Importunate  and  vain; 
And  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  heart, 

I  triumph'd  in  his  pain : 


pijilip  Dormer  ^tanliope, 
iioro  €^mtxMr}^ 

1694-1773 

MANNERS  MAKYTH  MAN 

(Letter  LXXIV.,  from  Letters  to  His  Son,  1774) 

Spa,  25th  July,  1741. 
Dear  Boy — I  have  often  told  you  in  my 
former  letters  (and  it  is  most  certainly  true) 
that  the  strictest  and  most  scrupulous  honour 
5  and  virtue  can  alone  make  you  esteemed  and 
valued  by  mankind;  that  parts  and  learning 
can  alone  make  you  admired  and  celebrated 
by  them;  but  that  the  possession  of  lesser  tal- 
ents was  most  absolutely  necessary  towards 
10  making  you  liked,  beloved,  and  sought  after 
in  private  life.     Of  these  lesser  talents  good 
breeding  is  the  principal  and  most  necessary 
one,  not  only  as  it  is  very  important  in  itself, 

»A  well  known  wit,  politician,  orator,  and  "fine- 
^^^  gentleman,"  in  the  age  of  Pope  and  of  Johnson.  He  was  a 
typical  product  of  early  18th  century  England,  in  which 
essential  coarseness  and  materialism  were  too  often 
covered  with  a  superficial  veneer  of  polish  and  refinement. 
His  early  repulse  of  Dr.  Johnson,  and  belated  offer  of 
patronage  occasioned  Johnson's  famous  letter  of  rebuke, 
which  is  given  on  p.  385.  His  Letters,  which  were  not 
130  written  for  publication  but  intended  to  serve  as  a  practical 
guide  to  his  son  in  conduct  and  manners,  reflect  with  a 
terrible  truthfulness  the  views  and  standards  of  their 
author. 


110 


115 


120 


380  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

but  as  it  adds  lustre  to  the  more  solid  advan-  From  this  account  of  what  you  should  not 
tages  both  of  the  heart  and  mind.  I  have  often  do,  you  may  easily  judge  of  what  you  should 
touched  upon  good  breeding  to  you  before;  so  do;  and  a  due  attention  to  the  manners  of 
that  this  letter  shall  be  upon  the  next  necessary  people  of  fashion,  and  who  have  seen  the  world, 
qualification  to  it,  which  is  a  genteel,  easy  5  will  make  it  habitual  and  familiar  to  you. 
manner,  and  carriage,  wholly  free  from  those  There  is  likewise  an  awkwardness  of  expres- 

odd  tricks,  ill  habits,  and  awkwardnesses,  sion  and  words,  most  carefully  to  be  avoided; 
which  even  many  very  worthy  and  sensible  such  as  false  Enghsh,  bad  pronunciation,  old 
people  have  in  their  behaviour.  However  sayings,  and  common  proverbs;  which  are  so 
trifling  a  genteel  manner  may  sound,  it  is  of  10  many  proofs  of  having  kept  bad  and  low  com- 
very  great  consequence  towards  pleasing  in  pany.  For  example;  if,  instead  of  saying  that 
private  life,  especially  the  women;  which,  one  tastes  are  different,  and  that  every  man  has 
time  or  other,  you  will  think  worth  pleasing;  his  own  peculiar  one,  you  should  let  off  a  prov- 
and  I  have  known  many  a  man  from  his  awk-  erb,  and  say.  That  what  is  one  man's  meat  is 
wardness,  give  people  such  a  dislike  of  him  at  15  another  man's  poison;  or  else.  Everyone  as 
first,  that  all  his  merit  could  not  get  the  better  they  like,  as  the  good  man  said  when  he  kissed 
of  it  afterwards.  Whereas  a  genteel  manner  his  cow;  everybody  would  be  persuaded  that 
prepossesses  people  in  your  favour,  bends  them  you  had  never  kept  company  with  anybody 
towards  you,  and  makes  them  wish  to  Uke  you,  above  footmen  and  housemaids. 
Awkwardness  can  proceed  from  two  causes;  20  Attention  will  do  all  this;  and  without  atten- 
either  from  not  having  kept  good  company,  tion,  nothing  is  to  be  done;  want  of  atten- 
or  from  not  having  attended  to  it.  As  for  your  tion,  which  is  really  want  of  thought,  is  either 
keeping  good  company,  I  will  take  care  of  folly  or  madness.  You  should  not  only  have 
that;  do  you  take  care  to  observe  their  ways  attention  to  everything,  but  a  quickness  of 
and  manners,  and  to  form  your  own  upon  25  attention,  so  as  to  observe,  at  once,  all  the 
them.  Attention  is  absolutely  necessary  to  people  in  the  room;  their  motions,  their  looks, 
this,  as  indeed  it  is  for  everything  else;  and  a  and  their  words,  and  yet  without  staring  at 
man  without  attention  is  not  fit  to  live  in  the  them,  and  seeming  to  be  an  observer,  this 
world.  When  an  awkward  fellow  first  comes  quick  and  unobserved  observation  is  of  in- 
into  the  room,  it  is  highly  probable,  that  his  30  finite  advantage  in  life,  and  is  to  be  acquired 
sword  gets  between  his  legs,  and  throws  him  with  care;  and,  on  the  contrary,  what  is  called 
down,  or  makes  him  stumble  at  least;  wheii  he  absence,  which  is  a  thoughtlessness,  and  want 
has  recovered  this  accident,  he  goes  and  places  of  attention  about  what  is  doing,  makes  a  man 
himself  in  the  very  place  of  the  whole  room  so  like  either  a  fool  or  a  madman,  that,  for  my 
where  he  should  not;  then  he  soon  lets  his  hat  35  part,  I  see  no  real  difference.  A  fool  never  has 
fall  down,  and,  in  taking  it  up  again,  throws  thought;  a  madman  has  lost  it;  and  an  absent 
down  his  cane;  in  recovering  his  cane,  his  hat  man  is,  for  the  time,  without  it. 
falls  down  a  second  time;  so  that  he  is  a  quarter  Adieu!  Direct  your  next  to  me,  Chez  Mon- 
of  an  hour  before  he  is  in  order  again.  If  he  ^eur  Chabert,  Banquier,  d  Paris;  and  take  care 
drinks  tea  or  coffee,  he  certainly  scalds  his  40 1  find  the  improvements  I  expect,  at  my  return, 
mouth,  and  lets  either  the  cup  or  the  saucer 

fall,  and  spills  the  tea  or  coffee  in  his  breeches.  STYT  F 

At  dinner,  his  awkwardness  distinguishes  it- 
self particularly  as  he  has  more  to  do:  there  he  (From  Letter  CCIII) 
holds  his  knife,  fork,  and  spoon  differently  from  45  I  have  written  to  you  so  often  of  late  upon 
other  people;  eats  with  his  knife  to  the  great  good  breeding,  address,  les  manihres  lianies,^ 
danger  of  his  mouth,  picks  his  teeth  with  his  the  graces,  etc.  that  I  shall  confine  this  letter 
fork,  and  puts  his  spoon  which  has  been  in  his  to  another  subject,  pretty  near  akin  to  them, 
throat  twenty  times,  into  the  dishes  again.  If  and  which,  I  am  sure,  you  are  full  as  deficient 
he  is  to  carve,  he  can  never  hit  the  joint;  but,  50  in;  I  mean,  style. 

in  his  vain  efforts  to  cut  through  the  bone.  Style  is  the  dress  of  thoughts;  and  let  them 

scatters  the  sauce  in  everybody's  face.  He  be  ever  so  just,  if  your  style  is  homely,  coarse, 
generally  daubs  himself  with  soup  and  grease,  and  vulgar,  they  will  appear  to  as  much  dis- 
though  his  napkin  is  commonly  stuck  through  advantage,  and  be  as  ill  received  as  your  per- 
a  button-hole  and  tickles  his  chin.  ...  All  55  son,  though  ever  so  well  proportioned,  would, 
this,  I  own,  is  not  in  any  degree  criminal;  but  if  dressed  in  rags,  dirt,  and  tatters.  It  is  not 
It  IS  highly  disagreeable  and  ridiculous  in  com-  every  understanding  that  can  judge  of  matter; 
pany,  and  ought  most  carefully  to  be  avoided      but  every  ear  can  and  does  judge  more  or  less 

by  whoever  desires  to  please.  x  Pleasing  manners. 


PHILIP  DORMER  STANHOPE,   LORD  CHESTERFIELD         381 

of  style;  and  were  I  either  to  speak  or  write  to  A  person  of  the  House  of  Commons,  speak- 

the  public,  I  should  prefer  moderate  matter,  ing  two  years  ago  upon  naval  affairs,  asserted 
adorned  with  all  the  beauties  and  elegancies  that  we  had  then  the  finest  navy  wpon  the  face 
of  style,  to  the  strongest  matter  in  the  world,  of  the  yearlh.  This  happy  mixture  of  blunder 
ill-worded  and  ill-delivered.  Your  business  5  and  vulgarism,  you  may  easily  imagine,  was 
is  Negotiation  abroad,  and  Oratory  in  the  matter  of  immediate  ridicule;  but  I  can  assure 
House  of  Commons  at  home.  What  figure  you  that  it  continues  so  still,  and  will  be  re- 
can  you  make  in  either  case  if  your  style  be  membered  as  long  as  he  lives  and  speaks.  An- 
inelegant,  I  do  not  say  bad?  Imagine  your-  other,  speaking  in  defence  of  a  gentleman 
self  writing  an  office-letter  to  a  Secretary  of  10  upon  whom  a  censure  was  moved,  happily 
State,  which  letter  is  to  be  read  by  the  whole  said  that  he  thought  that  gentleman  was 
Cabinet  Council,  and  very  possibly  afterwards  more  liable  to  be  thanked  and  rewarded,  than 
laid  before  Parliament;  any  one  barbarism,  censured.  You  know,  I  presume,  that  liable 
solecism,  or  vulgarism  in  it  would,  in  a  very  can  never  be  used  in  a  good  sense, 
few  days,  circulate  through  the  whole  king-  15  You  have  with  you  three  or  four  of  the  best 
dom  to  your  disgrace  and  ridicule.  For  in-  English  authors,  Dryden,  Atterbury,^  and 
stance;  I  will  suppose  you  had  written  the  Swift;  read  them  with  the  utmost  care,  and 
following  letter  from  the  Hague;  to  the  Secre-  with  a  particular  care  to  their  language,  and 
tary  of  State  at  London;  and  leave  you  to  they  may  possibly  correct  that  curious  in- 
suppose  the  consequences  of  it.  20  felicity  of  diction,  which  you  acquired  at  West- 

My  Lord — I  had  last  night,  the  honour  of  minster.  Mr.  Harte*  excepted,  I  will  admit 
your  Lordship's  letter  of  the  24th;  and  will  that  you  have  met  with  very  few  English 
set  about  doing  the  orders  contained  therein;  abroad  who  could  improve  your  style;  and 
and  if  so  be  that  I  can  get  that  affair  done  by  with  many,  I  dare  say,  who  speak  as  ill  as 
the  next  post,  I  will  not  fail  for  to  give  your  25  yourself,  and  it  may  be  worse;  you  must  there- 
Lordship  an  account  of  it  by  next  post.  I  have  fore  take  the  more  pains,  and  consult  your 
told  the  French  Minister,  as  how,  that  if  that  authors  and  Mr.  Harte  the  more.  I  need 
affair  be  not  soon  concluded,  your  Lordship  not  tell  you  how  attentive  the  Romans  and 
would  think  it  all  long  of  him;  and  that  he  must  Greeks,  particularly  the  Athenians  were  to 
have  neglected  for  to  have  wrote  to  his  Court  30  this  object.  It  is  also  a  study  among  the  Ital- 
about  it.  I  must  beg  leave  to  put  your  Lord-  ians  and  the  French,  witness  their  respective 
ship  in  mind,  as  how,  that  I  am  now  full  three  Academies  and  Dictionaries,  for  improving 
quarters  in  arrear;  and  if  so  be  that  I  do  not  and  fixing  their  languages.  To  our  shame  be 
very  soon  receive  at  least  one  half  year,  I  shall  it  spoken,  it  is  less  attended  to  here  than  in 
cut  a  very  bad  figure;  for  this  here  place  is  very  35  any  polite  country;  but  that  is  no  reason  why 
dear.  I  shall  be  vastly  beholden  to  your  Lord-  you  should  not  attend  to  it;  on  the  contrary 
ship  for  that  there  mark  of  your  favour;  and  it  will  distinguish  you  the  more.  Cicero  says, 
so  I  rest,  or  remain,  Your,  etc.  very  truly,  that  it  is  glorious  to  excel  other 

You  will  tell  me,  possibly  that  this  is  a  men  in  that  very  article,  in  which  men  excel 
caricatura  of  an  illiberal  and  inelegant  style;  40  brutes,  speech. 

I  Avill  admit  it:  but  I  assure  you,  at  the  same  Constant  experience  has  shown  me,    that 

time,  that  a  despatch  with  less  than  half  these  great  purity  and  elegance  of  style,  with  a 
faults  would  blow  you  up  forever.  It  is  by  no  graceful  elocution,  cover  a  multitude  of  faults 
means  sufficient  to  be  free  from  faults  in  speak-  in  either  a  speaker  or  a  writer.  For  my  own 
ing  and  writing;  you  must  do  both  correctly  45  part,  I  confess  (and  I  believe  most  people  are 
and  elegantly.  In  faults  of  this  kind  it  is  not  of  my  mind)  that  if  a  speaker  should  ungrace- 
ille  optimus  qui  minimis  urgetur;^  but  he  is  fully  mutter  or  stammer  out  to  me  the  sense 
unpardonable  that  has  any  at  all,  because  it  is  of  an  angel,  deformed  by  barbarisms  and 
his  own  fault:  he  need  only  attend  to,  observe,  solecisms,  or  larded  with  vulgarisms,  he  should 
and  imitate  the  best  authors.  50  never  speak  to  me  a  second  time,  if  I  could 

It  is  a  very  true  saying,  that  a  man  must  be  help  it.  Gain  the  heart,  or  you  gam  nothmg; 
born  a  poet,  but  that  he  may  make  himself  an  ,  the  eyes  and  the  ears  are  only  the  road  to  the 
orator;  and  the  very  first  principle  of  an  ora-  heart.  Merit  and  knowledge  will  not  gam 
tor  is,  to  speak  his  own  language,  particularly,      hearts  though  they  will   secure   them   when 

with  the  utmost  purity  and  elegance.     A  man  55      s  Frauds  Atterbury  (16G2-1732),  a  prominent  preacher, 

.„  ,       »        .  ^         '^         ,  -^  „  f^^^i^^       and   clever   writer   and   controversialist.      He   was   the 

Will  be  forgiven,  even  great  errors,  in  a  lOreign       fnend   of   Pope,  Swift,  Bolingbroke,  and   other  distin- 

language ;  but  in  his  own  even  the  least  slips  are      guished  men  of  his  tirne. 

•      ii     f  •  1  1     1  1     i?        J     -J-      1   J  *  Waller  Harte  (c.  1707-1774),  who  was  tutor  to  Chea- 

JUStly  laid  hold  or  and  ridlCUlea.  terfield's  son.    He  wrote  various  poems  and  essays,  and  a 

2  He  ia  the  best  who  is  the  least  burdened.  History  of  Gustavus  A  dolphus. 


382  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

gained.  Pray  have  that  truth  ever  in  your  As  soon  as  the  play,  which  was  Hamlet, 
mind.  Engage  the  eyes  by  your  address,  air,  Prince  of  Denmark,  began,  Partridge  was  all 
and  motions;  soothe  the  ears  by  the  elegance  attention,  nor  did  he  break  silence  till  the 
and  harmony  of  your  diction;  the  heart  will  entrance  of  the  ghost;  upon  which  he  asked 
certainly  follow,  and  the  whole  man  or  woman  5  Jones,  "What  man  was  that  in  the  strange 
will  as  certainly  follow  the  heart.  I  must  dress;  something,"  said  he,  "like  what  I  have 
repeat  it  to  you  over  and  over  again,  that  with  seen  in  a  picture.  Sure  it  is  not  armour,  is  it?" 
all  the  knowledge  which  you  may  have  at  Jones  answered,  "That  is  the  ghost."  To 
present  or  hereafter  acquire,  and  with  all  the  which  Partridge  replied,  with  a  smile,  "Per- 
merit  that  ever  man  had,  if  you  have  not  a  lo  suade  me  to  that,  sir,  if  you  can.  Though  I 
graceful  address,  hberal  and  engaging  manners,  can't  say  I  ever  actually  saw  a  ghost  in  my  life, 
a  prepossessing  air,  and  a  good  degree  of  elo-  yet  I  am  certain  I  should  know  one  if  I  saw 
quence  in  speaking  and  writing,  you  will  be  him,  better  than  that  comes  to.  No,  no,  sir, 
nobody;  but  will  have  the  daily  mortification  of  ghosts  don't  appear  in  such  dresses  as  that, 
seeing  people,  with  not  one-tenth  part  of  your  15  neither."  In  this  mistake,  which  caused  much 
merit  or  knowledge,  get  the  start  of  you  and  laughter  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Partridge,  he 
disgrace  you  both  in  company  and  in  business,      was  suffered  to  continue,  till  the  scene  between 

the  ghost  and  Hamlet,  when  Partridge  gave 
Jt)ntt^  iFiri5ittS  *^^*  credit  to  Mr.   Garrick,^  which  he  had 

20  denied  to  Jones,   and  fell  into  so  violent  a 

1707-1754  trembling,  that  his  knees  knocked  against  each 

PARTRIDGE  AT  THE  PLAY  other.    Jones  asked  him  what  was  the  matter, 

and  whether  he  was  afraid  of  the  warrior  upon 
(From  Tom  Jones,  1749)  th^  stage?    "O  la!  sir,"  said  he,  "I  perceive  now 

Mr.  Jones  having  spent  three  hours  in  read-  25  it  is  what  you  told  me.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
ing  and  kissing  the  aforesaid  letter,  ^  and  being  anything;  for  I  know  it  is  but  a  play.  And  if  it 
at  last,  in  a  state  of  good  spirits,  from  the  last-  was  really  a  ghost,  it  could  do  one  no  harm  at 
mentioned  considerations,  he  agreed  to  carry  such  a  distance,  and  in  so  much  company;  and 
an  appointment,  which  he  had  before  made,  yet  if  I  was  frightened,  I  am  not  the  only 
into  execution.  This  was,  to  attend  Mrs.  30 person."  "Why,  who,"  cries  Jones,  "dost  thou 
Miller,  and  her  younger  daughter,  into  the  take  to  be  such  a  coward  here  besides  thyself  ? " 
gallery  at  the  playhouse  and  to  admit  Mr.  "Nay,  you  may  call  me  coward,  if  you  will; 
Partridge^  as  one  of  the  company.  For  as  but  if  that  little  man  there  upon  the  stage  is 
Jones  had  really  that  taste  for  humour  which  not  frightened,  I  never  saw  any  man  frightened 
many  affect,  he  expected  to  enjoy  much  enter- 35  in  my  life.  Ay,  ay:  go  along  with  you!  Ay,  to 
tainment  in  the  criticisms  of  Partridge,  from  be  sure!  Who's  fool  then?  Will  you?  Lud 
whom  he  expected  the  simple  dictates  of  nature,  have  mercy  upon  such  foolhardiness! — What- 
unimproved,  indeed,  but  likewise  unadulter-  ever  happens,  it  is  good  enough  for  you. — 
ated,  by  art.  Follow  you?     I'd  follow  the  devil  as  soon. 

In  the  first  row  then  of  the  first  gallery  did  40  Nay,  perhaps  it  is  the  devil — for  they  say  he 
Mr.  Jones,  Mrs.  Miller,  her  youngest  daughter,  can  put  on  what  likeness  he  pleases. — Oh!  here 
and  Partridge,  take  their  places.  Partridge  he  is  again. — No  farther!  No,  you  have  gone 
immediately  declared  it  was  the  finest  place  far  enough  already;  farther  than  I'd  have  gone 
he  had  ever  been  in.  When  the  first  music  for  all  the  king's  dominions."  Jones  offered  to 
was  played  he  said,  "It  was  a  wonder  how  so 45 speak,  but  Partridge  cried,  "Hush,  hush!  dear 
many  fiddlers  could  play  at  one  time,  without  sir,  don't  you  hear  him?"  And  during  the 
putting  one  another  out."  While  the  fellow  whole  speech  of  the  ghost,  he  sat  with  his  eyes 
was  lighting  the  upper  candles,  he  cried  out  to  partly  fixed  on  the  ghost  and  partly  on  Hamlet, 
Mrs.  Miller,  "Look,  look.  Madam,  the  very  and  with  his  mouth  open;  the  same  passions 
picture  of  the  man  in  the  end  of  the  common-  50  which  succeeded  each  other  in  Hamlet,  suc- 
prayer   book    before    the    gunpowder-treason      ceeding  likewise  in  him. 

service."  Nor  could  he  help  observing  with  a  When  the  scene  was  over  Jones  said,  "Why, 
sigh,  when  all  the  candles  were  lighted,  "That  Partridge,  you  exceed  my  expectations.  You 
here  were  candles  enow  burnt  in  one  night,  to  enjoy  the  play  more  than  I  conceived  possible." 
keep  an  honest  poor  family  for  a  whole  twelve-  55 

month."  ^  David    Garrick    (1717-79),    the    friend    of    Johnson, 

Reynolds,  and  Goldsmith,  and  the  greatest  English  actor 

1.  e.,  a  letter  from  Sophia  Western,  with  whom  Tom       of  his  time.     Garrick  began  his  career  on  the  stage  in 

Jones,  the  hero  of  the  story,  is  m  love.  1741.  his  Richard  III,  produced  in  that  year,  was  imme- 

*  A  country  barber  and  schoolmaster,  who  has  become       diately  successful;  he  played  many  and  varied  parts,  and 

the  follower  and  companion  of  Tom  Jones.  _  retired  from  the  stage  in  1776. 


HENRY  FIELDING  383 

"Nay,  sir,"  answered  Partridge,  "if  you  are  doings.  Ay,  go  about  your  business,  I  hate 
not  afraid  of  the  devil,  I  can't  help  it;  but  to      the  sight  of  you." 

be  sure,  it  is  natural  to  be  surprised  at  such  Our  critic  was  now  pretty  silent  till  the  play, 

things,  thought  I  know  there  is  nothing  in  which  Hamlet  introduces  before  the  king, 
them:  not  that  it  was  the  ghost  that  surprised  5  This  he  did  not  at  first  understand,  till  Jones 
me,  neither;  for  I  should  have  known  that  to  explained  it  to  him;  but  he  no  sooner  entered 
be  only  a  man  in  a  strange  dress;  but  when  I  into  the  spirit  of  it,  than  he  began  to  bless 
saw  the  little  man  so  frightened  himself,  it  himself  that  he  had  never  committed  murder, 
was  that  which  took  hold  of  me."  "And  dost  Then  turning  to  Mrs.  Miller,  he  asked  her, 
thou  imagine  then,  Partridge,"  cries  Jones,  10  "If  she  did  not  imagine  the  king  looked  as  if 
"that  he  was  really  frightened?"  "Nay,  sir,"  he  was  touched;  though  he  is,"  said  he,  "a 
said  Partridge,  "did  not  you  yourself  observe  good  actor,  and  doth  all  he  can  to  hide  it. 
afterwards,  when  he  found  it  was  his  own  Well,  I  would  not  have  so  much  to  answer  for 
father's  spirit,  and  how  he  was  murdered  in  as  that  wicked  man  there  hath,  to  sit  upon  a 
the  garden,  how  his  fear  forsook  him  by  de- 15  much  higher  chair  than  he  sits  upon.  No 
grees,  and  he  was  struck  dumb  with  sorrow  as  wonder  he  run  away;  for  your  sake  I'll  never 
it  were,  just  as  I  should  have  been,  had  it  been  trust  an  innocent  face  again." 
my  own  case?    But  hush!    O  la!  what  noise  is  The  grave  digging  scene  next  engaged  the 

that?  There  he  is  again — Well,  to  be  certain,  attention  of  Partridge,  who  expressed  much 
though  I  know  there  is  nothing  at  all  in  it,  20  surprise  at  the  number  of  skulls  thrown  upon 
I  am  glad  I  am  not  down  yonder,  where  those  the  stage.  To  which  Jones  answered,  "That 
men  are."  Then  turning  his  eyes  upon  Ham-  it  was  one  of  the  most  famous  burial-places 
let,  "Ay,  you  may  draw  your  sword;  what  about  town."  "No  wonder  then,"  cried  Part- 
signifies  a  sword  against  the  power  of  the  ridge,  "that  the  place  is  haunted.  But  I  never 
devil?"  25 saw  in  my  life  a  worse  grave-digger.    I  had  a 

During  the  second  act.  Partridge  made  very  sexton,  when  I  was  clerk,  that  should  have 
few  remarks.  He  greatly  admired  the  fineness  dug  three  graves  while  he  is  digging  one.  The 
of  the  dresses;  nor  could  he  help  observing  fellow  handles  a  spade  as  if  it  was  the  first  time 
upon  the  king's  countenance.  "Well,"  said  he  had  ever  had  one  in  his  hand.  Ay,  ay,  you 
he,  "how  people  may  be  deceived  by  faces?  30  may  sing.  You  had  rather  sing  than  work, 
Nulla  fides  fronti'^  is,  I  find,  a  true  saying.  Who  I  believe."  Upon  Hamlet's  taking  up  the  skull, 
would  think,  by  looking  in  the  king's  face,  he  cried  out,  "Well,  it  is  strange  to  see  how 
that  he  had  ever  committed  a  murder?"  He  fearless  some  men  are:  I  never  could  bring 
then  enquired  after  the  ghost;  but  Jones,  who  myself  to  touch  anything  belonging  to  a  dead 
intended  he  should  be  surprised,  gave  him  no  35  man,  on  any  account.  He  seemed  frightened 
other  satisfaction,  than  "that  he  might  possibly  enough  too,  at  the  ghost,  I  thought.  Nerrw 
see  him  again  soon,  and  in  a  flash  of  fire."  omnibus  horis  sapit."^ 

Partridge  sat  in  fearful  expectation  of  this;  Little  more  worth  remembering  occurred 
and  now,  when  the  ghost  made  his  next  ap-  during  the  play,  at  the  end  of  which  Jones 
pearance.  Partridge  cried  out,  "There,  sir,  40 asked  him,  "Which  of  the  players  he  had 
now;  what  say  you  now?  is  he  frightened  now,  liked  best?"  To  this  he  answered  with  some 
or  no?  As  much  frightened  as  you  think  me,  appearance  of  indignation  at  the  question, 
and,  to  be  sure,  nobody  can  help  some  fears.  "The  king  without  doubt."  "Indeed,  Mr. 
I  would  not  be  in  so  bad  a  condition  as  What's  Partridge,"  says  Mrs.  Miller,  "you  are  not 
his  name,  squire  Hamlet,  is  there,  for  all  the  45  of  the  same  opinion  with  the  town;  for  they 
world.  Bless  me!  what's  become  of  the  spirit?  are  all  agreed,  that  Hamlet  is  acted  by  the 
As  I  am  a  living  soul,  I  thought  I  saw  him  best  player  who  ever  was  on  the  stage."  "He 
sink  into  the  earth."  "Indeed,  you  saw  right,*  the  best  player!"  cries  Partridge,  with  a  con- 
answered  Jones.  "Well,  well,"  cried  Part-  temptuous  sneer,  "why,  I  could  act  as  well 
ridge,  "I  know  it  is  only  a  play:  and  besides,  50 as  he  myself.  I  am  sure  if  I  had  seen  a  ghost, 
if  there  was  anything  in  all  that.  Madam  I  should  have  looked  in  the  very  same  manner. 
Miller  would  not  laugh  so;  for  as  to  you,  sir,  and  done  just  as  he  did.  And  then,  to  be 
you  would  not  be  afraid,  I  believe,  if  the  devil  sure,  in  that  scene,  as  you  call  it,  between  him 
was  here  in  person.  There,  there,  ay,  no  and  his  mother,  where  you  told  me  he  acted 
wonder  you  are  in  such  a  passion,  shake  the  55  so  fine,  why,  Lord  help  me,  any  man,  that  is, 
vile  wretch  to  pieces.  If  she  was  my  own  any  good  man,  that  had  such  a  mother,  would 
mother,  I  would  serve  her  so.  To  be  sure  all  have  done  just  exactly  the  same.  I  know  you 
duty  to  a  mother  is  forfeited  by  such  wicked  are  only  joking  with  me;  but  indeed,  Madam, 
«  Do  not  trust  in  the  face.  6  No  one  is  wise  at  all  times.  . 


384  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 

though  I  was  never  at  a  play  in  London,  yet  loud  huntsman,  or  the  formal  parson,  the 
I  have  seen  acting  before  in  the  country;  and  roar  of  obstreperous  jollity,  or  the  dulness  of 
the  king  for  my  money;  he  speaks  all  his  words  prudential  instruction;  without  any  retreat, 
distinctly,  half  as  loud  again  as  the  other,  but  to  the  gloom  of  solitude,  where  they  will 
Anybody  may  see  he  is  an  actor."  5  yet    find    greater   inconveniences,    and    must 

Thus  ended  the  adventure  of  the  playhouse,  learn,  however  unwillingly,  to  endure  them- 
where    Partridge    had    afforded    great   mirth,     selves. 

not  only  to  Jones  and  Mrs.  Miller,  but  to  all  In  winter,  the  life  of  the  polite  and  gay  may 
who  sat  within  hearing,  who  were  more  at-  be  said  to  roll  on  with  a  strong  and  rapid 
tentive  to  what  he  said,  than  to  anything  that  10  current;  they  float  along  from  pleasure  to 
passed  on  the  stage.  pleasure,   without   the   trouble   of   regulating 

He  durst  not  go  to  bed  all  that  night,  for  their  own  motions,  and  pursue  the  course  of 
fear  of  the  ghost;  and  for  many  nights  after  the  stream  in  all  the  felicity  of  inattention; 
sweated  two  or  three  hours  before  he  went  to  content  that  they  find  themselves  in  progres- 
sleep,  with  the  same  apprehensions,  and  waked  15  sion,  and  careless  whither  they  are  going.  But 
several  times  in  great  horrors,  crying  out,  the  months  of  summer  are  a  kind  of  sleeping 
"Lord  have  mercy  upon  us!    There  it  is."  stagnation,  without  wind  or  tide,  where  they 

are  left  to  force  themselves  forward  by  their 

own  labour,  and  to  direct  their  passage  by 

^atnUCl   31Ol)n0On  20  their  own  skill;  and  where,  if  they  have  not 

some  internal  principle  of  activity,  they  must 
1709-1784  ^je  stranded  upon  shallows,  or  lie  torpid  in  a 

perpetual  calm. 
THE  LADY'S  MISERY  IN  A  rpj^ej.^  are,  indeed,  some  to  whom  this  uni- 

SUMMER  RETIREMENT  25versal  dissolution  of  gay  societies  affords  a 

(TheRambler,  No.  124,  Saturday,  May25, 1751)  welcome  opportunity  of  quitting,  without  dis- 
grace, the  post  which  they  have  found  them- 
The  season  of  the  year  is  now  come,  in  which  selves  unable  to  maintain;  and  of  seeming  to 
the  theatres  are  shut,  and  the  card-tables  retreat  only  at  the  call  of  nature,  from  assem- 
forsaken;  the  regions  of  luxury  are  for  a  while  30  blies  where,  after  a  short  triumph  of  un  con- 
unpeopled,  and  pleasure  leads  out  her  votaries  tested  superiority,  they  are  overpowered  by 
to  groves  and  gardens,  to  still  scenes  and  er-  some  new  intruder  of  softer  elegance,  or 
ratic  ^  gratifications.  Those  who  have  passed  sprightlier  vivacity.  By  these,  hopeless  of 
many  months  in  a  continual  tumult  of  diver-  victory,  and  yet  ashamed  to  confess  a  con- 
sion;  who  have  never  opened  their  eyes  in  the  35  quest,  ^  the  summer  is  regarded  as  a  release 
morning  but  upon  some  new  appointment;  nor  from  the  fatiguing  service  of  celebrity,  a  dis- 
slept  at  night  without  a  dream  of  dances,  mission  to  more  certain  joys,  and  a  safer 
music,  and  good  hands,  or  of  soft  sighs,  and  empire.  They  now  solace  themselves  with  the 
humble  supplications;  must  now  retire  to  influence  which  they  shall  obtain,  where  they 
distant  provinces,  where  the  syrens  of  flattery  40  have  no  rival  to  fear;  and  with  the  lustre  which 
are  scarcely  to  be  heard,  where  beauty  sparkles  they  shall  effuse,  when  nothing  can  be  seen 
without  praise  or  envy,  and  wit  is  repeated  of  brighter  splendour.  They  imagine,  while 
only  by  the  echo.  they  are  preparing  for  their  journey,  the  ad- 

As  I  think  it  one  of  the  most  important  miration  with  which  the  rustics  will  crowd 
duties  of  social  benevolence,  to  give  warning  of  45  about  them;  plan  the  laws  of  a  new  assembly; 
the  approach  of  calamity,  when,  by  timely  or  contrive  to  delude  provincial  ignorance  with 
prevention,  it  may  be  turned  aside,  or,  by  a  fictitious  mode.  A  thousand  pleasing  ex- 
preparatory  measures,  be  more  easily  endured,  pectations  swarm  in  the  fancy;  and  all  the 
I  cannot  feel  the  increasing  warmth,  or  observe  approaching  weeks  are  filled  with  distinc- 
the  lengthening  days,  without  considering  the  50  tions,  honours,  and  authority, 
condition  of  my  fair  readers,  who  are  now  But  others,  who  have  lately  entered  the 
preparing  to  leave  all  that  has  so  long  filled  world,  or  have  yet  had  no  proofs  of  its  incon- 
up  their  hours,  all  from  which  they  have  been  stancy  and  desertion,  are  cut  off,  by  this  cruel 
accustomed  to  hope  for  delight;  and  who,  till  interruption,  from  the  enjoyment  of  their 
fashion  proclaims  the  liberty  of  returning  to  55  prerogatives,  and  doomed  to  lose  four  months 
the  seats  of  mirth  and  elegance,  must  endure  in  unactive  obscurity.  Many  complaints  do 
the  rugged  'squire,  the  sober  housewife,  the      vexation  and  desire  extort  from  those  exiled 

1  Lat.  errare,  to  wander,  then  to  stray,  hence  literally,  2  Conquest  has  here  a  passive  sense;  ashamed  to  confess 

the  pleasure  of  roaming.  that  they  have  been  conquered. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  385 

tyrants  of  the  town,  against  the  unexorable  virtue,  though  they  have  been  dissipated  by 
sun,  who  pursues  his  course  without  any  regard  neghgence,  or  misled  by  example;  and  who 
to  love  or  beauty;  and  visits  either  tropic^  at  would  gladly  find  the  way  to  rational  happi- 
the  stated  time,  whether  shunned  or  courted,  ness,  though  it  should  be  necessary  to  struggle 
deprecated  or  implored.  5  with  habit,  and  abandon  fashion.     To  these 

To  them  who  leave  the  places  of  public  many  arts  of  spending  time  might  be  recom- 
resort  in  the  full  bloom  of  reputation,  and  mended,  which  would  neither  sadden  the  pres- 
withdraw  from  admiration,  courtship,  submis-  ent  hour  with  weariness,  nor  the  future  with 
sion,  and  applause;  a  rural  triumph  can  give      repentance. 

nothing  equivalent.  The  praise  of  ignorance,  10  It  would  seem  impossible  to  a  solitary  specu- 
and  the  subjection  of  weakness,  are  little  re-  latist,^  that  a  human  being  can  want  employ- 
garded  by  beauties  who  have  been  accus-  ment.  To  be  born  in  ignorance  with  a  ca- 
tomed  to  more  important  conquests,  and  more  pacity  of  knowledge,  and  to  be  placed  in  the 
valuable  panegyrics.  Nor  indeed  should  the  midst  of  a  world  filled  with  variety,  perpetually 
powers  which  have  made  havoc  in  the  theatres,  15  pressing  upon  the  senses,  and  irritating  curios- 
or  borne  down  rivalry  in  courts,  be  degraded  ity,  is  surely  a  suflBcient  security  against  the 
to  a  mean  attack  upon  the  untravelled  heir,  languishment  of  inattention.  Novelty  is  in- 
or  ignoble  contest  with  the  ruddy  milk-maid.  deed    necessary    to    preserve    eagerness    and 

How  then  must  four  long  months  be  worn  alacrity;  but  art  and  nature  have  stores  in- 
away?  Four  months,  in  which  there  will  be  20  exhaustible  by  human  intellects;  and  every 
no  routs,^  no  shews,  no  ridottos;^  in  which  moment  produces  something  new  to  him,  who 
visits  must  be  regulated  by  the  weather,  and  has  quickened  his  faculties  by  diligent  ob- 
assemblies  will  depend  upon  the  moon!    The      servation. 

Platonists^  imagine,   that  the  future  punish-  Some  studies,  for  which  the  country  and 

ment  of  those  who  have  in  this  Hfe  debased  25  the  summer  afford  particular  opportunities, 
their  reason  by  subjection  to  their  senses,  and  I  shall  perhaps  endeavour  to  recommend  in  a 
have  preferred  the  gross  gratifications  of  lewd-  future  essay;  but  if  there  be  any  apprehen- 
ness  and  luxury,  to  the  pure  and  sublime  feHcity  sion^  not  apt  to  admit  unaccustomed  ideas, 
of  virtue  and  contemplation,  will  arise  from  or  any  attention  so  stubborn  and  inflexible, 
the  predominance  and  solicitations  of  the  same  30  as  not  easily  to  comply  with  new  directions, 
appetites,  in  a  state  which  can  furnish  no  even  these  obstructions  cannot  exclude  the 
means  of  appeasing  them.  I  cannot  but  sus-  pleasure  of  apphcation;  for  there  is  a  higher 
pect  that  this  month,  bright  with  sun-shine,  and  nobler  employment,  to  which  all  faculties 
and  fragrant  with  perfumes;  this  month,  are  adapted  by  him  who  gave  them.  The 
which  covers  the  meadow  with  verdure,  and  35  duties  of  religion,  sincerely  and  regularly  per- 
decks  the  gardens  with  all  the  mixtures  of  formed,  will  always  be  sufficient  to  exalt  the 
colorific  radiance;  this  month,  from  which  meanest,  and  to  exercise  the  highest  under- 
the  man  of  fancy  expects  new  infusions  of  standing.  That  mind  will  never  be  vacant, 
imagery,  and  the  naturalist  hew  scenes  of  which  is  frequently  recalled,  by  stated  duties, 
observation;  this  month  will  chain  down  mul-40to  meditations  on  eternal  interests;  nor  can 
titudes  to  the  Platonic  penance  of  desire  with-  any  hour  be  long,  which  is  spent  in  obtaining 
out  enjoyment,  and  hurry  them  from  the  some  new  qualification  for  celestial  happiness, 
highest    satisfactions,    which    they    have    yet 

learned  to  conceive,  into  a  state  of  hopeless       LETTER  TO  LORD  CHESTERFIELD^ 
wishes,  and  pining  recollection,  where  the  eye  45 

of  vanity  will  look  round  for  admiration  to  no      "My  Lord,  "February  7,  1755. 

purpose,  and  the  hand  of  avarice  shuffle  cards  "I  have  been  lately  informed,  by  the  pro- 

in  a  bower  with  ineffectual  dexterity.  prietor  of  the  World,  that  two  papers,  in  which 

From   the   tediousness   of  this   melancholy      my  Dictionary  is  recommended  to  the  public, 

suspension   of  life,    I   would  willingly  preserve  50      t  a  philosopher,  a  theori.-^er;  almost  obs. 
those  who  are  exposed  to  it,  only  by  inexperi-  '  i-  e..  any  whose  apprehension  is  not  apt,  etc. 

enee;  who  want  not  inclination  to  wisdom  or     .o^^feSd'^'SbSa^^t  ?,Jm S  '?hl'pipt?atioi''o?^ 

» In  the  astronomical  tropics,  circles  in  the  celestial  large  a  book  was  expensive  as  well  as  laborious,  and 

sfphere,  233^°  distant  from  the  equator,  called  from  the  Johnson  made  some  effort  to  secure  the  patronage  of 

signs  of  the  zodiac  through  which  they  pass  Capricorn  Lord  Chesterfield  for  his  important  undertaking.    John- 

and  Cancer.  son's  overtures  were  rejected  in  a  manner  that,  to  his 

*  Noisy  entertainments.  sturdy  and  independent  temper,  seemed  insulting.  Shortly 

*  Dancing  parties:  an  Italian  word.  before  the  publication   of   the  Dictionary,   Chesterfield 
6  For   the   Platonic   doctrine   of   future   rewards    and  wrote  two  notices  of  the  forthcoming  book,  whereupon 

punishments  see  Jowett's  translation  of  the  Phaedo,  near  Johnson  addressed  him  in  the  famous  letter,  which  has 
the  close,  §131.  Cf.  also  the  close  of  the  Republic,  been  called  The  Declaration  of  Independence  ioT  Axxthon  v. 
Milton's  Comus,  lines  461-475,  and  the  Spectator,  No.  90.       Chesterfield,  p.  379,  n.  I, 


386  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

were  written  by  your  Lordship.     To  be  so  COLLINS 

distinguished,  is  an  honour,  which,  being  very  ^.^^^      ^^^  ^^^^g 

httle  accustomed  to  favours  from  the  great,  ^ 

I  know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in  what         William   Collins  was  born^   at  Chichester, 

terms  to  acknowledge.  5  on  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  December,  about 

"When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  1720.  His  father  was  a  hatter  of  good  reputa- 
I  first  visited  your  Lordship,  I  was  over-  tion.  He  was  in  1733,  as  Dr.  Warton^  has 
powered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the  en-  kindly  informed  me,  admitted  scholar  of  Win- 
chantment  of  your  address,  and  could  not  Chester  College,'  where  he  was  educated  by 
forbear  to  wish  that  I  might  boast  myself  Le  10  Dr.  Burton.  His  English  exercises  were  better 
vainqueur  du  vainqueur  de  la   ierre; — that   I      than  his  Latin. 

might  obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the  He  first  courted  the  notice  of  the  pubhc  by 
world  contending;  but  I  found  my  attendance  some  verses  to  a  "Lady  weeping,"  published  in 
so  little  encouraged,  that  neither  pride  nor  "The  Gentleman's  Magazine." 
modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When  15  In  1740,  he  stood  first  in  the  list  of  the 
1  had  once  addressed  your  Lordship  in  public,  scholars  to  be  received  in  succession  at  New 
I  had  exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleasing  which  a  College,  but  unhappily  there  was  no  vacancy, 
retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess.  He  became  a  Commoner^  of  Queen's  College, 
I  had  done  all  that  I  could;  and  no  man  is  probably  with  a  scanty  maintenance;  but  was, 
well  pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  20  in  about  half  a  year,  elected  a  Demy^  of  Mag- 
ever  so  little.  dalen  College,  where  he  continued  till  he  had 

"Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  now  past,  taken  a  Bachelor's  degree,  and  then  suddenly 
since  I  waited  in  your  outward  rooms,  or  was  left  the  University;  for  what  reason  I  know  not 
repulsed  from  your  door;  during  which  time      that  he  told. 

I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  25  He  now  (about  1744)  came  to  London  a 
difficulties,  of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  literary  adventurer,  with  many  projects  in  his 
and  have  brought  it,  at  last,  to  the  verge  of  head,  and  very  Httle  money  in  his  pocket.  He 
publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance,  designed  many  works;  but  his  great  fault  was 
one  word  of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  irresolution;  or  the  frequent  calls  of  immediate 
favour.  Such  treatment  I  did  not  expect,  30  necessity  broke  his  scheme,  and  suffered  him 
for  I  never  had  a  Patron  before.  to  pursue  no  settled  purpose.    A  man  doubtful 

"The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  ac-  of  his  dinner,  or  trembling  at  a  creditor,  is  not 
quainted  with  Love,  and  found  him  a  native  much  disposed  to  abstracted  meditation,  or 
of  the  rocks.  remote  inquiries.     He  published  proposals  for 

"Is  not  a  Patron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks 35 a  "History  Of  The  Revival  Of  Learning;" 
with  unconcern  on  a  man  struggling  for  life  and  I  have  heard  him  speak  with  great  kindness 
in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has  reached  ground,  of  Leo  the  Tenth,^  and  with  keen  resentment 
encumbers  him  with  help?  The  notice  which  of  his  tasteless  successor.  But  probably  not  a 
you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labours,  page  of  his  history  was  ever  written.  He 
had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind,  but  it  has  40  planned  several  tragedies,  but  he  only  planned 
been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot  them.  He  wrote  now  and  then  odes  and  other 
enjoy  it;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  impart  poems;  and  did  something,  however  little, 
it;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.     I  About  this  time  I  fell  into  his  company, 

hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to  con-      His  appearance  was  decent  and  manly;  his 
fess  obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been  re-  45  knowledge  considerable,  his  views  extensive, 
ceived,   or  to   be   unwilling  that  the  public      his  conversation  elegant,  and  his  disposition 
should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  Patron,         i  Collins  was  born  Dec.  25th.  1721. 
which  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for       ,1P,^:  Joaeph  Warton  (i722-i8qo).  was  a  schoolfellow 

■If  of  Collins  at  Winchester,  and  his  life-long  friend. 

W^yseil.  3  Winchester  School,  or  the  College  of  St.  Mary  Winton, 

"Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  50  o°<^  o^*^® '^^d'^s  English  public  schools,   it  was  founded 

riAi       ui-      X-        X              J?                     e  ^          •  towards  the  end  of  the   14th   century,  by   William  of 

so  little  Obligation  to  any  favourer  Ot  learning,  Wykeham,  who  was  also  the  founder  of  New  College, 

I   shall  not   be   disappointed   though   I   should  Oxford.    A  certain  number  of  New  College  scholarships 

1    J      .,     .-  ,         ,                .,  ,           -.11           ,.  are  open  to  the  Winchester  students. 

conclude  it,   if  less   be   possible,   with  less;   for  *  Queen's  College,  Oxford.   A  Commoner  at  Oxford  is  a 

I  have  been  long  wakened  from  that  dream  of  student  who  does  not  depend  on  the  endowmnent  for 

v^^^    •         1  •  1     T              u        i   J              If       -0.1-  support,  but  pays  for  his  own  board. 

nope,  m  which  1  once  boasted  myself  with  so  55      5  a  Demy  is  the  holder  of  one  of  certain  scholarships  at 

much  exultation    my  Lord  Magdalen  (one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Oxford  col- 

<<T7         T       J  !-•    >   '         1.  -L.        11  leges);  the  Demys  are  so  called  because  their  allowance 

I  our  Lordship  S  most  humble  was  about  half  that  of  a  Fellow. 

"Most  obedient  servant,  *  Pope  from  1513-21,  distinguished  for  his  encourage- 

<,o                 1                   )'  ment  of  art  and  letters,  when  the  Renaissance  was  at  its 

"bAMDEL  Johnson.  height. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  387 

cheerful.    By  degrees  I  gained  his  confidence;      somewhat  obstructed  in  its  progress  by  devia- 
and  one  day  was  admitted  to  him  when  he      tion  in  quest  of  mistaken  beauties, 
was  immured  by  a  baihff/  that  was  prowHng  "His  morals  were  pure,  and  his  opinions 

in  the  street.  On  this  occasion  recourse  was  pious;  in  a  long  continuance  of  poverty,  and 
had  to  the  booksellers,  who,  on  the  credit  of  a  5  long  habits  of  dissipation,  it  cannot  be  expected 
translation  of  Aristotle's  "Poetics,"  which  he  that  any  character  should  be  exactly  uniform, 
engaged  to  write  with  a  large  commentary,  There  is  a  degree  of  want  by  which  the  freedom 
advanced  as  much  money  as  enabled  him  to  of  agency  is  almost  destroyed;  and  long  associa- 
escape  into  the  country.  He  showed  me  the  tion  with  fortuitous  companions  will  at  last  re- 
guineas  safe  in  his  hand.  Soon  afterwards  his  10  lax  the  strictness  of  truth,  and  abate  the  fervour 
uncle,  Mr.  Martin,  a  lieutenant-colonel,  left  of  sincerity.  That  this  man,  wise  and  virtuous, 
him  about  two  thousand  pounds;  a  sum  which  as  he  was,  passed  always  unentangled  through 
Collins  could  scarce  think  exhaustible,  and  the  snares  of  life,  it  would  be  prejudice  and  te- 
which  he  did  not  live  to  exhaust.  The  guineas  merity  to  aflSrm;  but  it  may  be  said  that  at  least 
were  then  repaid,  and  the  translation  neglected.  15  he  preserved  the  source  of  action  unpolluted. 

But  man  is  not  born  for  happiness.  Collins,  that  his  principles  were  never  shaken,  that  his 
who,  while  he  studied  to  live,  felt  no  evil  but  distinctions  of  right  and  wrong  were  never  con- 
poverty,  no  sooner  lived  to  study  than  his  life  founded,  and  that  his  faults  had  nothing  of  ma- 
was  assailed  by  more  dreadful  calamities,  lignity  or  design,  but  proceeded  from  some 
disease,  and  insanity.  20  unexpected  pressure,  or  casual  temptation. 

Having  formerly  written  his  character,^  while  "The  latter  part  of  his  life  cannot  be  remem- 

perhaps  it  was  yet  more  distinctly  impressed  bered  but  with  pity  and  sadness.  He  lan- 
upon  my  memory,  I  shall  insert  it  here.  guished  some  years  under  that  depression  of 

"  Mr.  Colhns  was  a  man  of  extensive  litera-  mind  which  enchains  the  faculties  without 
ture,  and  of  vigorous  faculties.  He  was  ac-  25  destroying  them,  and  leaves  reason  the  knowl- 
quainted  not  only  with  the  learned  tongues,  edge  of  right  without  the  power  of  pursuing  it. 
but  with  the  Italian,  French,  and  Spanish  These  clouds  which  he  perceived  gathering  on 
languages.  He  had  employed  his  mind  chiefly  his  intellects,^"  he  endeavoured  to  disperse  by 
on  the  works  of  fiction,  and  subjects  of  fancy;  travel,  and  passed  into  France;  but  found  him- 
and,  by  indulging  some  peculiar  habits  of  30  self  constrained  to  yield  to  his  malady,  and 
thought,  was  eminently  delighted  with  those  returned.  He  was  for  some  time  confined  in  a 
flights  of  imagination  which  pass  the  bounds  of  house  of  lunatics,  and  afterwards  retired  to  the 
nature,  and  to  which  the  mind  is  reconciled  care  of  his  sister  in  Chichester,  where  death, 
only  by  a  passive  acquiescence  in  popular  in  1756,"  came  to  his  relief, 
traditions.  He  loved  fairies,  genii,  giants,  and  35  "After  his  return  from  France,  the  writer 
monsters;  he  delighted  to  rove  through  the  of  this  character  paid  him  a  visit  at  Islington, 
meanders^  of  enchantment,  to  gaze  on  the  where  he  was  waiting  for  his  sister,  whom  he 
magnificence  of  golden  palaces,  to  repose  by  had  directed  to  meet  him:  there  was  then 
the  waterfalls  of  Elysian  gardens.  nothing  of  disorder  discernible  in  his  mind  by 

"This  was  however  the  character  rather  of  40 any  but  himself;  but  he  had  withdrawn  from 
his  inclination  than  his  genius;  the  grandeur  study,  and  travelled  with  no  other  book  than 
of  wildness,  and  the  novelty  of  extravagance,  an  English  Testament,  such  as  children  carry 
were  always  desired  by  him,  but  not  always  to  the  school:  when  his  friend  took  it  into  his 
attained.  Yet,  as  diligence  is  never  wholly  hand,  out  of  curiosity  to  see  what  companion 
lost,  if  his  efforts  sometimes  caused  harshness  45  a  Man  of  Letters  had  chosen,  'I  have  but  one 
and  obscurity,  they  likewise  produced  in  hap-  book,'  said  Collins,  'but  that  is  the  best.'" 
pier  moments  sublimity  and  splendour.    This  Such  was  the  fate  of  Collins,  with  whom  I 

idea  which  he  had  formed  of  excellence  led  once  delighted  to  converse,  and  whom  I  yet 
him  to  oriental  fictions  and  allegorical  imagery,      remember  with  tenderness.  ^ 

and  perhaps,  while  he  was  intent  upon  de-50  He  was  visited  at  Chichester,  m  his  last 
scription,  he  did  not  sufficiently  cultivate  sen-  illness,  by  his  learned  friends.  Dr.  Warton  and 
timent.  His  poems  are  the  productions  of  a  his  brother;  to  whom  he  spoke  with  disappro- 
mind  not  deficient  in  fire,   nor  unfurnished     bation  of  his  Oriental  Eclogues, ^^  as  not  suf- 

With   knowledge   either   of   books   or   life,    but  lopjural,    like    "wits."      The    18th    century    writers 

M.  e..  for  his  debts.     The  "Debtors'  Act"  in  1869  sometimesused  the  plural  where  we  use  the  singular. 

abolished  imprisonment  for  debt  in  England.  "  Johnson  is  wrong  in  the  date.    Collins  died  June  12tb. 

8  Johnson's    Character    of    Collins    appeared    m    the  I'^p-    .  ,.  .     ,         „      .       p^t^^,,^,  ;„  I7d9    onrl  rpnnh 

PolU^U^endar,  1763.  and  was  inserted  as  part  of  the  ,,,;^;Xlished^^^^^^^^^^ 

•i.e.,  the  mazes,  or  windings;  from  the  river  Meander  "  brother  "  was  Thomas  Warton,  author  of  the  History  oj 
in  Asia  Minor,  noted  for  its  tortuous  course.  English  Poetry. 


388  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

ficiently  expressive  of  Asiatic  manners,  and  his  account  of  the  "Little  Club,"i  compared 
called  them  his  Irish  Eclogues.  He  showed  himself  to  a  spider,  and  by  another  is  described 
them  at  the  same  time,  an  ode  inscribed  to  Mr.  as  protuberant  behind  and  before.  He  is  said 
John  Home,^'  on  the  superstitions  of  the  High-  to  have  been  beautiful  in  his  infancy;  but  he 
lands;  which  they  thought  superior  to  his  5  was  of  a  constitution  originally  feeble  and  weak ; 
other  works,  but  which  no  search  has  yet  and,  as  bodies  of  a  tender  frame  are  easily 
found. ^*  distorted,  his  deformity  was  probably  in  part 

His  disorder  was  no  alienation  of  mind,  but  the  effect  of  his  application.  His  stature  was 
general  laxity  and  feebleness,  a  deficiency  so  low,^  that,  to  bring  him  to  a  level  with 
rather  of  his  vital  than  his  intellectual  powers.  10  common  tables,  it  was  necessary  to  raise  his 
What  he  spoke  wanted  neither  judgment  nor  seat.  But  his  face  was  not  displeasing,  and 
spirit;  but  a  few  minutes  exhausted  him,  so  his  eyes  were  animated  and  vivid, 
that  he  was  forced  to  rest  upon  the  couch,  till  By  natural  deformity,  or  accidental  distor- 
a  short  cessation  restored  his  powers,  and  he  tion,  his  vital  functions  were  so  much  dis- 
was  again  able  to  talk  with  his  former  vigour.      15  ordered,  that  his  life  was  "long  disease."^    His 

The  approaches  of  this  dreadful  malady  he      most  frequent  assailment  was  the  headache, 
began  to  feel  soon  after  his  uncle's  death;  and,      which  he  used  to  relieve  by  inhaling  the  steam 
with  the  usual  weakness  of  men  so  diseased,      of  coffee,  which  he  very  frequently  required, 
eagerly  snatched  that  temporary  relief  with  Most  of  what  can  be  told  concerning  his 

which  the  table  and  the  bottle  flatter  and  20  petty  peculiarities  was  communicated  by  a  fe- 
seduce.  But  his  health  continually  declined,  male  domestic  of  the  Earl  of  Oxford,^  who  knew 
and  he  grew  more  and  more  burthensome  to  him  perhaps  after  the  middle  of  life.  He  was 
himself.  then  so  weak  as  to  stand  in  perpetual  need  of 

To  what  I  have  formerly  said  of  his  writings  female  attendance;  extremely  sensible  of  cold, 
may  be  added,  that  his  diction  was  often  harsh,  25  so  that  he  wore  a  kind  of  fur  doublet,^  under  a 
unskilfully  laboured,  and  injudiciously  selected,  shirt  of  very  coarse  warm  linen  with  fine 
He  affected  the  obsolete  when  it  was  not  sleeves.  When  he  rose,  he  was  invested  in 
worthy  of  revival;  and  he  puts  his  words  out  bodice  made  of  stiff  canvas,  being  scarcely 
of  the  common  order,  seeming  to  think,  with  able  to  hold  himself  erect  till  they  were  laced, 
some  later  candidates  for  fame,  that  not  to  30  and  he  then  put  on  a  flannel  waistcoat.  One 
write  prose  is  certainly  to  write  poetry.  His  side  was  contracted.  His  legs  were  so  slender, 
lines  commonly  are  of  slow  motion,  clogged  that  he  enlarged  their  bulk  with  three  pair  of 
and  impeded  with  clusters  of  consonants.  As  stockings,  which  were  drawn  on  and  off  by 
men  are  often  esteemed  who  cannot  be  loved,  the  maid;  for  he  was  not  able  to  dress  or  un- 
so  the  poetry  of  Collins  may  sometimes  extort  35  dress  himself,  and  neither  went  to  bed  nor  rose 
praise  when  it  gives  little  pleasure.  without  help.     His  weakness  made  it  very 

Mr.  ColUns's  first^^  production  is  added  here      diflScult  for  him  to  be  clean, 
from  the  "Poetical  Calendar,"  His  hair  had  fallen  almost  all  away;  and  he 

TO  MISS  AURELiA  c R,  ON  HER  WEEPING  AT      ^^f^  ^^  ^j^®  Sometimes  with   Lord   Oxford, 

HER  sister's  wedding  40  privately,  in  a  velvet  cap.    His  dress  of  cere- 

Cease,  fau-  Aurelia,  cea^e  to  mourn;  ""^"^  ^^  ^^^^^'  ^'^^  ^  ^^^"^^g''  ^^^  ^  ^'^^^^ 

Lament  not  Hannah's  happy  state;  ^^21     •    ,  ,      ^  ^ 

You  may  be  happy  in  your  turn,  ^'^^  indulgence  and  accommodation  which 

And  seize  the  treasure  you  regret.  his  sickness  required,  had  taught  him  all  the 

ixr-^i-  T  -^  J  TT  1  4^  unpleasing  and  unsocial  qualities  of  a  valetudin- 

With  Love  umted  Hymen  stands,  ary  man.    He  expected  that  every  thing  should 

And  softly  whispers  to  vour  charms. —  ■  xu-  i.  i.ii 

" Meet  but  your  lover  in  my  bands,  ^T  "^^^  *"" }'^ -if '^  .""l  ^""T"''  ^'  \  ^^^^^' 

You'U  find  your  sister  m  his  arms."  ^^^^^  P^^®°*  ^^^^  ^o^  ^^^^  ^^^  c^^'  ^^s  an 

unresisted  dominion  in  the  nursery. 
50 
THE    CHARACTER    OF    POPE  ^  A  club  of  men  under  five  feet  in  height,  described  by 

Pope  in  the  Guardian,  Nos.  91  and  92. 
(From  the  same)  '  Pope  was  4  ft.  6  in.  in  height. 

*  rope  s  own  expression  {v.  p.  305,  supra) : 

The  person  of  Pope  is  well  known  not  to  have       "The  muse  but  served  to  ease  some  friend,  not  wife, 

been  formed  by  the  nicest  model.    He  has,  in ^'^•' '''''' '^'' ''''''''''' '"'iJ^Slr^T^Z..  i,  13I. 

^^John  7/ome  (1722-1808),  a  Scotch  clergyman  who  <  Edward    Harley,    Second    Earl    of    Oxford,    friend, 

was  censured  by  his  presbytery  for  writing  plays.  admirer,  and  correspondent  of  Pope. 

•     I  }  Y^  u    *  published  in  1788,  and  has  since  been  ^  The  doublet,  originally  an  outer  coat,  had  become  an 

included  m  the  editions  of  Collins'  poetry.  undergarment  in  King  Charles's  time. 

^•700      u-i^^,?'^  ^""^  Ge/i«emart's  Magazine  for  January,  «  a  wig  that  has  the  hair  gathered  and  tied  at  the  back 

769,  while  Collins  was  still  at  school.  with  a  ribbon. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON                                         389 

Cest  que  Venfant  toujours  est  homme,  that  his  sensuality  shortened  his  life  will  not 

C  est  que  I  homme  est  toujour  enfant  J  be  hastily  concluded,  when  it  is  remembered 

When  he  wanted  to  sleep  he  "nodded  in  that  a  conformation  so  irregular  lasted  six 
company;"  and  once  slumbered  at  his  own  and  fifty  years,  notwithstanding  such  per- 
table  while  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  talking  of  5  tinacious  diligence  of  study  and  meditation, 

poetry .8                          ^  In  all  his  intercourse  with  mankind,  he  had 

The  reputation  which  his  friendship  gave  great  delight  in  artifice,  and  endeavoured  to 

procured  him  many  invitations;  but  he  was  a  attain  all  his  purposes  by  indirect  and  unsus° 

very    troublesome   inmate.      He   brought   no  pected  methods,  "He  hardly  drank  tea  with- 

servant,  and  had  so  many  wants,  that  a  numer-  10  out  a  stratagem."^^    jf^  ^t  the  house  of  friends, 

ous  attendance  was  scarcely  able  to  supply  he  wanted  any  accommodation,  he  was  not 

them.     Wherever  he  was  he  left  no  room  for  willing  to  ask  for  it  in  plain  terms,  but  would 

another,   because,   he  exacted   the  attention,  mention  it  remotely  as  something  convenient; 

and  employed  the  activity,  of  the  whole  family,  though,  when  it  was  procured,  he  soon  made 

His  errands  were  so  frequent  and  frivolous,  15  it  appear  for  whose  sake  it  had  been  recom- 

that  the  footmen  in  time  avoided  and  neg-  mended.    Thus  he  teased  Lord  Orrery^^  till  he 

lected  him;  and  the  Earl  of  Oxford  discharged  obtained  a  screen.     He  practised  his  arts  on 

some  of  the  servants  for  their  resolute  refusal  such  small  occasions,  that  Lady  Bolingbroke 

of  his  messages.     The  maids,  when  they  had  used  to  say,  in  a  French  phrase,  that  "  he  played 

neglected  their  business,  alleged  that  they  had  20  the  politician  about  cabbages  and  turnips." 

been  employed  by  Mr.  Pope.    One  of  his  con-  His  unjustifiable  impression  of  the  "Patriot 

stant  demands  was  of  coffee  in  the  night,  and  King,"^^  as  it  can  be  imputed  to  no  particular 
to  the  woman  that  waited  on  him  in  his  cham-     motive,  must  have  proceeded  from  his  general 

ber  he  was  very  burthensome:  but  he  was  habit  of  secrecy  and  cunning;  he  caught  an 

careful  to  recompense  her  want  of  sleep;  and  25  opportunity  of  a  sly  trick,  and  pleased  himself 

Lord  Oxford's  servant  declared,  that  in  the  with  the  thought  of  outwitting  Bolingbroke. 

house  where  her  business  was  to  answer  his  In    familiar    or    convivial    conversation,    it 

call,  she  would  not  ask  for  wages.  does  not  appear  that  he  excelled.    He  may  be 

He  had  another  fault,  easily  incident  to  said  to  have  resembled  Dryden,  as  being  not 
those  who,  suffering  much  pain,  think  them- 30  one   that   was   distinguished   by   vivacity   in 

selves   entitled   to   what   pleasures   they   can  company.     It  is  remarkable,  that  so  near  his 

snatch.    He  was  too  indulgent  to  his  appetite:  time,^^  so  much  should  be  known  of  what  he 

he  loved  meat  highly  seasoned  and  of  strong  has  written,  and  so  little  of  what  he  has  said: 

taste;  and,  at  the  intervals  of  the  table,  amused  traditional  memory  retains  no  sallies  of  raillery, 

himself  with  biscuits  and  dry  conserves.    If  he  35  nor  sentences  of  observation;  nothing  either 

sat  down  to  a  variety  of  dishes,  he  would  op-  pointed  or  solid,  either  wise  or  merry.     One 

press  his  stomach  with  repletion;  and  though  apothegm   only  stands   upon  record.     When 

he  seemed  angry  when  a  dram  was  offered  an  objection,  raised  against  his  inscription  for 

him,  did  not  forbear  to  drink  it.    His  friends,  Shakespeare, i"  was  defended  by  the  authority 

who  knew  the  avenues  to  his  heart,  pampered  40      ,,  ^,,ributed  to  Lady  Maiy  Wortley  Montague.      V. 

him  with  presents  of  luxury,  which  he  did  not  p.  390,  n.  19. 

suffer  to  stand  neglected.    The  death  of  great  ,Zitrs^^:i,'^;,^/S,i!^li°r'''  "™^-«^' "'' ""' 

men   is  not  always  proportioned  to  the  lustre  ha  political  essay  written  by  Henry  St.  John,  first 

of    fhpir    livpq        Hnnnibfll     savq    Tnvenal     did  Viscount  Bolingbroke  (1678-1751).    "The  Patriots"  was 

Ot    tneir    lives.      llanniDal,    says    JUVenai,    aia  ^  name  given  to  a  faction  of  the  Whig  party  in  the  reigns 

not   perish   by   the   javelin   or  the   sword;    the  45  of  George  I,  and  George  II,  opposed  to  the  rule  of  Wal- 

slaughters  of  Cannae  were  revenged  by  a  ring.»  P*^  ?°f  .Sid  t^er^ThX^',  ta''^X%l 

The  death  of  Pope  was  imputed  by  some  ot  Patriot  King  in  defence  of  their  principles.    Not  deeming 

hi'«5   fripnrl"?   to    i    m'lvpr   ^flllppnfln     in   which  it  ^*  ^^^^  at  the  time  to  publish  the  essay  broadcast,  he 

niS   irienas   to   a   silver   saucepan,    in   wmca  lu  entrusted  the  manuscript  to  Pope,  who  was  to  have  a  few 

Iwas  his  delight  to  heat  potted^"  lampreys. ^^  copies    printed    for    distribution    among    Bolingbroke's 

Thnf  hp  lnvpf^  inn  wpH  in  pat    is  certain*  but  50  fiends,  and  Pope,  according  to  Johnson,  "assured  him 

inat  ne  lovea  too  wen  to  eat,  is  certam,  uubou^j^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  printed  than  were  allowed." 

'  There  is  always  a  man  in  the  infant,  When,  soon  after  Pope's  death,  it  was  discovered  that 

There  is  always  an  infant  in  the  man.  1500  copies  had  been  printed  and  secretly  kept  by  the 

8  This  occurred  after  the  accession  of  George  11,  in  1727,  printer  at  Pope's  request,  Bolingbroke's  indignation 
when  Frederick  (who  died  before  his  father  in  1751)  was  knew  no  bounds,  and  he  publicly  attacked  the  memory 
Prince  of  Wales.     He  frequently  dined  at  Pope's  house.  of  his  former  friend. 

9  Hannibal  after  the  Carthaginian  campaign  became  a  i*  Pope  died  1744.  The  Lives  of  the  Poets  appeared  in 
fugitive  in  Asia  Minor.     Fearing  arrest  and  death,  he  1781. 

took  poison  which  he  always  carried  with  him  in  a  ring.  is  "When  Dr.  Meade  once  urged  to  our  author  the 

So  that  it  may  be  said  the  ring,  in  causing  the  death  of  authority  of  Patrick,  the  dictionary-maker,  against  the 

Hannibal  avenged  the  slaughter  of  Cannse.  latinity  of  the  expression,  'amor  publicum'  which  be  had 

1"  Preserved.  used  in  an  inscription,  he  replied  that  he  would  allow  a 

"  The  lamprey,  when  full  grown  resembles  an  eel,  and  dictionary-maker  to  understand  a  single  word,  but  not 

iri  considered  a  delicacy.  two  words  put  together."    Warton. 


390  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

of  "Patrick,""  he  replied — horresco  refer ens^^ —  Of  this  fortune,  which,  as  it  arose  from  public 
that  "he  would  allow  the  publisher  of  a  Die-  approbation,  was  very  honourably  obtained, 
tionary  to  know  the  meaning  of  a  single  word,  his  imagination  seems  to  have  been  too  full; 
but  not  of  two  words  put  together."  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  man,  so  well  entitled 

He  was  fretful  and  easily  displeased,  and  5  to  notice  by  his  wit,  that  ever  delighted  so 
allowed  himself  to  be  capriciously  resentful,  much  in  talking  of  his  money.  In  his  letters, 
He  would  sometimes  leave  Lord  Oxford  si-  and  in  his  poems,  his  garden  and  his  grotto,  ^^ 
lently,  no  one  could  tell  why,  and  was  to  be  his  quincunx  22  and  his  vines,  or  some  hints  off 
courted  back  by  more  letters  and  messages  his  opulence,  are  always  to  be  found.  The 
than  the  footmen  were  willing  to  carry.  The  10  great  topic  of  his  ridicule  is  poverty;  the  crimes 
table  was  indeed  infested  by  Lady  Mary  with  which  he  reproaches  his  antagonists  are 
Wortley,^^  who  was  the  friend  of  Lady  Oxford,  their  debts,  their  habitation  in  the  Mint,^^ 
and  who,  knowing  his  peevishness,  could  by  and  their  want  of  a  dinner.  He  seems  to  be 
no  intreaties  be  restrained  from  contradicting  of  an  opinion  not  very  uncommon  in  the 
him,  till  their  disputes  were  sharpened  to  15  world,  that  to  want  money  is  to  want  every 
such  asperity,  that  one  or  the  other  quitted  thing, 
the  house.  Next  to  the  pleasure  of  contemplating  his 

He  sometimes  condescended  to  be  jocular  possessions,  seems  to  be  that  of  enumerating 
with  servants  or  inferiors;  but  by  no  merri-  the  men  of  high  rank  with  whom  he  was  ac- 
ment,  either  of  others  or  his  own,  was  he  ever  20  quainted,  and  whose  notice  he  loudly  pro- 
seen  excited  to  laughter.  claims  not  to  have  been  obtained  by  any  prac- 

Of  his  domestic  character,  frugality  was  a  tices  of  meanness  or  severity;  a  boast  which 
part  eminently  remarkable.  Having  deter-  was  never  denied  to  be  true,  and  to  which  very 
mined  not  to  be  dependent,  he  determined  not  few  poets  have  ever  aspired.  Pope  never  set 
to  be  in  want,  and  therefore  wisely  and  mag-  25  genius  to  sale,  he  never  flattered  those  whom  he 
nanimously  rejected  all  temptations  to  expense  did  not  love,  nor  praised  those  whom  he  did 
unsuitable  to  his  fortune.  This  general  care  not  esteem.  Savage^^  however  remarked,  that 
must  be  universally  approved;  but  it  some-  he  began  a  little  to  relax  his  dignity  when  he 
times  appeared  in  petty  artifices  of  parsimony,  wrote  a  distich  for  his  "Highness's  dog."^^ 
such  as  the  practice  of  writing  his  compositions  30  His  admiration  of  the  great  seems  to  hayg 
on  the  back  of  letters,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  increased  in  the  advance  of  life.  He  passed 
remaining  copy  of  the  "  Iliad,  "^o  by  which  over  peers  and  statesmen  to  inscribe  his  "  Iliad  " 
perhaps  in  five  years  five  shillings  were  saved;  to  Congreve,^^  with  a  magnanimity  of  which 
or  in  a  niggardly  reception  of  his  friends,  and  the  praise  had  been  complete,  had  his  friend's 
scantiness  of  entertainment,  as,  when  he  had  35  virtue  been  equal  to  his  wit.  Why  he  was 
two  guests  in  his  house,  he  would  set  at  supper  chosen  for  so  great  an  honour,  it  is  not  now 
a  single  pint  upon  the  table;  and,  having  him-  possible  to  know;  there  is  no  trace  in  literary 
self  taken  two  small  glasses,  would  retire;  and  history  of  any  particular  intimacy  between 
say,  "Gentlemen,  I  leave  you  to  your  wine."  them.  The  name  of  Congreve  appears  in  the 
Yet  he  tells  his  friends,  that  "he  has  a  heart  40  Letters  among  those  of  his  other  friends,  but 
for  all,  a  house  for  all,  and  whatever  they  may  without  any  observable  distinction  or  conse- 
think,  a  fortune  for  all."  quence. 

He  sometimes,  however,  made  a  splendid  To  his  latter  works,  however,  he  took  care 

dinner,  and  is  said  to  have  wanted  no  part  of  to  annex  names  dignified  with  titles,  but  was 
the  skill  or  elegance  which  such  performances  45  not  very  happy  in  his  choice:  for,  except  Lord 
require.     That   this   magnificence   should  be         ,,  _,,         .,     .  a,  •  ,     ,  ^       ,  ,        ^  , 

ti-^      J-      1        J    au    i.     u  i-      J.  J  -j^i  21  The  grotto  at  Twickenham  was  a  tunnel  decorated 

Otten  displayed,  that  Obstmate  prudence  with  with  shells,  looking  glasses,  and  minerals,  connecting 
which  he  conducted  his  affairs  would  not  per-  Pope's  grounds  which  lay  on  either  side  of  the  London 
mit:  for  his  revenue,  certain  and  casual,  ^°^2  Groups  of  five  trees  (Lat.  ^Mtn^we)  planted  in  squares, 
amounted  only  to  about  eight  hundred  pounds  50  0°^  ^^  e,^^!>,  cpmer,  and  one  in  the  middle. 

Pi-i,  VJ1  r*         IP  ^^A  building  m  Southwark,   London,  where  debtors 

a  year,   Ot  which  however  he  declares  himself       formerly  found  shelter,  and  immunity  from  arrest. 
able  to  assign  one  hundred  to  charity.  "  Richard  Samge  (1698-1743),  a  poet  who  is  remem- 

bered chiefly  through  Johnson's  Life  of  Savage. 
25  "  I  am  his  Highness  dog  at  Kew, 
y  Samuel  Patrick  (1684-1748),  a  classical  scholar,  and  Pray  tell  me.  Sir,  whose  dog  are  you?" 

editor  of  Greek  and  Latin  dictionaries.  ^Congreve     (1670-1792),     writer    of    comedies    that 

18  "  I  shudder  to  relate."  reflect  the  brilliancy,  the  wit,  but  also  the  coarseness  and  ■ 

}^  Lady  Mary  Wortley  (Montague)  1689-1762.  A  moral  callousness  of  the  Augustan  age.  Macaulay  has 
brilliant  member  of  the  literary  circle  to  which  Pope  explained  why  Pope  should  have  dedicated  his  Iliad  to 
belonged.  She  was  a  leader  in  London  society,  a  friend  of  Congreve.  Whigs  and  Tories  had  vied  in  their  patronage 
Queen  Caroline,  she  wrote  poetry,  and  is  remembered  for  of  the  translation,  and  to  avoid  offence  to  either  party  it 
her  Ijetters,  was  necessary  to  find  some  person  who  was  at  once 

20  Preservea  in  the  British  Museum.  eminent  and  neutral.     Congreve  united  these  requisites. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  391 

Bathurst,'"  none  of  his  noble  friends  were  such  man's  thoughts,  while  they  are  general,  are 
as  that  a  good  man  would  wish  to  have  his  right;  and  most  hearts  are  pure,  while  tempta- 
intimacy  with  them  known  to  posterity;  he  tion  is  away.  It  is  easy  to  awaken  generous 
can  derive  little  honour  from  the  notice  of  sentiments  in  privacy;  to  despise  death  when 
Cobham,28  Burlington, ^^  or  Bolingbroke.  5  there  is  no  danger;  to  glow  with  benevolence 

Of  his  social  qualities,  if  an  estimate  be  when  there  is  nothing  to  be  given.  While  such 
made  from  his  Letters,  an  opinion  too  favour-  ideas  are  formed  they  are  felt;  and  self-love 
able  cannot  easily  be  formed;  they  exhibit  a  does  not  suspect  the  gleam  of  virtue  to  be  the 
perpetual  and  unclouded  effulgence  of  general      meteor  of  fancy. 

benevolence,  and  particular  fondness.  There  10  If  the  letters  of  Pope  are  considered  merely 
is  nothing  but  hberality,  gratitude,  constancy,  as  compositions,  they  seem  to  be  premeditated 
and  tenderness.  It  has  been  so  long  said  as  and  artificial.  It  is  one  thing  to  write,  because 
to  be  commonly  believed,  that  the  true  charac-  there  is  something  which  the  mind  wishes  to 
ters  of  men  may  be  found  in  their  Letters,  and  discharge;  and  another  to  soHcit  the  imagina- 
that  he  who  writes  to  his  friend  lays  his  heart  15  tion,  because  ceremony  or  vanity  require 
open  before  him.  But  the  truth  is,  that  such  something  to  be  written.  Pope  confesses  his 
were  the  simple  friendships  of  the  Golden  early  Letters  to  be  vitiated  with  affectation 
Age,  and  are  now  the  friendships  only  of  chil-  and  ambition:  to  know  whether  he  disentangled 
dren.  Very  few  can  boast  of  hearts  which  they  himself  from  those  perverters  of  epistolatory 
dare  lay  open  to  themselves,  and  of  which,  20  integrity,  his  book  and  his  life  must  be  set  in 
by  whatever  accident  exposed,   they  do  not      comparison. 

shun  a  distinct  and  continued  view;  and,  cer-  One  of  his  favourite  topics  is  contempt  of 

tainly,  what  we  hide  from  ourselves  we  do  not  his  own  poetry.  For  this,  if  it  had  been  real, 
show  to  our  friends.  There  is,  indeed,  no  he  would  deserve  no  commendation;  and  in 
transaction  which  offers  stronger  temptation  25  this  he  was  certainly  not  sincere,  for  his  high 
to  fallacy  and  sophistication  than  epistolary  value  of  himself  was  sufficiently  observed;  and 
intercourse.  In  the  eagerness  of  conversation  of  what  could  he  be  proud  but  of  his  poetry? 
the  first  emotions  of  the  mind  often  burst  out  He  writes,  he  says,  when  he  has  "just  nothing 
before  they  are  considered;  in  the  tumult  of  else  to  do;"  yet  Swift  complains  that  he  was 
business,  interest  and  passion  have  their  gen- 30  never  at  leisure  for  conversation  because  he 
uine  effect;  but  a  friendly  Letter  is  a  calm  had  "always  some  poetical  scheme  in  his 
and  deliberate  performance  in  the  cool  of  lei-  head."  It  was  punctually  required  that  his 
sure,  in  the  stillness  of  solitude,  and  surely  no  writing-box  should  be  set  upon  his  bed  before 
man  sits  down  to  depreciate  by  design  his  own  he  rose;  and  Lord  Oxford's  domestic  related, 
character.  35  that,  in  the  dreadful  winter  of  1740, ^"^  she  was 

Friendship  has  no  tendency  to  secure  verac-  called  from  her  bed  by  him  four  times  in  one 
ity;  for  by  whom  can  a  man  so  much  wish  to  night,  to  supply  him  with  paper,  lest  he  should 
be  thought  better  than  he  is,  as  by  him  whose      lose  a  thought. 

kindness  he  desires  to  gain  or  keep?    Even  in  He   pretends   insensibility  to   censure   and 

writing  to  the  world  there  is  less  constraint;  40  criticism,  though  it  was  observed  by  all  who 
the  author  is  not  confronted  with  his  reader,  knew  him  that  every  pamphlet  disturbed  his 
and  takes  his  chance  of  approbation  among  quiet,  that  his  extreme  irritability  laid  him 
the  different  dispositions  of  mankind;  but  a  open  to  perpetual  vexation;  but  he  wished  to 
Letter  is  addressed  to  a  single  mind,  of  which  despise  his  critics,  and  therefore  hoped  that 
the  prejudices  and  partialities  are  known;  and  45  he  did  despise  them. 

must  therefore  please,  if  not  by  favouring  As  he  happened  to  live  in  two  reigns^^  when 
them,  by  forbearing  to  oppose  them.  the  Court  paid  little  attention  to  poetry,  he 

To  charge  those  favourable  representations,  nursed  in  his  mind  a  foolish  disesteem  of  King, 
which  men  give  of  their  own  minds,  with  the  and  proclaims  that  "he  never  sees  Courts." 
guilt  of  hypocritical  falsehood,  would  show  50  Yet  a  little  regard  shown  him  by  the  Prince  of 
more  severity  than  knowledge.     The  writer     Wales  melted  his  obduracy;  and  he  had  not 

commonly    beheves    himself.       Ahnost    every  sointheGen^eman'sMa^a^tneof  January  3rd.  1740.  we 

read,  "This  month  the  frost,  which  began  the  26th  of  last, 

^  Allen  Bathurst  (1682-1775),  first  Earl  Bathurst,  a  grew  more  severe  than  has  been  known  since  the  memora- 

prominent  Tory  statesman,  a  friend  of  Pope  and  Swift.  ble  winter  of  1715-lG."  .  .  .  "The  Thames  represented  a 

^Sir  Richard  Temple,  Viscount  Cobham  (1669-1749),  a  snowy  field."  .  .  .  "The  rivers  Severn,  Tyne,  the  Avon 

statesman  and  soldier,  who  broke  with  Walpole  and  the  by  Bristol,  the  rivers  of  Forth,  Tay,  etc.  m  Scotland,  and 

King  as  a  result  of  his  opposition  to  the  South  Sea  Com-  the  Liffey  by  Dublin,  were  all  frozen  up  like  the  Thames, 
pany.  ^^  The    greater    part    of    Pope's    literary    career    was 

»  Richard  Boyle,  third  Earl  of  Burlington  (1695-1753),  included  within  the  reigns  of  the  first  two  Georges  (1714- 

celebrated  for  his  cultivation  of   the   Italian  style  of  27-60).    Neither  Georgcl,  who  could  not  speak  English, 

architecture.  oor  George  1 1 ,  were  patrons  of  literature. 


392  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

much  to  say  when  he  was  asked  by  his  Royal  lest  "a  glut  of  the  world  should  throw  him 
Highness,  "How  he  could  love  a  Prince  while  back  upon  study  and  retirement."  To  this 
he  disliked  Kings? "  Swift   answered,    with   great   propriety,    that 

He  very  frequently  professes  contempt  of  Pope  had  not  yet  acted  or  suffered  enough  in 
the  world,  and  represents  himself  as  looking  5  the  world,  to  have  become  weary  of  it.  And, 
on  mankind  sometimes  with  gay  indifference,  indeed,  it  must  have  been  some  very  powerful 
as  on  emmets^ 2  of  a  hillock,  below  his  serious  reason  that  can  drive  back  to  solitude  him  who 
attention;  and  sometimes  with  gloomy  indig-  has  once  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  society. 
nation,  as  on  monsters  more  worthy  of  hatred  In  the  letters  both  of  Swift  and  Pope  there 

than  of  pity.  These  were  dispositions  appar-  10  appears  such  narrowness  of  mind,  as  makes 
ently  counterfeited.  How  could  he  despise  them  insensible  of  any  excellence  that  has  not 
those  whom  he  lived  by  pleasing,  and  on  whose  some  affinity  with  their  own,  and  confines 
approbation  his  esteem  of  himself  was  super-  their  esteem  and  approbation  to  so  small  a 
structcd?  Why  should  he  hate  those  to  whose  number,  that  whoever  should  form  his  opinion 
favour  he  owed  his  honour  and  his  ease?  Of  15  of  their  age  from  their  representation,  would 
things  that  terminate  in  human  life,  the  world  suppose  them  to  have  lived  among  igHorance 
is  the  proper  judge;  to  despise  its  sentence,  if  and  barbarity,  unable  to  find  among  their 
it.  were  possible,  is  not  just;  and  if  it  were  just,  contemporaries  either  virtue  or  intelligence, 
is  not  possible.  Pope  was  far  enough  from  and  persecuted  by  those  that  could  not  under- 
this  unreasonable  temper:  he  was  sufficiently  20  stand  them. 

a  fool  to  Fame,  and  his  fault  was,  that  he  pre-  When  Pope  murmurs  at  the  world,  when 

tended  to  neglect  it.  His  levity  and  his  sullen-  he  professes  contempt  of  fame,  when  he  speaks 
ness  were  only  in  his  Letters;  he  passed  through  of  riches  and  poverty,  of  success  and  disap- 
common  life  sometimes  vexed,  and  sometimes  pointment,  with  negligent  indifference,  he  cer- 
pleased  with  the  natural  emotions  of  common  25  tainly  does  not  express  his  habitual  and  settled 
men.  resentments,  but  either  wilfully  disguises  his 

His  scorn  of  the  Great  is  repeated  too  often  own  character,  or,  what  is  more  likely,  invests 
to  be  real;  no  man  thinks  much  of  that  which  himself  with  temporary  qualities,  and  sallies 
he  despises;  and  as  falsehood  is  always  in  out  in  the  colours  of  the  present  moment.  His 
danger  of  inconsistency,  he  makes  it  his  boast  30  hopes  and  fears,  his  joys  and  sorrows,  acted 
at  another  time  that  he  lives  among  them.  strongly  upon  his  mind;  and,  if  he  differed 

It  is  evident  that  his  own  importance  swells  from  others,  it  was  not  by  carelessness;  he  was 
often  in  his  mind.  He  is  afraid  of  writing,  irritable  and  resentful;  his  mahgnity  to  Phil- 
lest  the  clerks  of  the  Post-office  should  know  lips,^^  whom  he  had  first  made  ridiculous,  and 
his  secrets;  he  has  many  enemies;  he  considers  35  then  hated  for  being  angry,  continued  too  long, 
himself  as  surrounded  by  universal  jealousy;  Of  his  vain  desire  to  make  Bentley'^  contempt- 
rafter  many  deaths,  and  many  dispersions,  ible,  I  never  heard  any  adequate  reason.  He 
two  or  three  of  us,"  says  he,  "may  still  be  was  sometimes  wanton  in  his  attacks;  and, 
brought  together,  not  to  plot,  but  to  divert  before  Chandos,^^  Lady  Wortley,  and  Hill,^^ 
ourselves,  and  the  world  too,  if  it  pleases;"  40  was  mean  in  his  retreat. 

and  they  can  live  together,  and  "show  what  The  virtues  which  seem  to  have  had  most 

friends  wits  may  be,  in  spite  of  all  the  fools  of  his  affection  were  liberality  and  fidelity  of 
in  the  world."  All  this  while  it  was  likely  that  friendship,  in  which  it  does  not  appear  that  he 
the  clerks  did  not  know  his  hand:  he  certainly  was  other  than  he  describes  himself.  His  for- 
had  no  more  enemies  than  a  public  character  45  tune  did  not  suffer  his  charity  to  be  splendid 
Hke  his  inevitably  excites;  and  with  what  de-  and  conspicuous;  but  he  assisted  Dodsley^^ 
gree  of  friendship  the  wits  might  live,  very  with  a  hundred  pounds,  that  he  might  open  a 
few  were  so  much  fools  as  ever  to  enquire.  shop;  and,  of  the  subscription  of  forty  pounds 

Some   part  of  this  pretended  discontent  he  33  Ambrose  Phillips  (1671-1749)  a  writer  of  pastorals. 

learned  from  Swift,  and  expresses  it,   I  think,  50  H?  ^?^  known  as  Namby-Pamby  Phillips  and  Pope  re- 

.    £  ,1       •       ■,-  J  .,1         tained  the  name  for  him  as  bemg  appropriate  to  his 

most  frequently  m  his  correspondence  with      feeble  style  of  poetry. 

him.       Swift's    resentment    was    unreasonable,  ,  ^*  Richard   Bentley   (1662-1742),   one  of  the  foremost 

V     i    •,  •  -r>        >  .1  '  classical  scholars  of  his  time.    Pope  attacked  Bentlev  in 

but  It  was  sincere;  Pope  S  was  the  mere  mim-       his  Satires,  but  Bentley 's  scholarship  was  proof  against 

ickry  of  his  friend,  a  fictitious  part  which  he      such  attacks.  „  ,     ^        „       ,,...,. 

1 i.        1        r    r         -J.  L  !-•  TTTi         1  *  In  his  poem  on  False  Taste,  Pope  had  criticised  the 

began  to  play  before  it  became  him.  When  he  55  house,  furniture,  and  gardens  of  "Timon."  generally  be- 
Was  only  twenty-five  years  old,  he  related  that  lieved  to  represent  the  Duke  of  Chandos,  who  had  hospi- 
"a  glut  of  study  and  retirement  had  thrown  36Aaron//iZ/ (1685-1750)  was  one  of  the  pigmy  authors 

him  on  the  world,"  and  that  there  was  danger      satirized  in  r/ie  Dunciad  .      ,, 

°  37  A  publisher  whom  Pope  assisted,  being  pleased  wxtb   \ 

*2  An  older  form  of  ant.  his  poem  The  Toy  Shop. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  393 

a  year  that  he  raised  for  Savage,^^  twenty  were  to  himself.  He  examined  lines  and  words  with 
paid  by  himself.  He  was  accused  of  loving  minute  and  punctilious  observation,  and  re- 
money;  but  his  love  was  eagerness  to  gain,  not  touched  every  part  with  indefatigable  diligence, 
solicitude  to  keep  it.  till  he  had  left  nothing  to  be  forgiven. 

In  the  duties  of  friendship  he  was  zealous  5  For  this  reason  he  kept  his  pieces  very  long 
and  constant;  his  early  maturity  of  mind  in  his  hands,  while  he  considered  and  recon- 
commonly  united  him  with  men  older  than  sidered  them.  The  only  poems  which  can  be 
himself,  and  therefore,  without  attaining  any  supposed  to  have  been  written  with  such  rc- 
considerable  length  of  life,  he  saw  many  com-  gard  to  the  times  as  might  hasten  their  publi- 
panions  of  his  youth  sink  into  the  grave;  but  location,  were  the  two  satires  of  "Thirty-eight;  "^^ 
it  does  not  appear  that  he  lost  a  single  friend  of  which  Dodsley  told  me  that  they  were 
by  coldness  or  by  injury;^^  those  who  loved  brought  to  him  by  the  author,  that  they  might 
him  once,  continued  their  kindness.  His  un-  be  fairly  copied.  ''Almost  every  line,"  he  said, 
grateful  mention  of  Allen  in  his  will,  was  the  "was  then  written  twice  over;  I  gave  him  a 
effect  of  his  adherence  to  one  whom  he  had  15  clean  transcript,  which  he  sent  some  time  after- 
known  much  longer,  and  whom  he  naturally  wards  to  me  for  the  press,  with  almost  every 
loved  with  greater  fondness.^"  His  violation  of  line  written  twice  over  a  second  time." 
the  trust  reposed  in  him  by  Bolingbroke  could  His  declaration,  that  his  oare  for  his  works 

have  no  motive  inconsistent  with  the  warmest  ceased  at  their  publication,  was  not  strictly 
affection;  he  either  thought  the  action  so  near  20  true.  His  parental  attention  never  abandoned 
to  indifferent  that  he  forgot  it,  or  so  laudable  them;  what  he  found  amiss  in  the  first  edition, 
that  he  expected  his  friend  to  approve  it.  .  .  .      he  silently  corrected  in  those  that  followed.    He 

Integrity  of  understanding  and  nicety  of  appears  to  have  revised  the  "Iliad,"  and  freed 
discernment  were  not  allotted  in  a  less  pro-  it  from  some  of  its  imperfections;  and  the  " Es- 
portion  to  Dryden  than  to  Pope.  The  rectitude  25  say  on  Criticism"  received  many  improve- 
of  Dryden's  mind  was  sufficiently  shown  by  ments  after  its  first  appearance.  It  will  sel- 
the  dismission^^  of  his  poetical  prejudices,  and  dom  be  found  that  he  altered  without  adding 
the  rejection  of  unnatural  thoughts  and  rugged  clearness,  elegance,  or  vigour.  Pope  had  per- 
numbers.  But  Dryden  never  deserved  to  haps  the  judgment  of  Dryden;  but  Dryden 
apply  all  the  judgment  that  he  had.  He  wrote,  30  certainly  wanted  the  diligence  of  Pope, 
and  professed  to  write,  merely  for  the  people;  In  acquired  knowledge,  the  superiority  must 

and  when  he  pleased  others,  he  contented  him-  be  allowed  to  Dryden,  whose  education  was 
self.  He  spent  no  time  in  struggles  to  rouse  more  scholastic,  and  who,  before  he  became  an 
latent  powers;  he  never  attempted  to  make  author,  had  been  allowed  more  time  for  study 
that  better  which  was  already  good,  nor  often,  35  with  better  means  of  information.  His  mind 
to  mend  what  he  must  have  known  to  be  faulty,  has  a  larger  range,  and  he  collects  his  images 
He  wrote,  as  he  tells  us  with  very  little  con-  and  illustrations  from  a  more  extensive  cir- 
sideration;  when  occasion  or  necessity  called  cumference  of  science.  Dryden  knew  more  of 
upon  him,  he  poured  out  what  the  present  man  in  his  general  nature,  and  Pope  in  his 
moment  happened  to  supply,  and,  when  once  40  local  manners.  The  notions  of  Dryden  were 
it  had  passed  the  press,  ejected  it  from  his  formed  by  comprehensive  speculation;  and 
mind;  for,  when  he  had  no  pecuniary  interest,  those  of  Pope  by  minute  attention.  There  is 
he  had  no  further  solicitude.  more   dignity  in  the  knowledge  of   Dryden, 

Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy;  he  desired      and  more  certainty  in  that  of  Pope, 
to  excel,  and  therefore  always  endeavoured  to  45     Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either;  for 
do  his  best;  he  did  not  court  the  candour,^^  ^^^^      both  excelled  likewise  in  prose;  but  Pope  did 
dared  the  judgment  of  his  reader,  and  expect-      not  borrow  his  prose  from   his  predecessor, 
ing  no  indulgence  from  others,  he  showed  none      The  style  of  Dryden  is  capricious  and  varied; 

88  Savage  had  rendered  Pope  some  service  by  procuring  that  of  Pope  is  cautiouS  and  uniform.  Dryden 
information  concerning  the  "dunces"  whom  Pope  at- 50  observes'*^  the  motions  of  his  OWn  mind;  Pope 
^'^^sg  JohSsonTppJrently  overlooked  the  quarrel  of  Pope       constrains  his  mind  to  llis  Own  rules  of  COmpo- 

with  Addison.  sition.     Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement  and 

«The  one  whom  Pope  loved  with  a  greater  fonmness  -j     n  •        1  „^^^4.u     ,,^;f^«,v,     .^^A 

was  Martha  Blount,  whom  but  for  his  physical  weakness      rapid;  Pope  IS  always  smooth,  unitorm,  ana 

he  would  have  married.  Pope  was  under  obligations  to  gentle  Drvden's  page  is  a  natural  field, 
Mr.  Allen  of  Bath,  and  Martha  Blount  refused  to  accept  ^^  °    .        '.    ,      .-^  ,.,.''   °    _  ,   ^:„^„„:fi«^  u,,  +Uo 

any  legacy  from  Pope  unless  he  would  promise  to  first  55  rismg  mto  inequalities,   and  diversitiea  by  tne 

make  good  in  his  will  what  he  owed  Mr.  Allen.    Pope      varied    exuberance    of    abundant    vegetation; 

accordingly  left  £150  to  Mr.  Allen,  that  being  what  he  ^     „     .        ,    ^  c    x 

thought  he  ov/ed  him.  *'  Now  known  as  the  Epilogue  to  the  battres,  but  first 

*'  In  present  use  "dismissal."  entitled  One  Thousand  Seven  Hundred  and  Thirty-eight, 

^2  Candour   in    18th    century   use    meant   indulgence,  from  the  year  of  publication, 

kindness,  and  not  honesty  and  openness,  as  now.  "  i.  e.,  obeys,  follows.    Cf.  observe  a  rule. 


394  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

Pope's  is  a  velvet  lawn,  shaven  by  the  scythe,  such  griefs  evacuate  themselves  best  by  that 
and  levelled  by  the  roller.  particular  channel:  and,  accordingly,  we  find 

Of  genius,  that  power  which  constitutes  a      that  David  wept  for  his  son  Absalom,  Adrian 
poet;  that  quahty  without  which  judgment  is      for  his  Antinous,  Niobe  for  her  children,  and 
cold,  and  knowledge  is  inert;  that  energy  which  5  that  Apollodorus  and  Crito  both  shed  tears  for 
collects,    combines,    amplifies,    and   animates;      Socrates  before  his  death, 
the  superiority  must,  with  some  hesitation,  be  My  father  managed  his  aflBictions  otherwise; 

allowed  to  Dryden.  It  is  not  to  be  inferred,  and  indeed  differently  from  most  men,  either 
that  of  this  poetical  vigour  Pope  had  only  a  ancient  or  modern;  for  he  neither  wept  it  away 
little,  because  Dryden  had  more;  for  every  lo  as  the  Hebrews  and  the  Romans, — nor  slept 
other  writer  since  Milton  must  give  place  to  it  off,  as  the  Laplanders, — nor  hanged  it,  as 
Pope;  and  even  of  Dryden  it  must  be  said,  the  English, — nor  drowned  it,  as  the  Germans; 
that,  if  he  has  brighter  paragraphs,  he  has  not  nor  did  he  curse  nor  damn  it,  nor  excom- 
better  poems.  Dryden's  performances  were  municate  it,  nor  rhyme  it,  nor  lillibullero^  it 
always  hasty,  either  excited  by  some  external  15  — He  got  rid  of  it  however, 
occasion,  or  extorted  by  domestic  necessity;  Will  your  worships  give  me  leave  to  squeeze 

he  composed  without  consideration,  and  pub-  in  a  story  between  these  two  pages? 
lished  without  correction.  What  his  mind  When  Tully^  was  bereft  of  his  dear  daughter 
could  supply  at  call,  or  gather  in  one  excur-  Tullia,  at  first  he  laid  it  to  his  heart, — he  lis- 
sion,  was  all  that  he  sought,  and  all  that  he  20  tened  to  the  voice  of  nature,  and  modulated  his 
gave.  The  dilatory  caution  of  Pope  enabled  own  unto  it. — O,  my  Tullia! — my  daughter! 
him  to  condense  his  sentiments,  to  multiply  my  child! — Still,  still,  still,  it  was,  O,  my  Tullia! 
his  images,  and  to  accumulate  all  that  study  — my  Tullia!  Methinks  I  see  my  Tullia,  I  hear 
might  produce,  or  chance  might  supply.  If  the  my  Tullia,  I  talk  with  my  Tullia. — But  as 
flights  of  Dryden  therefore  are  higher.  Pope  25  soon  as  he  began  to  look  into  the  stores  of 
continues  longer  on  the  wing.  If  of  Dryden's  philosophy,  and  consider  how  many  excellent 
fire  the  blaze  is  brighter,  of  Pope's  the  heat  is  things  might  be  said  upon  the  occasion, — 
more  regular  and  constant.  Dryden  often  nobody  upon  earth  can  conceive,  says  the  great 
surpasses  expectation,  and  Pope  never  falls  orator,  how  happy,  how  joyful  it  made  me. 
below  it.  Dryden  is  read  with  frequent  as-  30  My  father  was  as  proud  of  his  eloquence  as 
tonishment,  and  Pope  with  perpetual  delight.  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero  could  be  for  his  life; 
This  parallel  will,  I  hope,  when  it  is  well  and,  for  aught  I  am  convinced  of  to  the  con- 
considered,  be  found  just;  and  if  the  reader  trary,  at  present,  with  as  much  reason:  it  was, 
should  suspect  me,  as  I  suspect  myself,  of  indeed,  his  strength, — and  his  weakness  too. — 
some  partial  fondness  for  the  memory  of  Dry-  35  His  strength,  for  he  was  by  nature  eloquent; 
den,  let  him  not  too  hastily  condemn  me;  for  and  his  weakness,  for  he  was  hourly  a  dupe  to 
meditation  and  inquiry  may,  perhaps,  show  it;  and,  provided  an  occasion  in  life  would  but 
him  the  reasonableness  of  my  determination.  permit  him  to  show  his  talents,  or  say  either 

a  wise  thing,  a  witty,  or  a  shrewd  one — (bating 

40  the  case  of  a  systematic  misfortune) — he  had 

tLaUl^niC^   ^tttXit  all  he  wanted.    A  blessing  which  tied  up  my 

^^^^^^'^  tongue,  and  a  misfortune  which  set  it 

i/id-  /O'l  loose  with  a  good  grace,  were  pretty  equal: 

MR    qWATvjnv  OM  TTTQ  QniNT'C!  m?AT-TT        sometimes,    indeed,    the   misfortune   was   the 

MR.  SHANDY  ON  HIS  SONS  DEATH   45 better   of   the   two;   for  instance,  where  the 

(From  Tristram  Shandy,  1759-67)  pleasure  of  the  harangue  was  as  ten,  and  the 

pain  of  the  misfortune  was  as  five, — my  father 

And  a  chapter  it  shall  have,  and  a  devil  of      gained  half  in  half;  and  consequently  was  as 
a  one  too; — so  look  to  yourselves.  well  again  off  as  if  it  had  never  befallen  him.  .  . 

'Tis  either  Plato,  or  Plutarch,  or  Seneca,  or  50  Now  let  us  go  back  to  my  brother's  death. 
Xenophon,  or  Epictetus,  or  Theophrastus,  or  Philosophy  has  a  fine  saying  for  everything. 

Lucian, — or  some  one,  perhaps,  of  later  date;  — For  Death,  it  has  an  entire  set:  the  misery 
either  Cardan  or  Budaeus,  or  Petrarch,  or  was  they  all  at  once  rushed  so  into  my  father's 
Stella, — or  possibly  it  may  be  some  divine  head  that  'twas  difficult  to  string  them  to- 
or  father  of  the  church;  St.  Austin,  or  St.  55  gether,  so  as  to  make  anything  of  a  consistent 
Cyprian,  or  Bernard — who  affirms  that  it  is         ,.  ,  ,  u    .-^     r-,,-:,  » 

„„    • -  ,-11  J  <         1  -J  1  k.  e.,  make  a  popular  song  about  it.    LiUibullero  waa 

an  irresistible  and  natural  passion  to  weep  the  name  of  a  song  directed  against  the  Irish  Roman 
for  the  loss  of  our  friends  or   children; — and       Catholics,  and  immensely  popular  in  England  during  the 

Seneca  (I'm  positive)  tells  us  somewhere  that        ^a^Cicero?  ° 


LAURENCE  STERNE  395 

show  out  of  them,— He   took  them  as  they     disturb  his  soul  for  the  loss  of  a  child,  when 
came.  so  much  as  this  lies  awfully  buried  in  his 

"  'Tis  an  inevitable  chance,— the  first  statute     presence!   Remember,  said  I  to  myself  agam,— 
in  Magna  Charta;— it  is  an  everlasting  act  of      remember  thou  art  a  man." 
parliament,  my  dear  brother,— ^Zi  must  die.       5     Now,  my  uncle  Toby  knew  not  that  this 

"If  my  son  could  not  have  died,  it  had  been      last  paragraph  was  an  extract  of  Servius  Sul- 
matter  of  wonder,  not  that  he  is  dead.  picius's  consolatory  letter  to  TuUy:— he  had 

"Monarchs  and  princes  dance  in  the  same     as  little  skill,  honest  man,  in  the  fragments  as 
ring  with  us.  he  had  in  the  whole  pieces  of  antiquity :— and 

"To  die  is  the  great  debt  and  tribute  dueioas  my  father,  whilst  he  was  concerned  in  the 
unto  nature,  tombs  and  monuments,  which  Turkey  trade,  had  been  three  or  four  different 
should  perpetuate  our  memories,  pay  it  them-  times  in  the  Levant,  in  one  of  which  he  had 
selves;  and  the  proudest  pyramid  of  them  all,  stayed  a  whole  year  and  a  half  at  Zant,  my 
which  Wealth  and  Science  have  erected,  has  uncle  Toby  naturally  concluded  that,  m  some 
lost  its  apex,  and  stands  obtruncated  in  the  15  one  of  these  periods,  he  had  taken  a  trip  across 
travellers'  horizon."— (My  father  found  he  the  Archipelago  into  Asia;  and  that  all  this 
got  great  ease,  and  went  on.)  "Kingdoms  and  sailing  affair,  with  .Egina  behind,  and  Megara 
provinces,  and  towns  and  cities,  have  they  before,  and  Pyrseus  on  the  right  hand,  etc., 
not  their  periods?  and  when  those  principles  was  nothing  more  than  the  true  course  of  my 
and  powers  which  at  first  cemented  and  put  20  father's  voyage  and  reflections.  — 'Twas  cer- 
them  together  have  performed  their  several  tainly  in  his  manner;— and  many  an  under- 
evolutions,  they  fall  back"— Brother  Shandy,  taking  critic  would  have  built  two  stories 
said  my  uncle  Toby,  laying  down  his  pipe  at  higher  upon  worse  foundations  And  pray 
the  word  evolutions— Revolutions,  I  meant  brother,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby,  laying  the  end 
quoth  my  father— by  Heaven!  I  meant  revolu-  25  of  his  pipe  upon  my  father's  hand,  ma  kindly 
tions  brother  Toby;— evolutions  is  nonsense—  way  of  interruption— but  waiting  till  h^ad 
'Tis  not  nonsense,-said  my  uncle  Toby—  finished  the  account,-What  year  of  our  ^ord 
But  is  it  not  nonsense  to  break  the  thread  of  was  this?— 'Twas  no  year  of  our  Lord,  replied 
such  a  discourse  upon  such  an  occasion?  cried  my  father— That's  impossible,  cried  my  uncle 
my  father;-do  not,  dear  Toby,  continued  he,  30  Toby-Simpleton!  said  my  father,-  twas 
taking  him  by  the  hand,  do  not-do  not,  I  forty  years  before  Christ  was  born 
beseech  thee,  interrupt  me  at  this  crisis.  My  My  uncle  Toby  had  but  two  things  for  it, 
uncle  Toby  put  his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  either  to  suppose  his  brother  to  be  the  Wander- 

"  Where  is  Troy  and  Mycenae,  and  Thebes,  ing  Jew,-or  that  his  misfortunes  had  dis- 
and  Delos,  Persepolis  and  Agrigentum?"  con- 35 ordered  his  brain.  "May  the  Lord  of  heaven 
tinned  my  father,  taking  up  his  book  of  post-  and  earth  protect  him  and  restore  him  said 
roads  «  which  he  had  laid  down.-"  What  is  my  uncle  Toby,  praymg  silently  for  my  father, 
become,  brother  Toby,  of  Nineveh  and  Babylon,  and  with  tears  m  his  eyes, 
of  Cizycum  and  Mitylene?  the  fairest  towns  My  father  placed  ^he  *ears  to  a  proper 
that  ever  the  sun  rose  upon  are  now  no  more;  40  account,  and  went  on  with  his  harangue  witti 
the  names  only  are  left;  and  those  (for  many  of     great  spirit.  ^         ^  ^.     aa.    Ur^Mh^v 

them  are  wrong  spelt)  are  faUing  themselves  "There  is  not  such  great  o^^s  brother 
by  piecemeal  to  deW,  and  in  length  of  time  Toby,  betwixt  good  and  ^J^  '.  J^^.^^.^i^ 
Jll  be  forgotten,  and  involved  with  every-       magmes."     (This  way  osettmgoff^  b^^^^^^^^^ 


jEgina  towards  Megara,"  (When 
been,  thought  my  uncle  Toby,)  "I  began  to     himself.  better- 

view  the  country  round  about,  ^glna  was 60  "My  son  is  dead!  -«>  J""f  ^^^fbjo^e 
behind  me,  Megiia  was  before,  Pyra;us  on  the  'tis  a  shame  m  such  a  tempest,  to  have  but  one 
right  hand,  Corinth  on  the  left.    What  flourish-     anchor.  ,„„„„„,  f„™  ,„l  be  it  so — 

ing  towns  now  prostrate  upon  the  earth!  „"  But  he  is  gone  forever  from  us  b^its^^^^ 
xfas!  Ala;,  said  I  to  myself,  that  man  fould  He^s^go  f-J -^  L^^^^stt  ris^^f^otl 
,Li!^'4S^  ,rXKberto!d?ake??^then=  ''  ^  More  he  was  surfeited ;-f rem  a  banquet 

that  Mr.  Shandy  was  "busy  calculating  the  expense  of  his       v^f Qj-e  he  had  got  drunken. 

S\^etclrvS,'?ht'ic'?u»h?sl?.r?h''^&Tis      ^  "tL  Thradans  wept  when  a  child  was 

Eictured  as  sitting  with  a  map,  "and  a,  book  ofposi-roads        ,         "—(And  we  were  very  near  it,  quoth  my 
efore  him,  and  a  pair  of  compasses  in  his  hand.  ooru,         ^.r».iiw  j 


298  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

imck  Toby)  "and  feasted  and  made  merry  other  for  which  I  shall  get  clapped  up  into 
when  a  man  went  out  of  the  world;  and  with  the  BastHe,  and  that  I  shall  live  there  a  couple 
reason— Death  opens  the  gates  of  fame,  and  of  months  entirely  at  the  King  of  France's 
shuts  the  gate  of  envy  after  it;— it  unlooses  the  expense— I  beg  pardon,  said  Eugenius  drily; 
chain  of  the  captive;— and  puts  the  bonds-  5  really  I  had  forgotten  that  resource, 
man's  task  into  another  man's  hands.  Now  the  event  that  I  had  treated  gaily 

"Shew  me  the  man  who  knows  what  life  is,      came  seriously  to  my  door, 
who  dreads  it, — and  I'll  shew  thee  a  prisoner         Is  it  folly,  or  nonchalance,  or  philosophy, 
who  dreads  his  liberty."—  or  pertinacity;— or  what  is  it  in  me,  that  after 

Is  It  not  better,  my  dear  brother  Toby— (for  10  all,  when  La  Fleur  had  gone  down  stairs,  and 
mark — our  appetites  are  but  diseases) — is  it      I  was  quite  alone,  I  could  not  bring  down  my 
not  better  not  to  hunger  at  all,  than  to  eat?—     mind  to  think  of  it  otherwise  than  I  had  then 
not  to  thirst  at  all  than  to  take  physic  to  cure      spoken  of  it  to  Eugenius? 
^^^     .  And  as  for  the  Bastile — the  terror  is  in  the 

Is  it  not  better  to  be  freed  from  cares  and  15  word. — Make  the  most  of  it  you  can,  said  I 
agues,— from  love  and  melancholy,— and  the  to  myself,  the  Bastile  is  but  another  word  for 
other  hot  and  cold  fits  of  life,  than,  like  a  a  tower;— and  a  tower  is  but  another  word  for 
galled  traveller  who  comes  weary  to  his.  inn,  a  house  you  can't  get  out  of. — Mercy  on  the 
to  be  bound  to  begin  his  journey  afresh?  gouty!  for  they  are  in  it  twice  a  year.— But 

There  is  no  terror,  brother  Toby,  in  its  looks  20  with  nine  livres  a  day,  and  pen  and  ink  and 
but  what  it  borrows  from  groans  and  convul-  paper  and  patience,  albeit  a  man  can't  get  out, 
sions— and  the  blowing  of  noses  and  the  wiping  he  may  do  very  well  within,— at  least  for  a 
away  of  tears  with  the  bottom  of  curtains  in  a  month  or  six  weeks;  at  the  end  of  which,  if  he 
dying  man's  room.— Strip  it  of  these,— what  is  a  harmless  fellow,  his  innocence  appears, 
is  it?- 'Tis  better  in  battle  than  in  bed,  said  25  and  he  comes  out  a  better  and  wiser  man  than 
my  uncle  Toby. — Take  away  its  hearses,  its      he  went  in. 

mutes,  and  its  mourning,  its  plumes,  escutch-  I  had  some  occasion  (I  forget  what)  to  step 

eons,  and  other  mechanic  aids-What  is  it?—  into  the  court-yard,  as  I  settled  this  account; 
Better  m  battle?  Contmued  my  father,  smiling,  and  remember  I  walked  down  stairs  in  no  small 
for  he  had  absolutely  forgotten  my  brother  30  triumph  with  the  conceit  of  my  reasoning  — 
Bobby— it  IS  terrible  no  way— for  consider,  Beshrew  the  som6re  pencil !  said  I,  vauntingly— 
brother  Toby,— when  we  are— death  is  not;^  for  I  envy  not  its  power,  which  paints  the  evils 
and  when  death  is— we  are  no^.— My  uncle  of  life  with  so  hard  and  deadly  a  colouring, 
loby  laid  down  his  pipe,  to  consider  the  propo-  The  mind  sits  terrified  at  the  objects  she  has 
sition;  my  father's  eloquence  was  too  rapid  to 35  magnified  herself,  and  blackened;  reduce  them 
stayforanyman;— away  it  went— and  hurried  to  their  proper  size  and  hue,  she  overlooks 
my  uncle  Toby  s  ideas  along  with  it.  them.— 'Tis  true,  said  I,  correcting  the  propo- 

l^or  this  reason,  contmued  my  father,  'tis  sition— the  Bastile  is  not  an  evil  to  be  despised 
worthy  to  recollect  how  little  alteration,  in  But  strip  it  of  its  towers— fill  up  the  foss— un- 
seat men,  the  approaches  of  death  have  made— 40  barricade  the  doors— call  it  simply  a  confine- 
Vespasian  died  in  a  jest,— Galba  with  a  sen-  ment,  and  suppose  'tis  some  tyrant  of  a  dis- 
tence;-Saptimus  Severus  in  a  despatch;—  temper-and  not  a  man,  which  holds  you  in 
Tiberius  m  dissimulation;— and  Caesar  Au-  it-the  evil  vanishes,  and  you  bear  the  other 
gustus  m  a  compliment— I  hope  'twas  a  sin-     half  without  complaint 

cere  one,-quoth  my  uncle  Toby.  45     I  was  interrupted  in  the  hey-day  of  this 

Twas  to  his  wife,-said  my  father.  soliloquy,  with  the  voice  which  I  took  to  be  of 

a  child,  which  complained  "it  could  not  get 
THE  STARLING  out." — I  looked  up  and  down  the  passage, 

and,  seeing  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child, 

(From  A  Sentimental  Journey,^  1768)         ^  ^  ^^^^  out  without  further  attention. 

r,   ,  ,     ,^  . ,       ^         .  In  my  return  back  through  the  passage,  I 

But  you  dont  consider,  Eugenius,  said  I,      heard  the  same  words  repeated  twice  over- 

that  before  I  have  been  three  days  in  Paris,      and,  looking  up,  I  saw  it  was  a  starling  hung 

1  shall  take  care  to  say  or  do  something  or     in  a  little  cage— "I  can't  get  out— I  can't  get 

person  named  Yorir.k,  the  descendant  of  Yorink  the      stood  looking  at  the  bird;  and  to  cvcrv  person 

lellow  of  infinitA  vuit  "  in    u„r,^i^t       n,,*   v__-  i_  !,_ xi      «       1    ,1  ..  ::    ^      . 


5i'r°"w.,?i/tr  iT'^s^'-rnf  £,c,f^l"  ^gSSl,^^^?      7''^^"'.'  '^"^"^'^  the  passage,  it  ran  fluttering 

Yonck  3  friend  and  adviser,  and  has  just  offered  to  lend  .  ^"^  ^^^^  towards  which  they  approached  it, 

irn  money.  ^j^jj  ^j^g  g^^^^  lamentation  of  his  captivity,— 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  397 

"I  can't  get  out,"  said  the  starling — God  help  my  gratitude  and  esteem,  the  only  tributes  a 
thee!  said  I, — but  I'll  let  thee  out,  cost  what  it  poor  philosophic  wanderer  can  return.  Sure 
will,  so  I  turned  about  the  cage  to  get  the  door;  fortune  is  resolved  to  make  me  unhappy' 
it  was  twia^d  and  double  twisted  so  fast  with  when  she  gives  others  a  power  of  testifying 
wire  ther&4ifns  no  getting  it  open  without  pull-  5  their  friendship  by  actions,  and  leaves  me  only 
ing  the  cage  to  pieces. — I  took  both  hands  to  it.      words  to  express  the  sincerity  of  mine. 

The  bird  flew  to  the  place  where  I  was  at-  My  passage  by  sea  from  Rotterdam  to  Eng- 

tempting  his  deliverance,  and,  thrusting  his  "land  was  more  painful  to  me  than  all  the  jour- 
head  through  the  trellis,  pressed  his  breast  neys  I  ever  made  on  land.  I  have  traversed 
against  it,  as  if  impatient.  I  fear,  poor  crea-iothe  immeasurable  wilds  of  Mogul  Tartary; 
ture,  said  I,  I  cannot  set  thee  at  liberty. —  felt  all  the  rigours  of  Siberian  skies;  I  have 
"No,"  said  the  starling;  'T  can't  get  out — I  had  my  repose  a  hundred  times  disturbed  by 
can't  get  out."  invading    savages,    and    have    seen,    without 

I  vow  I  never  had  any  affections  more  ten-  shrinking,  the  desert  sands  rise  like  a  troubled 
derly  awakened;  nor  do  I  remember  an  incident  15  ocean  all  around  me;  against  these  calamities 
in  my  life  where  the  dissipated  spirits,  to  which  I  was  armed  with  resolution ;  but  in  my  passage 
my  reason  had  been  a  bubble,  were  so  rudely  to  England,  though  nothing  occurred  that 
call'd  home.  Mechanical  as  the  notes  were,  gave  the  mariners  any  uneasiness,  to  one  who 
yet  so  true  in  tune  to  nature  were  they  chanted,  was  never  at  sea  before,  all  was  a  subject  of 
that  in  one  moment  they  overthrew  all  my  20  astonishment  and  terror.  To  find  the  land 
systematic  reasonings  upon  the  Bastile;  and  disappear,  to  see  our  ship  mount  the  waves, 
I  heavily  walked  upstairs,  unsaying  every  swift  as  an  arrow  from  the  Tartar  bow,  to  hear 
word  I  had  said  in  going  down  them.  the  wind  howling  through  the  cordage,  to  feel 

Disguise  thyself  as  thou  wilt,  still,  Slavery,      a  sickness  which  depresses  even  the  spirits  of 

said  I,  still  thou  art  a  bitter  draught!  and,  25  the  brave;  these  were  unexpected  distresses, 

though  thousands  in  all  ages  have  been  made      and  consequently  assaulted  me  unprepared  to 

to  drink  of  thee,  thou  art  no  less  bitter  on  that      receive  them. 

account.    'Tis  thou,  thrice  sweet  and  gracious         You   men   of   Europe   think  nothing  of  a 

goddess,  addressing  myself  to  Liberty,  whom      voyage  by  sea.    With  us  of  China,  a  man  who 

all,  in  public  or  in  private,  worship,  whose  30  has  been  from  sight  of  land  is  regarded  upon 

taste  is  grateful,  and  will  ever  be  so,  till  Nature      his  return  with  admiration.    I  have  known  some 

herself  shall  change.    No  tint  of  words  can  spot      provinces  where  there  is  not  even  a  name  for 

thy  snowy  mantle,  no  chymic  power  turn  thy      the  Ocean.    What  a  strange  people,  therefore, 

sceptre  into  iron; — with  thee  to  smile  upon      am  I  got  amongst,  who  have  founded  an  em- 

him  as  he  eats  his  crust,  the  swain  is  happier  35  pire  on  this  unstable  element,  who  build  cities 

than  his  monarch,  from  whose  Court  thou  art      upon  billows  that  rise  higher  than  the  moun- 

exiled.     Gracious  Heaven!   cried   I,   kneeling      tains  of  Tipertala,  and  make  the  deep  more 

down  upon  the  last  step  but  one  in  my  ascent,      formidable  than  the  wildest  tempest. 

grant  me  but  health,  thou  great  Bestower  of         Such  accounts  as  these,  I  must  confess,  were 

it,  and  give  me  but  this  fair  goddess  as  my  40  my  first  motives  for  seeing  England.     These 

companion, — and  shower  down  thy  mitres,  if      induced  me  to  take  a  journey  of  seven  hundred 

it   seem   good   unto   thy   Divine   Providence,      painful  days,  in  order  to  examine  its  opulence, 

upon  those  heads  which  are  aching  for  them.  buildings,    sciences,    arts,    and   manufactures, 

on  the  spot.     Judge  then  my  disappointment 

dlMtfri<>t*   /fX<<i1^<yYMt#-fi  45  on  entering  London,  to  see  no  signs  of  that 

mim   mmmitl)  ^p^^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^U^^^  ^^  abroad:  wherever 

1728-1774  I  turn,  I  am  presented  with  a  gloomy  solemnity 

in  the  houses,  the  streets,  and  the  inhabitants; 

IMPRESSIONS   OF  A   CHINESE  ^one  of  that  beautiful  gilding  which  makes  a 

TRAVELLER  50  principle   ornament   in   Chinese   architecture. 

(From  Citizen  of  the  World,  (1760-61)  Letter  IV)      The  streets  of  Nankin  are  sometimes  strewed 

_  ^.       ^ ,,      ,      .      with   gold-leaf;   very   different   are   those   of 

From    Lien    Chi   Altangi,    to ,   Merchant 

in  Amsterdam,  Citizen  of  the  World,  were  first .  published  serially  in  a 

paper  called  the  Public  Ledger.    They  are  a  remarkable 

Friend  of  my  Heart,  London.       55  plea  for  a  tolerant  and   sympathetie   attitude   toward 

Mm,  thp  nmnn'i  nf  r^Pnro  rP<it  iinnn  fhll  dwelUnn         remote  and  alien  nations   and  they  maintain  that  under- 

M  ay  me  wings  OJ  peace  rest  upon  my  aweuing,       ^eath    all    superficial    differences    men   everywhere    arci 

and  the  shield  of  conscience   preserve   thee  from       essentially  the  same.    "The  truth  is,"  says  Goldsmith  in 

vice  and  misery!     For  all  thy  favours  accept      gS'^rde^^s'^S^^In^lnt^^'Snif  oT^^^^^ 

1  These  letters,  afterwards  collected  and  entitled  The       mark  the  distinctions  among  mankind." 


398  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

London;  in  the  midst  of  their  pavements,  a  so  remote  a  region  as  this  to  which  I  have 
great  lazy  puddle  moves  lazily  along;  heavy  wandered,  I  should  gladly  send  it;  but,  instead 
laden  machines,  with  wheels  of  unwieldy  of  this,  you  must  be  contented  with  a  renewal 
thickness,  crowd  up  every  passage;  so  that  a  of  my  former  professions,  and  an  imperfect 
stranger,  instead  of  finding  time  for  observa-  5  account  of  a  people  with  whom  I  am  as  yet 
tion,  is  often  happy  if  he  has  time  to  escape  superficially  acquainted.  The  remarks  of  a 
from  being  crushed  to  pieces.  man  who  has  been  but  three  days  in  the  coun- 

The  houses  borrow  very  few  ornaments  try,  can  only  be  those  obvious  circumstances 
from  architecture;  their  chief  decoration  seems  which  force  themselves  upon  the  imagination. 
to  be  a  paltry  piece  of  painting  hung  out  at  10  I  consider  myself  here  as  a  newly  created  being 
their  doors  or  windows,  at  once  a  proof  of  their  introduced  into  a  new  world;  every  object 
indigence  and  vanity:  their  vanity,  in  each  strikes  with  wonder  and  surprise.  The  imagi- 
having  one  of  those  pictures  exposed  to  public  nation,  still  unsated,  seems  the  only  active 
view:  and  their  indigence,  in  being  unable  to  principle  of  the  mind.  The  most  trifling  oc- 
get  them  better  painted.  In  this  respect,  15  currences  give  pleasure,  till  the  gloss  of  novelty 
the  fancy  of  their  painters  is  also  deplorable,  is  worn  away.  When  I  have  ceased  to  wonder, 
Could  you  believe  it?  I  have  seen  five  black  I  may  possibly  grow  wise;  I  may  then  call 
lions  and  three  blue  boars  in  less  than  a  cir-  the  reasoning  principle  to  my  aid,  and  compare 
cuit  of  half  a  mile;  and  yet  you  know  that  those  objects  with  each  other,  which  were 
animals  of  these  colours  are  no  where  to  be  20  before  examined  without  reflection, 
found    except    in    the    wild    imaginations    of  Behold  me  then  in  London,  gazing  at  the 

Europe.  strangers,  and  they  at  me;  it  seems  they  find 

From  these  circumstances  in  their  build-  somewhat  absurd  in  my  figure;  and  had  I  been 
ings,  and  from  the  dismal  looks  of  the  inhabit-  never  from  home,  it  is  possible  I  might  find  an 
ants,  I  am  induced  to  conclude  that  the  nation  25  infinite  fund  of  ridicule  in  theirs;  but  by  long 
is  actually  poor;  and  that,  like  the  Persians,  travelling  I  am  taught  to  laugh  at  folly  alone, 
they  make  a  splendid  figure  everywhere  but  at  and  to  find  nothing  truly  ridiculous  but  villany 
home.     The  proverb  of  Xixofou  is,   that  a      and  vice. 

man's  riches  may  be  seen  in  his  eyes;  if  we  When  I  had  just  quitted  my  native  country, 

judge  of  the  English  by  this  rule,  there  is  not  30  and  crossed  the  Chinese  wall,  I  fancied  every 
a  poorer  nation  under  the  sun.  deviation  from  the  customs  and  manners  of 

I  have  been  here  but  two  days,  so  will  not  China  was  a  departing  from  nature.  I  smiled 
be  hasty  in  my  decisions.  Such  letters  as  I  at  the  blue  lips  and  red  foreheads  of  the 
shall  write  to  Fipsihi  in  Moscow,  I  beg  you'll  Tonguese;^  and  could  hardly  contain  when  I 
endeavour  to  forward  with  all  diligence;  I  shall  35  saw  the  Daures^  dress  their  heads  with  horns, 
send  them  open,  in  order  that  you  may  take  The  Ostiacs^  powdered  with  red  earth;  and  the 
copies  or  translations,  as  you  are  equally  Calmuck*  beauties,  tricked  out  in  all  the  finery 
versed  in  the  Dutch  and  Chinese  languages,  of  sheepskin,  appeared  highly  ridiculous:  but 
Dear  friend,  think  of  my  absence  with  regret,  I  soon  perceived  that  the  ridicule  lay  not  in 
as  I  sincerely  regret  yours;  even  while  I  write,  40  them  but  in  me;  that  I  falsely  condemned 
I  lament  our  separation.    Farewell.  others  for  absurdity,  because  they  happened 

to  differ  from  a  standard  originally  founded 
J  J  in  prejudice  or  partiality. 

Lietter  111  j  ^^^  ^^^  pleasure  therefore  in  taxing  the 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  the  care  of  Fipsihi,  ^5  English  with  departing  from  nature  in  their 
resident  in  Moscow,  to  be  forwarded  by  the  external  appearance,  which  is  all  I  yet  know  of 
Russian  caravan  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  Presi-  ^^^^^  character:  it  is  possible  they  only  en- 
dent  of  the  Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin  in  deavour  to  improve  her  simple  plan,  since 
China.  every  extravagance  in  dress  proceeds  from  a 

50  desire  of  becoming  more  beautiful  than  nature 
Think  not,  O  thou  guide  of  my  youth!  that  made  us;  and  this  is  so  harmless  a  vanity,  that 
absence  can  impair  my  respect,  or  interposing  I  not  only  pardon  but  approve  it.  A  desire  to 
trackless  deserts  blot  your  reverend  figure  be  more  excellent  than  others,  is  what  actually 
from  my  memory.  "The  farther  I  travel  I  feel  makes  us  so;  and  as  thousands  find  a  livelihood 
the  pain  of  separation  with  stronger  force;  55  i  The  people  of  the  r<m^a,  or  Friendly  Islands,  in  the 
Those  ties  that  bind  me  to  my  native  country      SouUi  Pacific.  .       ,       , 

anA  -trr^i,    ^r.^  ^<--n  ,,    I.     1             -D  2  The  people  of  Dauria,  a  mountainous  region  of  aouth- 

and  you,  are  still  unbroken.     By  every  remove,  eastern  Siberia,  on  the  Chinese  frontier. 

I  only  drag  a  greater  length  of  chain.  ^  A  people  of  western  Siberia  of  Finnish  stock. 

r'rviil^  T  fi'^A  «,,„i,4.           4.U  4.              'i-i.-        If  *  A  nomadic  people  of  Mongolian  stock,  now  dwelling 

UOUld  1  nnd  aught  worth  transmittmg  from  in  certain  parts  of  China,  Siberia,  and  Russia. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  399 

in  society  by  such  appetities,  none  but  the  the  small-footed  perfections  of  an  Eastern 
ignorant  inveigh  against  them.  beauty,  how  is  it  possible  I  should  have  eyes 

You  are  not  insensible,  most  reverend  Fum  for  a  woman  whose  feet  are  ten  inches  long? 
Hoam,  what  numberless  trades,  even  among  I  shall  never  forget  the  beauties  of  my  native 
the  Chinese,  subsist  by  the  harmless  pride  of  5  city  of  Nanfew.  How  very  broad  their  faces! 
each  other.  Your  nose-borers,  feet-swathers,  how  very  short  their  noses!  how  very  httle  their 
tooth-stainers,  eyebrow-pluckers,  would  all  eyes!  how  very  thin  their  lips!  how  very  black 
want  bread,  should  their  neighbours  want  their  teeth!  the  snow  on  the  tops  of  Bao  is  not 
vanity.  These  vanities,  however,  employ  fairer  than  their  cheeks;  and  their  eyebrows 
much  fewer  hands  in  China  than  in  England;  10  are  small  as  the  line  by  the  pencil  of  Quamsi. 
and  a  fine  gentleman  or  a  fine  lady  here,  dressed  Here  a  lady  with  such  perfections  would  be 
up  to  the  fashion,  seems  scarcely  to  have  a  frightful;  Dutch  and  Chinese  beauties,  in- 
single  Hmb  that  does  not  suffer  some  distortion  deed,  have  some  resemblance,  but  English 
from  art.  women  are  entirely  difi'erent;  red  cheeks,  big 

To  make  a  fine  gentleman,  several  trades  1 5  eyes,  and  teeth  of  a  most  odious  whiteness, 
are  required,  but  chiefly  a  barber.  You  have  are  not  only  seen  here,  but  wished  for;  and 
undoubtedly  heard  of  the  Jewish  champion,  then  they  have  such  masculine  feet,  as  actually 
whose  strength  lay  in  his  hair.     One  would      serve  some  for  walking! 

think  that  the  English  were  for  placing  all  Yet  uncivil  as  nature  has  been,  they  seem 

wisdom  there.    To  appear  wise,  nothing  more  20  resolved  to  outdo  her  in  unkindness;  they  use 
is  requisite  here  than  for  a  man  to  borrow  hair      white  powder,  blue  powder,  and  black  powder, 
from  the  heads  of  all  his  neighbours,  and  clap      for  their  hair,  and  a  red  powder  for  the  face  on 
it  like  a  bush  on  his  own;  the  distributors  of      some  particular  occasions. 
law  and  physic  stick  on  such  quantities,  that  They  like  to  have  the  face  of  various  colours, 

it  is  almost  impossible,  even  in  idea,  to  dis-25as  among  the  Tartars  of  Koreki,  frequently 
tinguish  between  the  head  and  the  hair.  sticking  on,  with  spittle,  little  black  patches 

Those  whom  I  have  been  now  describing  on  every  part  of  it,  except  on  the  tip  of  the 
affect  the  gravity  of  the  lion;  those  I  am  going  nose,  which  I  have  never  seen  with  a  patch. 
to  describe,  more  resemble  the  pert  vivacity  of  You'll  have  a  better  idea  of  their  manner  of 
smaller  animals.  The  barber,  who  is  still  30  placing  these  spots,  when  I  have  finished  the 
master  of  the  ceremonies,  cuts  their  hair  close  map  of  an  English  face  patched  up  to  the 
to  the  crown;  and  then  with  a  composition  of  fashion,  which  shall  shortly  be  sent  to  increase 
meal  and  hog's-lard,  plasters  the  whole  in  your  curious  collection  of  paintings,  medals, 
such  a  manner  as  to  make  it  impossible  to      and  monsters. 

distinguish  whether  the  patient  wears  a  cap  or  35  But  what  surprises  more  than  all  the  rest  is 
a  plaster;  but,  to  make  the  picture  more  per-  what  I  have  just  now  been  credibly  informed 
fectly  striking,  conceive  the  tail  of  some  beast,  by  one  of  this  country.  "Most  ladies  here," 
a  greyhound's  tail,  or  a  pig's  tail,  for  instance,  says  he,  "have  two  faces;  one  face  to  sleep  in, 
appended  to  the  back  of  the  head,  and  reaching  and  another  to  show  in  company:  the  first  is 
down  to  the  place  where  tails  in  other  animals  40  generally  reserved  for  the  husband  and  family 
are  generally  seen  to  begin;  thus  betailed  and  at  home;  the  other  put  on  to  please  strangers 
bepowdered,  the  man  of  taste  fancies  he  im-  abroad:  the  family  face  is  often  indifferent 
proves  in  beauty,  dresses  up  his  hard-featured  enough,  but  the  out-door  one  looks  something 
face  in  smiles,  and  attempts  to  look  hideously  better;  this  is  always  made  at  the  toilet,  where 
tender.  Thus  equipped,  he  is  qualified  to  make  45  the  looking-glass  and  toad-eater^  sit  in  council, 
love,  and  hopes  for  success  more  from  the  and  settle  the  complexion  of  the  day." 
powder  on  the  outside  of  his  head,  than  the  I  can't  ascertain  the  truth  of  this  remark; 
sentiments  within.  however,  it  is  actually  certain,  that  they  wear 

Yet  when  I  consider  what  sort  of  a  creature  more  clothes  within  doors  than  without;  and 
the  fine  lady  is  to  whom  he  is  supposed  to  pay  50  I  have  seen  a  lady,  who  seemed  to  shudder  at 
his  addresses,  it  is  not  strange  to  find  him  thus  a  breeze  in  her  own  apartment,  appear  half 
equipped  in  order  to  please.     She  is  herself     naked  in  the  streets. 

every  whit  as  fond  of  powder,  and  tails,  and  The  English  seem  as  silent  as  the  Japanese, 
hog's-lard,  as  he.  To  speak  my  secret  senti-  yet  vainer  than  the  inhabitants  of  Siam.  Upon 
ments,  most  reverend  Fum,  the  ladies  here  are  55  my  arrival,  I  attributed  that  reserve  to  mod- 
horribly  ugly;  I  can  hardly  endure  the  sight  of  esty,  which  I  now  find  has  its  origin  in  pride, 
them;  they  no  way  resemble  the  beauties  of  Condescend  to  address  them  first,  and  you  are 
China;  the  Europeans  have  quite  a  different  sure  of  their  acquaintance:  stoop  to  flattery, 
idea  of  beauty  from  us.     When  I  reflect  on  6Toady:anobseqmousatteadant. 


400  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

and  you  conciliate  their  friendship  and  esteem.  "It  is  not  so  much  our  liberties  as  our  religion, 

They  bear  hunger,  cold,  fatigue,  and  all  the  that  would  suffer  by  such  a  change;  ay,  our 

miseries    of    life    without    shrinking;    danger  religion,  my  lads.    May  the  devil  sink  me  into 

only  calls  forth  their  fortitude;  they  even  exult  flames  (such  was  the  solemnity  of  his  adjura- 

in  calamity;  but  contempt  is  what  they  can-  5tion),  if  the  French  should  come  over,  but  our 

not   bear.      An    Englishman    fears    contempt  religion  would  be  utterly  undone."    So  saying, 

more  than  death;  he  often  flies  to  death  as  a  instead  of  a  libation,  he  applied  the  goblet  to 

refuge  from  its  pressure;  and  dies  when  he  his  lips,  and  confirmed  his  sentiments  with  a 

fancies  the  world  has  ceased  to  esteem  him.  ceremony  of  the  most  persevering  devotion. 
Pride  seems  the  source  not  only  of  their  10 

ro^^ln^Si^laa  U  tugft  T'lotr       A  VISIT  TO  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 
king  as  his  friend,  but  to  acknowledge  no  other  (Letter  XIII.  from  the  same) 

master  than  the  laws  which  he  himself  has 

contributed  to  enact.  He  despises  those  na-  15  I  am  just  returned  from  Westminster  Abbey, 
tions,  who,  that  one  may  be  free,  are  all  con-  the  place  of  sepulture  for  the  philosophers, 
tent  to  be  slaves;  who  first  lift  a  tyrant  into  heroes,  and  kings  of  England.  What  a  gloom 
terror,  and  then  shrink  under  his  power  as  if  do  monumental  inscriptions  and  all  the  ven- 
delegated  from  Heaven.  Liberty  is  echoed  erable  names  of  deceased  merit  inspire!  Im- 
in  all  their  assemblies;  and  thousands  might  20  agine  a  temple  marked  with  the  hand  of  antiq- 
be  found  ready  to  offer  up  their  lives  for  the  uity,  solemn  as  religious  awe,  adorned  with 
sound,  though  perhaps  not  one  of  all  the  num-  all  the  magnificence  of  barbarous  profusion, 
ber  understands  its  meaning.  The  lowest  dim  windows,  fretted  pillars,  long  colonnades, 
mechanic,  however,  looks  upon  it  as  his  duty  and  dark  ceilings.  Think  then,  what  were  my 
to  be  a  watchful  guardian  of  his  country's  25  sensations  at  being  introduced  to  such  a  scene. 
freedom,  and  often  uses  a  language  that  might  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  temple,  aiid  threw 
seem  haughty,  even  in  the  mouth  of  the  great  my  eyes  round  on  the  walls  filled  with  the 
emperor,  who  traces  his  ancestry  to  the  moon,  statues,  the  inscriptions,  and  the  monuments 
A  few  days  ago,  passing  by  one  of  their  prisons,      of  the  dead. 

I  could  not  avoid  stopping  in  order  to  listen  30  Alas,  I  said  to  myself,  how  does  pride  attend 
to  a  dialogue  which  I  thought  might  afford  the  puny  child  of  dust  even  to  the  grave! 
me  some  entertainment.  The  conversation  Even  humble  as  I  am,  I  possess  more  conse- 
was  carried  on  between  a  debtor  through  the  quence  in  the  present  scene  than  the  greatest 
grate  of  his  prison,  a  porter,  who  had  stopped  to  hero  of  them  all;  they  have  toiled  for  an  hour 
rest  his  burden,  and  a  soldier  at  the  window.  35  to  gain  a  transient  immortahty,  and  are  at 
The  subject  was  upon  a  threatened  invasion  length  retired  to  the  grave,  where  they  have 
from  France,^  and  each  seemed  extremely  no  attendant  but  the  worm,  none  to  flatter 
anxious  to  rescue  his  country  from  the  im-      but  the  epitaph. 

pending  danger.     "For  my  part,"   cries  the  As  I  was  indulging  such  reflections,  a  gentle- 

prisoner,  "the  greatest  of  my  apprehensions 40 man  dressed  in  black,  perceiving  me  to  be  a 
is  for  our  freedom;  if  the  French  should  con-  stranger,  came  up,  entered  into  conversation, 
quer,  what  would  become  of  English  liberty?  and  politely  offered  to  be  my  instructor  and 
My  dear  friends,  Liberty  is  the  Enghshman's  guide  through  the  temple.  If  any  monument, 
prerogative;  we  must  preserve  that  at  the  said  he,  should  particularly  excite  your  curios- 
expense  of  our  lives;  of  that  the  French  shall  45  ity,  I  shall  endeavour  to  satisfy  your  demands, 
never  deprive  us;  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  I  accepted  with  thanks  the  gentleman's  offer, 
men  who  are  slaves  themselves  would  preserve  adding,  that  "I  was  come  to  observe  the 
our  freedom  should  they  happen  to  conquer."—  policy,  the  wisdom,  and  the  justice  of  the  Eng- 
"Ay,  slaves,"  cries  the  porter,  "they  are  all  lish,  in  conferring  rewards  upon  deceased  merit, 
slaves,  fit  only  to  carry  burdens,  every  one  of  50  If  adulation  like  this,  continued  I,  be  properly 
them.  Before  I  would  stoop  to  slavery,  may  conducted,  as  it  can  in  no  ways  injure  those 
this  be  my  poison  (and  he  held  the  goblet  in  who  are  flattered,  so  it  may  be  a  glorious  incen- 
his  hand),  may  this  be  my  poison— but  I  would  tive  to  those  who  are  now  capable  of  enjoying 
sooner  list  for  a  soldier."  it.     It  is  the  duty  of  every  good  government 

The  soldier,  taking  the  goblet  from  his  55  to  turn  this  monumental  pride  to  its  own  ad- 
friend,  with  much  awe  fervently   cried  out,      vantage,  to  become  strong  in  the  aggregate 

'  T^e  Seven  Years  War  (1756-67)  in  which  England  from  the  weakness  of  the  individual.  If  none 
E-glfn3T;rrj^p3rt',h7,  T^iTZerZTrZt  ^-.t  the  truly  great  have  a  place  in  this  awful 
and  Indian  War)  and  In  India.  repository,   a  temple  like  this  wiil  give  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  401 

finest  lessons  of  morality,  and  be  a  strong  in-  solved  to  keep  them  company  now  they  are 
centive  to  true  ambition.     I  am  told,   that      dead. 

none  have  a  place  here  but  characters  of  the  As  we  walked  along  to  a  particular  part  of 

most  distinguished  merit."  The  man  in  black  the  temple,  there,  says  the  gentleman,  pointing 
seemed  impatient  at  my  observations,  so  I  5  with  his  finger,  that  is  the  poet's  corner  ;2  there 
discontinued  my  remarks,  and  we  walked  on  you  see  the  monuments  of  Shakespeare,  and 
together  to  take  a  view  of  every  particular  Milton,  and  Prior,  and  Drayton.^  Drayton, 
monument  in  order  as  it  lay.  I  replied,  I  never  heard  of  him  before,  but  I 

As  the  eye  is  naturally  caught  by  the  finest  have  been  told  of  one  Pope,*  is  he  there?  It 
objects,  I  could  not  avoid  being  particularly  10  is ,  time  enough,  replied  my  guide,  these  hun- 
curious  about  one  monument  which  appeared  dred  years,  he  is  not  long  dead,  people  have 
more  beautiful  than  the  rest;  that,  said  I  to  not  done  hating  him  yet.  Strange,  cried  I, 
my  guide,  I  take  to  be  the  tomb  of  some  very  Can  any  be  found  to  hate  a  man,  whose  life 
great  man.  By  the  peculiar  excellence  of  the  was  wholly  spent  in  entertaining  and  instruct- 
workmanship,  and  the  magnificence  of  the  15  ing  his  fellow  creatures?  Yes,  says  my  guide, 
design,  this  must  be  a  trophy  raised  to  the  they  hate  him  for  that  very  reason.  There  are 
memory  of  some  king  who  has  saved  his  coun-  a  set  of  men  called  answerers  of  books,  who 
try  from  ruin,  or  lawgiver,  who  has  reduced  take  upon  them  to  watch  the  republic  of  let- 
his  fellow-citizens  from  anarchy  into  just  ters,  and  distribute  reputation  by  the  sheet; 
subjection. — It  is  not  requisite,  replied  my  20  they  are  incapable  of  giving  pleasure  them- 
companion  smiling,  to  have  such  quahfications  selves,  and  hinder  those  that  would.  These 
in  order  to  have  a  very  fine  monument  here,  answerers  have  no  other  employment  but  to 
More  humble  abilities  will  suffice.  What,  I  cry  out  Dunce,  and  Scribbler,  to  praise  the 
suppose  then,  the  gaining  two  or  three  battles,  dead,  ai;id  revile  the  living,  to  grant  a  man  of 
or  the  taking  half  a  score  towns,  is  thought  a  25  confessed  abilities  some  small  share  of  merit, 
sufficient  qualification?  Gaining  battles,  or  to  applaud  twenty  blockheads  in  order  to  gain 
taking  towns,  replied  the  man  in  black,  may  the  reputation  of  candour,  and  to  revile  the 
be  of  service;  but  a  gentleman  may  have  a  moral  character  of  the  man  whose  writings 
very  fine  monument  here  without  ever  seeing  they  cannot  injure.  Such  wretches  are  kept  in 
a  battle  or  a  siege.  This  then  is  the  monument  30  pay  by  some  mercenary  bookseller,  or  more 
of  some  poet,  I  presume,  of  one  whose  wit  has  frequently,  the  bookseller  himself  takes  this 
gained  him  immortality?  No,  sir,  ^replied  my  dirty  work  off  their  hands,  as  all  that  is  re- 
guide,  the  gentleman  who  lies  here  never  made  quired  is  to  be  very  abusive  and  very  dull; 
verses;  and  as  for  wit,  he  despised  it  in  others,  every  Poet  of  any  genius  is  sure  to  find  such 
because  he  had  none  himself.  Pray  tell  me  35  enemies,  he  feels,  though  he  seems  to  despise 
theninaword,  ssiid  I  peevishly,  what  is  the  great  their  malice;  they  make  him  miserable  here, 
m^n  who  lies  here  particularly  remarkable  for?  and  in  the  pursuit  of  empty  fame,  at  last  he 
Remarkable,   sir!   said   my   companion;  why,      gains  solid  anxiety. 

sir,  the  gentleman  that  lies  here  is  remarkable,  Has  this  been  the  case  with  every  poet  I  see 

very  remarkable — for  a  tomb  in  Westminster  40  Aere?  cried  I. — Yes,  with  every  mother's  son 
Abbey.  But,  head  of  my  Anceslors\^  how  has  of  them,  replied  he,  except  he  happened  to  be 
he  got  here?  I  fancy  he  could  never  bribe  the  born  a  mandarine.^  If  he  has  much  money, 
guardians  of  the  temple  to  give  him  a  place,  he  may  buy  reputation  from  your  book- 
Should  he  not  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  among  com-  answerers,  as  well  as  a  monument  from  the 
pany,  ivhere  even  moderate  merit  would  look  like  45  guardians  of  the  temple.  But  are  there  not 
infamy?  I  suppose,  replied  the  man  in  black,  some  men  of  distinguished  taste,  as  in  China, 
the  gentleman  was  rich,  and  his  friends,  as  is  who  are  willing  to  patronise  men  of  merit  and 
usual  in  such  a  case,  told  him  he  was  great,  soften  the  rancour  of  malevolent  dulness? 
He  readily  believed  them;  the  guardians  of  2  in  the  south-transept  of  the  Abbey.  Cf.  Irving's 
the  temple,  as  they  got  by  the  self-delusion,  50  description  ^^^^^^^^^ 

were  ready  to  believe  him  too;  so  he  paid  his  then  Prior  and  Drayton,  minor  poets,  would  be  more 
^r^r^^^r  f n,^  o  fir.o  T« rwTii  1  rr, oTi  +  •  ciT^H  tliP  worW-  famous  than  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  neither  of  whom 
money  tor  a   fane   monument,    ana   tne  WOrK-       ^^  ^^^^^   .^  Westminster  Abbey,   though  they  have 

man,  as  you  see,  has  made  him  one  the  most      monuments  there. 

beautiful.    Think  not,  however,  that  this  gen-      T^iShr,  Sol^ev^r.  SaoluM  oTtheVaWlSS 

tleman  is  singular  in  his  desire  of  being  buried  55  contemporaries,  but  because  he  desired  to  rest  near  his 

among  the  great;  there  are  several  others  in      J-^,?,'Jrip,f„^.'.?iJ„T''<;„e"'thlr^^ld'o^^^^^ 

the  temple,  who,  hated  and  shunned  by  the      Westminster  Abbey."  „ 

great  while  alive,  have  come  here,  fully  re-      ^^tc^''^ct:"iil,:S^'tt  ^.rll^^X^^^^h^r, 

1  Allusion  to  the  ancestor-worship  of  the  Chinese.  of  the  English  nobility  by  the  Chinese  traveller. 


432  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

I  own  there  are  many,  replied  the  man  in  in  that  chair  the  kings  of  England  were  crowned, 
black,  but,  alas!  sir,  the  book-answerers  crowd  you  see  also  a  stone  underneath,  and  that  stone 
about  them,  and  call  themselves  the  writers  is  Jacob's  pillow.  I  could  see  no  curiosity 
of  books;  and  the  patron  is  too  indolent  to  dis-  either  in  the  oak  chair  or  the  stone;  could  I, 
tinguish;  thus  poets  are  kept  at  a  distance,  5  indeed,  behold  one  of  the  old  kings  of  England 
while  their  enemies  eat  up  all  their  rewards  seated  in  this,  or  Jacob's  head  laid  upon  the 
at  the  mandarine's  table.  other,    there   might  be  something  curious  in 

Leaving  this  part  of  the  temple,  we  made  up  the  sight;  but  in  the  present  case,  there  was  no 
to  an  iron  gate,^  through  which  my  companion  more  reason  for  my  surprise,  than  if  I  should 
told  me  we  were  to  pass  in  order  to  see  the  lO  pick  a  stone  from  their  streets,  and  call  it  a 
monuments  of  the  kings.  Accordingly  I  curiosity,  merely  because  one  of  the  kings 
marched  up  without  further  ceremony,  and  happened  to  tread  upon  it  as  he  passed  in  a 
was  going  to  enter,  when  a  person  who  held      procession. 

the  gate  in  his  hand,  told  me  I  must  pay  first.  From  hence  our  conductor  led  us  through 

I  was  surprised  at  such  a  demand;  and  asked  15  several  dark  walks  and  winding  ways,  uttering 
the  man  whether  the  people  of  England  kept  a  lies,  talking  to  himself,  and  flourishing  a  wand 
show?  whether  the  paltry  sum  he  demanded  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  He  reminded  me 
was  not  a  national  reproach?  whether  it  was  of  the  black  magicians  of  Kobi.^^  After  we 
not  more  to  the  honour  of  the  country  to  let  had  been  almost  fatigued  with  a  variety  of 
their  magnificence  or  their  antiquities  be  20  objects,  he,  at  last,  desired  me  to  consider  at- 
openly  seen,  than  thus  meanly  to  tax  a  curiosity  tentively  a  certain  suit  of  armour,  which  seemed 
which  tended  to  their  own  honour?  As  for  to  show  nothing  remarkable.  This  armour, 
your  questions,  replied  the  gate-keeper,  to  be  said  he,  belonged  to  General  Monk.^'  Very 
sure  they  may  be  very  right,  because  I  don't  surprising,  that  a  general  should  wear  armour. 
understand  them,  but,  as  for  that  there  three-  25  And  pray,  added  he,  observe  this  cap,  this  is 
pence,  I  farm  it^  from  one,  who  rents  it  from  General  Monk's  cap.  Very  strange  indeed, 
another,  who  hires  it  from  a  third,  who  leases  very  strange,  that  a  general  should  have  a  cap 
it  from  the  guardians  of  the  temple,  and  we  also!  Pray,  friend,  what  might  this  cap  have 
all  must  live.  I  expected  upon  paying  here  to  cost  originally?  That,  sir,  says  he,  I  don't 
see  something  extraordinary,  since  what  I  had  30  know,  but  this  cap  is  all  the  wages  I  have  for 
seen  for  nothing  filled  me  with  so  much  sur-  my  trouble.  A  very  small  recompense  truly, 
prise;  but  in  this  I  was  disappointed;  there  said  I.  Not^so  very  small,  rephed  he,  for  every 
was  little  more  within  than  black  coflSns,  rusty  gentleman  puts  some  money  into  it,  and  I 
armour,  tattered  standards,  and  some  few  spend  the  money.  What,  more  money!  still 
slovenly  figures  in  wax.^  I  was  sorry  I  had  35  more  mxyney!  Every  gentleman  gives  some- 
paid,  but  I  comforted  myself  by  considering  thing,  sir.  I'll  give  thee  nothing,  returned  I; 
it  would  be  my  last  payment.  A  person  at-  the  guardians  of  the  temple  should  pay  you 
tended  us,  who,  without  once  blushing,  told  your  wages,  friend,  and  not  permit  you  to 
an  hundred  lies;  he  talked  of  a  lady  who  died  squeeze  thus  from  every  spectator.  When  we 
by  pricking  her  finger,^  of  a  king  with  a  golden  40  pay  our  money  at  the  door  to  see  a  show,  we 
head,^°  and  twenty  such  pieces  of  absurdity;  never  give  more  as  we  are  going  out.  Sure  the 
Look  ye  there,  gentlemen,  says  he,  pointing  to  guardians  of  the  temple  can  never  think  they 
an  old  oak  chair,"  there's  a  curiosity  for  ye;     get  enough.   Show  me  the  gate;  if  I  stay  longer, 

I   may   probably  meet  with  more  of  those 

«The  south  gate  of  the  "ambulatory"  separating  the  4c  pppip„:j,Qf:„„i  Uf^„cT€,-^ 
kings' tombs  from  the  body  of  the  church,    /fee  of  6d.  is  ^^  ®^^?^^^^\^^^\^®Sg^^S-  .    . 

still  charged  for  admission  to  the  chapels,  which  are  only  Thus    leaving    the    temple    precipitately,    I 

''°7a;°fortheHg^h^t?o"cXtit.  ^^t^r^^d  *«  W  lodgiugs,  in  Order  to  ruminate 

8  It  was  formerly  customary  to  place  in  the  Abbey  wax  OVer  what  was  great,  and  to  despise  what  was 

effigies  of  famous  personages  buried  there.     These  effigies  mAfln  in  fhp  nnnnrrPnr>P«  nf  +>ip  H« v 

had  been  carried  on  a  chariot  before  the  body  at  the  ™®3^  ^^  ^'^^  Occurrences  Ol  tne  day. 
funeral. 

•The  figure  of  Elizabeth  Russell,  referred  to  by  the 
Spectator  (329)  as  "that  martyr  to  good  housewifery,  who 

died  by  the  prick  of  a  needle."  12  Kobi  or  Gobi  is  a  great  desert  in  the  northern  part  of 

10  One  of  the  kings,  whose  head  had  been  stolen  toward  China, 

the  end  of  Henry  Vlllth's  reign.  13  General  Monk,  the  restorer  of  the  Stuarts,  is  buried  io 

"  The  famous  coronation  chair.  Henry  Vllth's  Chapel. 


EDMUND  BURKE  403 

CDntUnD    llBttJ^f  My  Lords,  Mr.  Hastings  pleads  one  constant 


1729-1797 
WARREN  HASTINGS^ 


merit  to  justify  those  acts,— namely,  that  they 
produce  an  increase  of  the  pubHc  revenue;  and 
accordingly  he  never  sells   to   any  of  those 
5  wicked   agents   any   trusts   whatever   in    the 
(From   Sveech  in  Overling  the   Impeachment,      country,  that  you  do  not  hear  that  it  will  con- 
Fourth  Day:  Tuesday,  February  19,  1788)  siderably  tend  to  the  mcrease  of  the  revenue. 

Your  Lordships  will  see,  when  he  sold  to  wicked 
My  Lords,2  you  have  heard  the  proceedings  men  the  province  of  Bahar^  in  the  same  way 
of  the  court  before  which  Gunga  Govind  Sing'  lo  in  which  Debi  Sing  had  this  province  of  Dinage- 
thought  proper  to  appeal,  in  consequence  of  pore,^  that  consequences  of  a  horrid  and 
the  power  and  protection  of  Mr.  Hastings  atrocious  nature,  though  not  to  so  great  an 
being  understood  to  exist  after  he  left  India,  extent,  followed  from  it.  I  will  just  beg  leave 
and  authenticated  by  his  last  parting  deed,  to  state  to  your  Lordships,  that  the  kingdom 
Your  Lordships  will  judge  by  that  last  act  of  15  of  Bahar  is  annexed  to  the  kingdom  of  Bengal; 
Mr.  Hastings  what  the  rest  of  his  whole  life  was.  that  this  kingdom  was  governed  by  another 
My  Lords,  I  do  not  mean  now  to  go  further  Provincial  Council;  that  he  turned  out  that 
than  just  to  remind  your  Lordships  of  this,  Provincial  Council,  and  sold  that  government 
that  Mr.  Hastings's  government  was  one  whole  to  two  wicked  men:^  one  of  no  fortune  at  all, 
system  of  oppression,  of  robbery  of  individuals,  20  and  the  other  of  a  very  suspicious  fortune; 
of  destruction  of  the  public,  and  of  suppression  one  a  total  bankrupt,  the  other  justly  excom- 
of  the  whole  system  of  the  English  govern-  municated  for  his  wickedness  in  his  country, 
ment,  in  order  to  vest  in  the  worst  of  the  na-  and  then  in  prison  for  misdemeanors  in  a 
tives  all  the  powers  that  could  possibly  exist  subordinate  situation  of  government.  Mr. 
in  any  government, — in  order  to  defeat  the  25  Hastings  destroyed  the  Council  that  imprisoned 
ends  which  all  governments  ought  in  common  him;  and,  instead  of  putting  one  of  the  best 
to  have  in  view.  Thus,  my  Lords,  I  show  you  and  most  reputable  of  the  natives  to  govern 
at  one  point  of  view  what  you  are  to  expect  it,  he  takes  out  of  prison  this  excommunicated 
from  him  in  all  the  rest.  I  have,  I  think,  made  wretch,  hated  by  God  and  man, — this  bank- 
out  as  clear  as  can  be  to  your  Lordships,  so  30  rupt,  this  man  of  evil  and  desperate  character, 
far  as  it  was  necessary  to  go,  that  his  bribery  this  mismanager  of  the  public  revenue  in  an 
and  peculation  was  not  occasional,  but  habit-  inferior  station;  and,  as  he  had  given  Bengal 
ual, — that  it  was  not  urged  upon  him  at  the  to  Gunga  Govind  Sing,^  he  gave  this  province  to 
moment,  but  was  regular  and  systematic.  I  Rajahs  Kelleram  and  Cullian  Sing.  It  was 
have  shown  to  your  Lordships  the  operation  35  done  upon  this  principle,  that  they  would  in- 
of  such  a  system  *  on  the  revenues.  crease   and   very   much   better   the   revenue. 

These  men  seemed  to  be  as  stragge  instru- 
Un  1786  Burke  presented  to  the  House  of  Commons      ments  for  improving  a  revenue  as  ever  were 

twenty-two  articles  charging  Hastmgs  with  high  cnmes  ^        „°    •    ^„    4.U«    ^,r>.r^^^     Ko,t«ti 

and  misdemeanors.     A  year  later  the  House  appointed       chosen,     I    SUppOSe,     smce    the    WOrld     began. 

a  committee  of  nine  prosecutors,  of  which  Burke  was  ^q  perhaps   their   merit   was   giving  a  bribe  of 
Hots2'orLo;d/&erSch\V»Tad\rn\e'a1?BuAl     40,000!.'  to  Mr.  Hastings.    Haw  be  disposed 

made  the  opening  speech,  from  the  conclusion  of  which       ^f  j^  j  don't  know.     He  says,  "I  disposed  of  it 

this_sejecUon  is^taken.^^  House  of  Lords,  which  was  sitting     to  the  public,  and  it  was  in  a  case  of  emergency." 

as  a  court  to  hear  the  impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings,        you  will  see  in  the  COUrse  of  this  businesS  the 
Governor-General  of  British  India  from  1773-85.     The  ^     u      ^      e   ^u^j-    ^«of«r,«a-   fr^r-   irr»ii    wi'll    qpp 

East-India    Company,    chartered   by    Parliament,    con- 45  falsehood    of   that   pretence,   tor   yoU   Will   ses, 
trolled  the  English  trade  and  part  of  the  government  of       though  the  obligation  is  given  for  it  aS  a  rOUnd 

JSf^JdTvlftll^ir'S  ?.ln°cfaf,n"fo°Slm°.'n?SVh'e'&     sum  of  money,  that  the  payment  was  not  ac- 

great  provinces  of  Bengal,  Bahar,  and  Orissa.    The  Com-  comolished   till   a  VCar  after;  that  therefore  it 

panv  was  controlled  by  the  Court  of  Proprietors    or  ^                            -^ 

stock  holders,  who  chose  a  Court  of  Directors.     These  «  V.  note  2,  supra.                   ,         ,  r>   •  r    /     •        x  • 

were  sSppos;d  to  adm^            the  affairs  of  the  company,  J  A  dispute^ about  the  succession  "fJ«i"f«,^P"°^ff>  "> 

but  the  real  power  rested  in  the  Supreme  Council  in  this  independent  Province  was  submitted  to  Hastings. 

I   dia  appointed  by  Parliament  in  1773.  and  later  by  the  who  decided  in  favour  of  a  child   and  assuming  an  unjust 

directors."^  It  consisted  of  the  Governor-General.  Warren  authority,    appointed    as   guardian   or   ete^ward   one   of 

Hastings,  and  four  other  members.    Hastings  was  there-  Gunga's  men  named  Debi  bing.     The  Rajah  s  income 

fore   resDonsible   to   Parliament  for   maladministration.  was  at  once  decreased,  a  large  revenue  was  paid  to  the 

lore   responsime   to   rarua                                Councils  of  East  India  Company  and  probably  a  still  larger  one  to 

Revcnu/in  the  six  ProviSces  of  Bengal,  Bahar.  Orissa  Debi  Sing,  for  by  cruel  persecution  he  exacted  a  land 

Madras,    Bombay,    Bencoolen,   and   appointed   a   general  tax  of  600  per  cent  per  annu in. 

committee    of    Revenue    composed    of    four    members.  ^  Ra  ahs    Kelleram    and    Culian    Sing,   whom    Burke 

ThTs  commiUee  wis  rellly  s^Eservient  to  its  secretary.  mentions  further  on.-both  friends  of  Gunga  Govind 

Gunya  Govind  Sing,  a  native  who  had  been  appointed  by  bing 


404  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

could  not  answer  any  immediate  exigence  of  magistrate.  Not  only  the  worst  men  will  be 
the  Company.  Did  it  answer  in  an  increase  thus  chosen,  but  they  will  be  restrained  by  no 
of  the  revenue?  The  very  reverse.  Those  dread  whatsoever  in  the  execution  of  their 
persons  who  had  given  this  bribe  of  40,000L  worst  oppressions.  Their  protection  is  sure, 
at  the  end  of  that  year  were  found  80,000Z.  in  5  The  authority  that  is  to  restrain,  to  control, 
debt'"  to  the  Company.  The  Company  always  to  punish  them  is  previously  engaged;  he  has 
loses,  when  Mr.  Hastings  takes  a  bribe;  and  his  retaining  fee  for  the  support  of  their  crimes, 
when  he  proposes  an  increase  of  the  revenue,  Mr.  Hastings  never  dared,  because  he  could 
the  Company  loses  often  double.  But  I  hope  not,  arrest  oppression  in  its  course,  without 
and  trust  your  Lordships  will  consider  this  10  drying  up  the  source  of  his  own  corrupt  emolu- 
idea  of  a  monstrous  rise  of  rent,  given  by  men  ment.  Mr.  Hastings  never  dared,  after,  the 
of  desperate  fortunes  and  characters,  to  be  one  fact,  to  punish  extortion  in  others,  because  he 
of  the  grievances  instead  of  one  of  the  advan-  could  not,  without  risking  the  discovery  of 
tages  of  this  system.  bribery  in  himself.    The  same  corruption,  the 

It  has  been  necessary  to  lay  these  facts  be- 15  same  oppression,  and  the  same  impunity  will 
fore  you  (and  I  have  stated  them  to  your  reign  through  all  the  subordinate  grada- 
Lordships  far  short   of   their  reality,   partly      tions. 

through  my  infirmity,  and  partly  on  account  A  fair  revenue  may  be  collected  without  the 
of  the  odiousness  of  the  task  of  going  through  aid  of  wicked,  violent,  and  unjust  instru- 
things  that  disgrace  human  nature),  that  you20ments.  But  when  once  the  line  of  just  and 
may  be  enabled  fully  to  enter  into  the  dreadful  legal  demand  is  transgressed,  such  instruments 
consequences  which  attend  a  system  of  bribery  are  of  absolute  necessity;  and  they  comport 
and  corruption  in  a  Governor-General.  On  a  themselves  accordingly.  When  we  know  that 
transient  view,  bribery  is  rather  a  subject  of  men  must  be  well  paid  (and  they  ought  to  be 
disgust  than  horror, — the  sordid  practice  of  a  25  well  paid)  for  the  performance  of  honorable 
venal,  mean,  and  abject  mind;  and  the  effect  duty,  can  we  think  that  men  will  be  found  to 
of  the  crime  seems  to  end  with  the  act.  It  commit  wicked,  rapacious,  and  oppressive  acts 
looks  to  be  no  more  than  the  corrupt  transfer  with  fidelity  and  disinterestedness  for  the  sole 
of  property  from  one  person  to  another, — at  emolument  of  dishonest  employers?  No:  they 
worst  a  theft.  But  it  will  appear  in  a  very  30  must  have  their  full  share  of  the  prey,  and  the 
different  light,  when  you  regard  the  considera-  greater  share,  as  they  are  the  nearer  and  more 
tion  for  which  the  bribe  is  given, — namely,  necessary  instruments  of  the  general  extortion, 
that  a  Governor-General,  claiming  an  arbi-  We  must  not,  therefore,  flatter  ourselves,  when 
trary  power^^  in  himself,  for  that  consideration  Mr.  Hastings  takes  40,000Z.  in  bribes  for  Din- 
delivers  up  the  properties,  the  liberties,  and  35  agepore  and  its  annexed  provinces,^^  that  from 
the  lives,  of  an  whole  people  to  the  arbitrary  the  people  nothing  more  than  40,000Z.  is  ex- 
discretion  ^f  any  wicked  and  rapacious  person,  torted.  I  speak  within  compass,  four  times 
who  will  be  sure  to  make  good  from  their  blood  forty  must  be  levied  on  the  people;  and  these 
the  purchase  he  has  paid  for  his  power  over  violent  sales,  fraudulent  purchases,  confisca- 
them.  It  is  possible  that  a  man  may  pay  a  40  tions,  inhuman  and  unutterable  tortures,  im- 
bribe  merely  to  redeem  himself  from  some  prisonment,  irons,  whips,  fines,  general  despair, 
evil.  It  is  bad,  however,  to  live  under  a  power  general  insurrection,  the  massacre  of  the 
whose  violence  has  no  restraint  except  in  its  oflBcers  of  revenue  by  the  people,  the  massacre 
avarice.  But  no  man  ever  paid  a  bribe  for  a  of  the  people  by  the  soldiery,  and  the  total 
power  to  charge  and  tax  others,  but  with  a  45  waste  and  destruction  of  the  finest  provinces 
view  to  oppress  them.  No  man  ever  paid  a  in  India,  are  things  of  course, — and  all  a 
bribe  for  the  handling  of  the  public  money,  necessary  consequence  involved  in  the  very 
but  to  peculate  from  it.  When  once  such  substance  of  Mr.  Basting's  bribery, 
offices  become  thus  privately  and  corruptly  I  therefore  charge  Mr.  Hastings  with  having 
venal,  the  very  worst  men  will  be  chosen  (as  50  destroyed,  for  private  purposes,  the  whole 
Mr.  Hastings  has  in  fact  constantly  chosen  system  of  government  by  the  six  Provincial 
the  very  worst);  because  none  but  those  who  Councils,  which  he  had  no  right  to  destroy, 
do  not  scruple  the  use  of  any  means  are  capable,  I  charge  him  with  having  delegated  to  others^' 

consistently  with  profit,  to  discharge  at  once  that  power  which  the  act  of  Parliament  had 
the  rigid  demands  of  a  severe  public  revenue  55  directed  him  to  preserve  unalienably  in  himself, 
and  the  private  bribes  of  a  rapacious  chief         I  charge  him  with  having  formed  a  com- 

•0  i.  e.,  they  had  not  paid  in  the  stated  amount  of  rev- 
enue for  their  Province.  .  ^^  Edrackpore  and  Rungpore. 

"  Hastings  claimed  arbitrary  power,    aymg  stress  on  is  i.  e.,  to  the  Committee  of  Revenue,  the  power  of  con 

the  great  distance  between  India  and  England.  ^_  trolling  the  Revenue. 


EDMUND  BURKE  406 

mittee**  to  be  mere  instruments  and  tools,  at         My  Lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want?    You 
the  enormous  expense  of  62,000L  per  annum.  have  before  you  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain 

I  charge  him  with  having  appointed  a  person  as  prosecutors;  and  I  beheve,  my  Lords,  that 
their  dewan^^  to  whom  these  Englishmen  were  the  sun,  in  his  beneficent  progress  round  the 
to  be  subservient  tools, — whose  name,  to  his  5  world,  does  not  behold  a  more  glorious  sight 
own  knowledge,  was,  by  the  general  voice  of  than  that  of  men,  separated  from  a  remote 
India,  by  the  general  recorded  voice  of  the  people  by  the  material  bounds  and  barriers 
Company,  by  recorded  official  transactions,  of  Nature,  united  by  the  bond  of  a  social  and 
by  everything  that  can  make  a  man  known,  moral  community, — all  the  Commons  of  Eng- 
abhorred,  and  detested,  stamped  with  infamy;  10  land  resenting,  as  their  own,  the  indignities 
and  with  giving  him  the  whole  power  which  and  cruelties  that  are  offered  to  all  the  people 
he    had    thus    separated    from    the    Council-      of  India. 

General,  and  from  the  Provincial  Councils.  Do  we  want  a  tribunal?    My  Lords,  no  ex- 

I  charge  him  with  taking  bribes  of  Gunga      ample   of   antiquity,  nothing  in  the  modern 

Govind  Sing.  15  world,  nothing  in  the  range  of  human  imagina- 

I  charge  him  with  not  having  done  that      tion,  can  supply  us  with  a  tribunal  hke  this. 

bribe-service  which  fidelity  even  in  iniquity      My  Lords,  here  we  see  virtually,  in  the  mind's 

requires  at  the  hands  of  the  worst  of  men.  eye,  that  sacred  majesty  of  the  crown,  under 

I    charge   him    with   having   robbed   those      whose  authority  you  sit,  and  whose  power  you 

people^"  of  whom  he  took  the  bribes.  20  exercise.     We  see  in  that  invisible  authority, 

I    charge    him    with    having    fraudulently      what  we  all  feel  in  reality  and  life,  the  benef- 

alienated  the  fortunes  of  widows.  icent   powers   and   protecting    justice   of    his 

I  charge  him  with  having,  without  right.      Majesty.    We  have  here  the  heir-apparent^^  to 

title,  or  purchase,  taken  the  lands  of  orphans,      the  crown,   such  as  the  fond  wishes  of  the 

and  given  them  to  wicked  persons  under  him.    25  people  of  England  wish  an  heir-apparent  of 

I  charge  him  with  having  removed  the  nat-      the  crown  to  be.    We  have  here  all  the  branches 

ural  guardians^^  of  a  minor  Rajah,  and  with      of  the  royal  family,   in  a  situation  between 

having  given  that  trust  to  a  stranger,  Debi      majesty  and  subjection,  between  the  sovereign 

Sing,  whose  wickedness  was  known  to  himself      and  the  subject,— offering  a  pledge  in  that 

and  all  the  world,  and  by  whom  the  Rajah,  his  30  situation  for  the  support  of  the  rights  of  the 

family,  and  dependants  were  cruelly  oppressed,      crown  and  the  hberties  of  the  people,  both 

I  charge  him  with  having  committed  to  the      which  extremities  they  touch.    My  Lords,  wc 

management  of  Debi  Sing  three  great  prov-      have  a  great  hereditary  peerage  here,— those 

inces;^8  and  thereby  with  having  wasted  the      who  have  their  own  honor,  the  honor  of  their 

country,   ruined  the  landed  interest,   cruelly  35  ancestors   and   of   their    posterity   to    guard, 

harassed    the    peasants,    burnt    their    homes,      and  who  will  justify,   as  they  have  always 

seized  their  crops,  tortured  and  degraded  their      justified,   that  provision  in  the  Constitution 

persons,  and  destroyed  the  honor  of  the  whole      by  which  justice  is  made  an  hereditary  office. 

female  race  of  that  country.  My  Lords,  we  have  here  a  new  nobility,  who 

In  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  England,  40  have  risen  and  exalted  themselves  by  various 

I  charge  all  this  villany  upon  Warren  Hastings,      merits,— by  great  military  services  which  have 

in  this  last  moment  of  my  application  to  you.        extended  the  fame  of  this  country  from  the 

My  Lords,  what  is  it  that  we  want  here  to  a     rising  to  the  setting  sun.    We  have  those  who, 

great  act  of  national  justice?    Do  we  want  a     by  various  civil  merits  and  various  civil  talents, 

cause  my  Lords?     You  have  the  cause  of  op-  45  have  been  exalted  to  a  situation  which  they 

pressed  princes,  of  undone  women  of  the  first     well  deserve,  and  m  which  they  will  justify 

rank,  of  desolated  provinces,  and  of  wasted     the  favor  of  their  sovereign,  and  the   good 

ki  ngdoms  opinion  of  their  fellow-subjects,  and  make  them 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  Lords?  When  was     rejoice  to  see  those  virtuous  characters  that 

there  so  much  iniquity  ever  laid  to  the  charge  of  50  were  the  other  day  upon  a  level  with  them 

any  one?    No,  my  Lords,  you  must  not  look  to     now  exalted  above  them  m  rank    but  feeling 

punish  any  other  such  delinquent  from  India,      with   them   in  sympathy  what   they  felt   in 

Warren  Hastings  has  not  left  substance  enough      common  with  them  before.    We  have  persons 

in  India  to  nourish  such  another  delinquent.  exalted  from  the  practice  ?f  the  law,  from  the 

"  i.  e..  of  revenue,  consisting  of  four  men  with  salaries,  55  place  in  which  they  admmistered  high,  though 

amounting  to  62.000  £.   The  cost  of  living  m  India  made      subordinate,  justice,  to  a  seat  here,  to  enhghten 
""SttewS:  G?;S»  S'S^.'''*^  *■ "'  ""''"°"-     with  their  knowledge  and  to  strengthen  with 

i«  By  renting  their  lands  to  Gunga. 

!!  ^A^-  ^i«  uncle  and  his  mother.  p  .         j  ^  ,      afterwards  George  IV 

18  Dinagepare,  Edrackpore,  and  Rungpore,  x  ue  jr  imv^c  w. 


406  DRYDEN   TO  THE   DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 

their  votes  those  principles  which  have  dis-  REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION 
tinguished   the   courts   in   which   they   have  IN  FRANCE 

presided.  . 

My  Lords,  you  have  here  also  the  lights  of  v.i«»wy 

our  religion,  you  have  the  bishops  of  England.   5  (Selections) 

My  Lords,  you  have  that  true  image  of  the 

primitive  Church,  in  its  ancient  form,  in  its  On  the  forenoon  of  the  fourth  of  November 
ancient  ordinances,  purified  from  the  supersti-  last, ^  Doctor  Richard  Price, ^  a  Non-Conforming 
tions  and  the  vices  which  a  long  succession  of  minister  of  eminence,  preached  at  the  Dissent- 
ages  will  bring  upon  the  best  institutions.  10  ing  meeting-house  of  the  Old  Jewry,^  to  his 
You  have  the  representatives  of  that  religion  club*  or  society,  a  very  extraordinary  miscel- 
which  says  that  their  God  is  love,  that  the  laneous  sermon,  in  which  there  are  some  good 
very  vital  spirit  of  their  institution  is  charity, —  moral  and  rehgious  sentiments,  and  not  ill 
a  religion  which  so  much  hates  oppression,  expressed,  mixed  up  with  a  sort  of  porridge 
that,  when  the  God  whom  we  adore  appeared  15  of  various  political  opinions  and  reflections: 
in  human  form,  He  did  not  appear  in  a  form  of  but  the  Revolution  in  France  is  the  grand 
greatness  and  majesty,  but  in  sympathy  with  ingredient  in  the  caldron.  I  consider  the 
the  lowest  of  the  people,  and  thereby  made  it  address  transmitted^  by  the  Revolution  So- 
a  firm  and  ruling  principle  that  their  welfare  ciety  to  the  National  Assembly,  through  Earl 
was  the  object  of  all  government,  since  the  20  Stanhope,^  as  originating  in  the  principles  of 
Person  who  was  the  Master  of  Nature  chose  the  sermon,  and  as  a  corollary  from  them.  .  .  . 
to  appear  Himself  in  a  subordinate  situation.  Before  I  read  that  sermon,  I  really  thought 

These  are  the  considerations  which  influence  I  had  lived  in  a  free  country;  and  it  was  an 
them,  which  animate  them,  and  will  animate  error  I  cherished,  because  it  gave  me  a  greater 
them,  against  all  oppression, — knowing  that  25  liking  to  the  country  I  lived  in.  I  was,  indeed, 
He  who  is  called  first  among  them,  and  first  aware  that  a  jealous,  ever-waking  vigilance, 
among  us  all,  both  of  the  flock  that  is  fed  and  to  guard  the  treasure  of  our  liberty,  not  only 
of  those  who  feed  it,  made  Himself  "the  serv-  from  invasion,  but  from  decay  and  corruption, 
ant  of  all."^  was  our  best  wisdom  and  our  first  duty.    How- 

My  Lords,  these  are  the  securities  which  we  30  ever,  I  considered  that  treasure  rather  as  a 
have  in  all  the  constituent  parts  of  the  body  of  possession  to  be  secured  than  as  a  prize  to  be 
this  House.  We  know  them,  we  reckon,  we  contended  for.  I  did  not  discern  how  the 
rest  upon  them,  and  commit  safely  the  inter-  present  time  came  to  be  so  very  favourable  to 
ests  of  India  and  of  humanity  into  your  hands,  all  exertions'  in  the  cause  of  freedom.  The 
Therefore  it  is  with  confidence,  that,  ordered  35  present  time  differs  from  any  other  only  by 
by  the  Commons,  the  circumstance  of  what  is  doing  in  France. 

I  impeach  Warren  Hastings,  Esquire,  of  If  the  example  of  that  nation  is  to  have  an 
high  crimes  and  misdemeanors.  influence  on  this,  I  can  easily  conceive  why 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Commons  some  of  their  proceedings  which  have  an  un- 
of  Great  Britain  in  Parliament  assembled,  40  pleasant  aspect,  and  are  not  quite  reconcilable 
whose  Parliamentary  trust  he  has  betrayed.  to  humanity,  generosity,  good  faith,  and  jus- 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  all  the  Com-  tice,  are  palhated  with  so  much  milky  good- 
mons  of  Great  Britain,  whose  national  charac-  nature  towards  the  actors,  and  borne  with  so 
ter  he  has  dishonored.  much  heroic  fortitude  towards  the  sufferers. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people  of  45  It  is  certainly  not  prudent  to  discredit  the 
India,  whose  laws,  rights,  and  liberties  he  has      authority  of  an  example  we  mean  to  follow. 

subverted,  whose  properties  he  has  destroyed,  i  The  Reflections  were  published  in  November,  1790. 

whose  country  he  has  laid  waste  and  deso-     "^  *^®  ^°™  ^^  ^  letter  to  Mr.  Dupont,  "a  young  gentle- 

1   j._  man  at  Paris." 

^^^^-  2  Dr.  Richard  Price  (1723-91),  wrote  on  political  and 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  and  by  virtue  50  financial  questions  and  is  best  known  as  the  author  of 

of,  those  eternal  laws  of  justice  which  he  has     l\r„'Ski?g^"oiTdlpVd^y"pttT^^         "^  "  >"" 

violated.  '.An  old  London  street,  so  called  from  the  synagogue 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  human  nature  ^  m.  |.  °the  Revolution  Society,  it  was  formed  in  com- 
itself,  which  he  has  cruelly  outraged,  injured  memoration  of  the  English  Revolution  of  1688,  but  it 
onA    r^r^r^^r^r,r,^A      ' ^    u    4.1.  .  '        '  '        Sympathized  wlth  the  Ffcnch  Revolutiou. 

ana    oppressed,    m    both    sexes,    m    every    age,  55      »  An  address  of  sympathy  to  the  National  Assembly  of 

rank,  situation,  and  condition  of  life.  France.  ,     „     , 

6  Charles  Stanhope,  third  Earl  Stanhope  (1753-1816), 
^  »o  L  Cor.,  ix.,  19.  referring  there  to  St.  Paul  and  not  to       ^'hairman  of  the  Revolution  Society 
Christ.  Dr-  Price  had  invited  the  consideration  of  his  hearers 

"to  the  favorableness  of  the  present  times  to  all  exertions 

in  the  cause  of  liberty." 


EDMUND  BURKE  407 

But  allowing  this,  we  are  led  to  a  very  natural  delightful  vision.  I  saw  her  just  above  the 
question: — What  is  that  cause  of  liberty,  and  horizon,  decorating  and  cheering  the  elevated 
what  are  those  exertions  in  its  favour,  to  which  sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in, — glittering 
the  example  of  France  is  so  singularly  aus-  Hke  the  morning-star,  full  of  life  and  splendour 
picious?  Is  our  monarchy  to  be  annihilated,  5  and  joy.  Oh!  what  a  revolution!  and  what  an 
with  all  the  laws,  all  the  tribunals,  and  all  the  heart  must  I  have,  to  contemplate  without 
ancient  corporations  of  the  kingdom?  Is  emotion,  that  elevation,  and  that  fall!  Little 
every  landmark  of  the  country  to  be  done  did  I  dream,  when  she  added  titles  of  venera- 
away  in  favour  of  a  geometrical  and  arith-  tion  to  those  of  enthusiastic,  distant,  respect- 
metical  constitution?^  Is  the  House  of  Lords  10  ful  love,  that  she  should  ever  be  obliged  to 
to  be  voted  useless?  Is  Episcopacy  to  be  carry  the  sharp  antidote  against  disgrace  con- 
abolished?  Are  the  Church  lands  to  be  sold  cealed  in  that  bosom!  little  did  I  dream  that 
to  Jews  and  jobbers,  or  given  to  bribe  new-  I  should  have  Hved  to  see  such  disasters  fallen 
invented  municipal  repubhcs''  into  a  partici-  upon  her  in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in  a  nation 
pation  in  sacrilege?  Are  all  the  taxes  to  be  15  of  men  of  honour,  and  of  cavaliers!  I  thought 
voted  grievances,  and  the  revenue  reduced  ten  thousand  swords  must  have  leaped  from 
to  a  patriotic  contribution  or  patriotic  pres-  their  scabbards  to  avenge  even  a  look  that 
ents?  Are  silver  shoe-buckles  to  be  substituted  threatened  her  with  insult.  But  the  age  of 
in  the  place  of  the  land-tax  and  the  malt-tax,  chivalry  is  gone.  That  of  sophisters,  econo- 
for  the  support  of  the  naval  strength  of  this  20  mists,  and  calculators  has  succeeded;  and  the 
kingdom.  Are  all  orders,  ranks,  and  distinc-  glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished  forever.  Never, 
tions  to  be  confounded,  that  out  of  universal  never  more,  shall  we  behold  that  generous 
anarchy,  joined  to  national  bankruptcy,  three  loyalty  to  rank  and  sex,  that  proud  submis- 
or  four  thousand  democracies^"  should  be  sion,  that  dignified  obedience,  that  subordina- 
formed  into  eighty-three,  and  that  they  may  25  tion  of  the  heart,  which  kept  alive,  even  in  ser- 
all,  by  some  sort  of  unknown  attractive  power,  vitude  itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom! 
be  organized  into  one?  For  this  end  is  the  The  unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence 
army  to  be  seduced  from  its  discipline  and  its  of  nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and 
fidelity,  first  by  every  kind  of  debauchery,  and  heroic  enterprise,  is  gone!  It  is  gone,  that 
then  by  the  terrible  precedent  of  a  donative^i  30  sensibility  of  principle,  that  chastity  of  honour, 
in  the  increase  of  pay?  Are  the  curates  j;o  be  which  felt  a  stain  like  a  wound,  which  inspired 
seduced  from  their  bishops  by  holding  out  to  courage  whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which 
them  the  delusive  hope  of  a  dole  out  of  the  ennobled  whatever  it  touched,  and  under  which 
spoils  of  their  own  order?  Are  the  citizens  of  vice  itself  lost  half  its  evil  by  losing  all  its 
London  to  be  drawn  from  their  allegiance  by  35grossness! 

feeding  them  at  the  expense  of  their  feUow-  This  mixed  system  of  opinion  and  senti- 
subjects?  Is  a  compulsory  paper  currency  to  ment  had  its  origin  in  the  ancient  chivalry; 
be  substituted  in  the  place  of  the  legal  coin  of  and  the  principle,  though  varied  in  its  appear- 
this  kingdom?  Is  what  remains  of  the  plun-  ance  by  the  varying  state  of  human  affairs, 
dered  stock  of  puljHc  revenue  to  be  employed  40  subsisted  and  influenced  through  a  long  sue- 
in  the  wild  project  of  maintaining  two  armies  cession  of  generations,  even  to  the  time  we  live 
to  watch  over  and  to  fight  with  each  other?  in.  If  it  should  ever  be  totally  extinguished, 
If  these  are  the  ends  and  means  of  the  Revolu-  the  loss,  I  fear,  will  be  great.  It  is  this  which 
tion  Society,  I  admit  that  they  are  well  as-  has  given  its  character  to  modern  Europe.  It 
sorted;  and  France  may  furnish  them  for  both  45  is  this  which  has  distinguished  it  under  all  its 
with  precedents  in  point. ^^  ^  ,  ,  forms  of  government,  and  distinguished  it  to 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  its  advantage,  from  the  states  of  Asia,  and 
saw  the  queen  of  France,  then  the  Dauphiness,^^  possibly  from  those  states  which  flourished  in 
at  Versailles;  and  surely  never  lighted  on  this  the  most  brilliant  periods  of  the  antique  world, 
orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a  more  50  It  was  this,  which,  without  confounding  ranks, 

had  produced  a  noble  equality,  and  handed  it 

8  On  the  abolition  of  the  old  provinces  by  the  National  down  through  all  the  gradations  of  SOcial  life. 
Assembly.  France  was  divided  into  eighty-three  depart-       ^^  ^^^  ^^.^  ^^.^.^^  ^^.^^  mitigated  kings  into 

'i.e.,  self-governing  republics.  Companions,    and   raised   private   men   to   be 

10 i.  e.,  the  English  municipalities.    Burke,  with  many       ^  n  •,i     i  • „       wruUr^^^i-  fr^yr^o,  r>7.  r,r,r>r>ai 

others,  thought  that  France  would  break  up  into  a  num-  55  fellows  With  kmgS.      Without  iorce  or  oppOSl- 

ber  of  independent  republics.  tion,  it  subdued  the  fierceness  of  pride  and 

!5  EveTv^'Jneof  Burke's  questions  is  suggested  by  some  pOWer;  it  oWiged  sovereigns  tO  SUbmit  tO  the 
specific  proceeding  or  occurrence  in  France,  and  for  a  full        gQf^    collar    of    SOcial    esteem,    compelled    steni 

"'SSS^An'toinStl'^""''  '"'"'  '''""'^  ''  "''■      authority  to  submit  to  elegance,  and  gave  a 


408  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

domination,  vanquisher  of  laws,  to  be  subdued         Society  is,  indeed,  a  contract."   Subordinate 
by  manners.  contracts  for  objects  of  mere  occasional  in- 

But  now  all  is  to  be  changed.  All  the  pleas-  terest  may  be  dissolved  at  pleasure;  but  the 
ing  illusions  which  make  power  gentle  and  state  ought  not  to  be  considered  as  nothing 
obedience  liberal,  which  harmonized  the  dif-  5  better  than  a  partnership  agreement  in  a  trade 
ferent  shades  of  life,  and  which  by  a  bland  of  pepper  and  coffee,  calico  or  tobacco,  or  some 
assimilation  incorporated  into  politics  the  other  such  low  concern,  to  be  taken  up  for  a 
sentiments  which  beautify  and  soften  private  little  temporary  interest,  and  to  be  dissolved 
society,  are  to  be  dissolved  by  this  new  con-  by  the  fancy  of  the  parties.  It  is  to  be  looked 
quering  empire  of  light  and  reason.  All  the  lo  on  with  other  reverence ;  because  it  is  not  a 
decent  drapery  of  life  is  to  be  rudely  torn  off.  partnership  in  things  subservient  only  to  the 
All  the  superadded  ideas  furnished  from  the  gross  animal  existence  of  a  temporary  and 
wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagination,  which  the  perishable  nature.  It  is  a  partnership  in  all 
heart  owns  and  the  understanding  ratifies,  as  science,  a  partnership  in  all  art,  a  partnership 
necessary  to  cover  the  defects  of  our  naked,  15  in  every  virtue  and  in  all  perfection.  As  the 
shivering  nature,  and  to  raise  it  to  dignity  ends  of  such  a  partnership  cannot  be  obtained 
in  our  own  estimation,  are  to  be  exploded  in  many  generations,  it  becomes  a  partnership 
as  a  ridiculous,  absurd,  and  antiquated  not  only  between  those  who  are  living,  but 
fashion.  between  those  who  are  living,  those  who  are 

On  this  scheme  of  things,  a  king  is  but  a  20  dead,  and  those  who  are  to  be  born.  Each 
man,  a  queen  is  but  a  woman,  a  woman  is  but  contract  of  each  particular  state  is  but  a  clause 
an  animal, — and  an  animal  not  of  the  highest  in  the  great  primeval  contract  of  eternal  so- 
order.  All  homage  paid  to  the  sex  in  general  ciety,  linking  the  lower  with  the  higher  natures, 
as  such,  and  without  distinct  views,  is  to  be  connecting  the  visible  and  invisible  world, 
regarded  as  romance  and  folly.  Regicide,  and  25  according  to  a  fixed  compact  sanctioned  by 
parricide,  and  sacrilege,  are  but  fictions  of  the  inviolable  oath  which  holds  all  physical 
superstition,  corrupting  jurisprudence  by  des-  and  all  moral  natures  each  in  their  appointed 
troying  its  simplicity.  The  murder  of  a  king,  place, 
or  a  queen,  or  a  bishop,  or  a  father,  are  only 
common  homicide, — and  if  the  people  are  by  30 

any  chance  or  in  any  way  gainers  by  it,  a  sort  4  LETTER  TO  A  NOBLE  LORD^ 

of  homicide  much  the  most  pardonable,  and 

into  which  we  ought  not  to  make  too  severe  a  (1795) 

scrutiny.  .  .  .  (Abridged) 

I  flatter  myself  that  I  love  a  manly,  moral,  35 
regulated  liberty,  as  well  as  any  gentleman  of  My  Lord,^— I  could  hardly  flatter  myself 
that  society,  be  he  who  he  will;  and  perhaps  with  the  hope  that  so  very  early  in  the  season 
I  have  given  as  good  proofs  of  my  attachment  I  should  have  to  acknowledge  obligations  to 
to  that  cause,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  public  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  to  the  Earl  of  Lauder- 
conduct.  I  think  I  envy  liberty  as  little  as  40  dale.  These  noble  persons  have  lost  no  time 
they  do  to  any  other  nation.     But  I  cannot 

afsinrl  fnrwnrd  nnH  rn'vP  r^raicA  r»r  Womo  +rw  "Burke  adapts  to  his  own  use  some  of  the  ideas  of 
Stana  lorwara,  ana  give  praise  or  blame  to  Rousseau's  celebrated  book,  Lc  Con<ra<  SociaZ.  published 
anything  which  relates  to  human  actions  and  in  1762.  Locke  and  Rousseau  thought  that  society  was 
hiimnn  r»nnpprn«?  nn  n  <?imnlp  ^n(^\Kr  nf  +>ip  r^V.  formed  by  a  definite  conscious  act,  that  it  was  a  contract 
numan  concerns  on  a  simple  view  Ot  tne  Ob-  or  convention  between  governors  and  governed.  Burke 
ject,  as  it  stands  stripped  of  every  relation,  in  45  admits  the  principle  of  the  contract,  but  makes  a  pro- 
all  the  nakedness  and  solitude  of  metaphysical  founder  application  of  it. 
abstraction.    Circumstances  (which  with  some  to  riLi^rtm^'Sliament^^b^ellTh^^^^^^^ 

gentlemen  pass  for  nothing)  give  in  reality  to       y^&r.    Hisson,  Richard  Burke,  was  nominated  and  elected 

every  political  principle  its  distinguishing  colour     Si  fte=dd"  BuX'fe  tS^^^"^""iT.lLluTi%t 

and  discriminating  effect.  The  circumstances  50  ^^^°'"®  ^®  ^^^  taken  his  seat  m  the  House,  Richard 
«•.,«,,  I, .> J.  ««.«J^.»  «,,^«  ,  •  •!  J  Ti'  1  I.  Burke  died,  and  Edmund  Burke  retired  to  his  estate  at 
are  what  render  every  civil  and  political  scheme  Beaconsfield  a  broken  man,  with  no  further  desire  for  the 
beneficial  or  noxious  to  mankind.  Abstract-  perage,  which  his  son's  death  made  him  regard  as  a 
o^l,r  o»^r^«l,;««  .,^,,^«^^^^+  „  ^11  I'u  J.  hollow  aud  useless  honor.  Pitt,  who  knew  that  Burke 
edly  Speakmg,  government,  as  well  as  liberty,  was  in  financial  straits,  had  procured  a  pension  of  twenty- 
is    good;    yet    could    I,    in    common    sense,    ten  five  hundred  pounds  a  year  for  him  from  the  Crown.    The 

^ran^  r.^^    v.^,,^  f^^:^u^^.^A   17 ^          I,  grant  was  opposed  by  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  and  the 

years  ago,  have  felicitated  France  on  her  en-  55  Eari  of  Lauderdale  on  the  ground  that  it  was  not  sanc- 

joyment  of  a  government,   (for  she  then  had  a  tioned  by  Parliament.     Their  attack  was  answered  by 

„  „_„   _,\        .,1        ,   •         .           1     .    .1            ,  Burke  in  A  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord. 

government),  without  inquiry  what  the  nature  2  Burke's    Letter    is    addressed    to    Earl    Fitz-WilUam 

of  that   government   was,    or  how  it   was   ad-  (1748-1833),  a  leader  of  the  Irish  Whigs,  nephew  and 

T«;n;ofoi.orl9  ^^"  to  the  Marquis  of  Rockingham,  under  whom  Burke 

mmisterear  .  .  ,  had  entered  pubUc  life. 


EDMUND  BURKE  409 

in  conferring  upon  me  that  sort  of  honour  which  manner  in  which  the  benefit  was  conferred.  It 
it  is  alone  within  their  competence,  and  which  came  to  me,  indeed,  at  a  time  of  Hfe,  and  in  a 
it  is  certainly  most  congenial  to  their  nature  state  of  mind  and  body,  in  which  no  circum- 
and  their  manners,  to  bestow.  stance  of  fortune  could  afford  me  any  real 

To  be  ill  spoken  of,  in  whatever  language  5  pleasure.  But  this  was  no  fault  in  the  royal 
they  speak,  by  the  zealots  of  the  new  sect'  in  donor,  or  in  his  ministers,  who  were  pleased,  in 
philosophy  and  politics,  of  which  these  noble  acknowledging  the  merits  of  an  invalid  servant 
persons  think  so  charitably,  and  of  which  of  the  public,  to  assuage  the  sorrows  of  a  deso- 
others  think  so  justly,  to  me  is  no  matter  of     late  old  man. 

uneasiness  or  surprise.  To  have  incurred  the  lo  It  would  ill  become  me  to  boast  of  anything, 
displeasure  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans^  or  the  It  would  as  ill  become  me,  thus  called  upon,  to 
Duke  of  Bedford,  to  fall  under  the  censure  of  depreciate  the  value  of  a  long  life  spent  with 
the  Citizen  Brissot,^  or  of  his  friend  the  Earl  of  unexampled  toil  in  the  service  of  my  country. 
Lauderdale,  I  ought  to  consider  as  proofs,  not  Since  the  total  body  of  my  services,  on  account 
the  least  satisfactory,  that  I  have  produced  15  of  the  industry  which  was  shown  in  them,  and 
some  part  of  the  effect  I  proposed  by  my  en-  the  fairness  of  my  intentions,  have  obtained 
deavours.  I  have  laboured  hard  to  earn  what  the  acceptance  of  my  sovereign,  it  would  be 
the  noble  Lords  are  generous  enough  to  pay.  absurd  in  me  to  range  myself  on  the  side  of  the 
Personal  offence  I  have  given  them  none.  The  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Corresponding  So- 
part  they  take  against  me  is  from  zeal  to  the  20  ciety,i°  or,  as  far  as  in  me  lies,  to  permit  a  dis- 
cause.  It  is  well, — it  is  perfectly  well.  I  have  pute  on  the  rate  at  which  the  authority  ap- 
to  do  homage  to  their  justice.  I  have  to  thank  pointed  by  our  Constitution^^  to  estimate  such 
the  Bedfords  and  the  Lauderdales  for  having  things  has  been  pleased  to  set  them, 
so  faithfully  and  so  fully  acquitted  towards  me  Loose  libels  ought  to  be  passed  by  in  silence 
whatever  arrear  of  debt  was  left  undischarged  25  and  contempt.  By  me  they  have  been  so 
by  the  Priestleys  and  the  Paines.^  .  .  .  always.    I  knew,  that,  as  long  as  I  remained  in 

In  one  thing  I  can  excuse  the  Duke  of  Bed-  public,  I  should  live  down  the  calumnies  of 
ford  for  his  attack  upon  me  and  my  mortuary  malice  and  the  judgments  of  ignorance.  If  I 
pension.^  He  cannot  readily  comprehend  the  happened  to  be  now  and  then  in  the  wrong, 
transaction  he  condemns.  What  I  have  ob-  30  (as  who  is  not?)  like  all  other  men,  I  must  bear 
tained  was  the  fruit  of  no  bargain,  the  produc-  the  consequence  of  my  faults  and  my  mistakes, 
tion  of  no  intrigue,  the  result  of  no  compromise,  The  hbels  of  the  present  day  are  just  of  the 
the  effect  of  no  solicitation.  The  first  sugges-  same  stuff  as  the  libels  of  the  past  But  they 
tion  of  it  never  came  from  me,  mediately  or  derive  an  importance  from  the  rank  of  the 
immediately,  to  his  Majesty  or  any  of  his  35  persons  they  come  from,  and  the  gravity  of 
ministers.  It  was  long  known  that  the  instant  the  place  where  they  were  uttered.  In  some 
my  engagements  would  permit  it,  and  before  way  or  other  I  ought  to  take  some  notice  of 
the  heaviest  of  all  calamities^  had  forever  them.  To  assert  myself  thus  traduced  is  not 
condemned  me  to  obscurity  and  sorrow,  I  had  vanity  or  arrogance.  It  is  a  demand  of  justice; 
resolved  on  a  total  retreat.  I  had  executed  40  it  is  a  demonstration  of  gratitude.  If  I  am 
that  design.  I  was  entirely  out  of  the  way  of  unworthy,  the  ministers  are  worse  than  prod- 
serving  or  of  hurting  any  statesman  or  any  igal.  On  that  hypothesis,  I  perfectly  agree 
party,  when  the  ministers  so  generously  and  with  the  Duke  of  Bedford. 
so  nobly  carried  into  effect  the  spontaneous  For  whatever  I  have  been  (I  am  now  no  more) 

bounty  of  the  crown.  Both  descriptions^  have  45  I  put  myself  on  my  country.  I  ought  to  be 
acted  as  became  them.  When  I  could  no  longer  allowed  a  reasonable  freedom,  because  I  stand 
serve  them,  the  ministers  have  considered  my  upon  my  deliverance ;i2  and  no  culprit  ought 
situation.  When  I  could  no  longer  hurt  them,  to  plead  in  irons.  Even  in  the  utmost  latitude 
the  revolutionists  have  trampled  on  my  in-  of  defensive  liberty,  I  wish  to  preserve  all  pos- 
firmity.    My  gratitude,  I  trust  is  equal  to  the  50  sible  decorum.     Whatever  it  may  be  in  the 

8  The  sympathizers  with  the  French  Revolution.  eyes  of  these  noble  persons  themselves,  to  mc 

4  A  wealthy  French  aristocrat,  who  joined  the  ranks  of  their    situation    calls    for    the    mOSt    profound 

6  Jeln^Pierre^Brissot,  a  leader  of  the  moderate  Repub-  respect.     If  I  should  happen  to  trespass  a  littl(\ 

licans  in  France,  who  were  called  Brissotins  or  Girondists.  which  I  trust  I  shall  not,  let  it  always  be  SUp- 

Lauderdale  made  his  acquaintance  in  1792. 

6  The  more  radical  sympathizers  with  the  Revolution.  ,                         i-  •     . 

7  A  pension  given  to  one  who  is  as  good  as  dead.  lo  The  London  Corresponding  Society  was  a  political 

8  The  death  of  his  only  son  Richard  to  whom  Burke  organization  with  liberal  principles.  u  tti  v. 
would  have  transmitted  the  peerage  had  he  obtained  it.  "  i.  e.,  the  King  and  the  ministers;  a  flmg  at  the  French 

•  i.  e.,  the  ministers  of  the  Crown  and  the  members  of       constitution, 
the  party  whom  Burke  had  "hurt,"  viz.  the  Revolu-  12  i.  e.,  I  insist  upon  my  legal  nght  to  be  heard;  I  appeal 

tionists.  tothe  jury  of  public  opinion. 


410  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

posed  that  a  confusion  of  characters  may  pro-  At  every  step  of  my  progress  in  life,  (for  in 
duce  mistakes, — that,  in  the  masquerades  of  every  step  was  I  traversed  and  opposed,)  and 
the  grand  carnival  of  our  age,  whimsical  ad-  at  every  turnpike^^  I  met,  I  was  obliged  to 
ventures  happen,  odd  things  are  said  and  pass  show  my  passport,  and  again  and  again  to 
off.  If  I  should  fail  a  single  point  in  the  high  5  prove  my  sole  title  to  the  honour  of  being  useful 
respect  I  owe  to  those  illustrious  persons,  I  to  my  country,  by  a  proof  that  I  was  not  wholly 
cannot  be  supposed  to4mean  the  Duke  of  Bed-  unacquainted  with  its  laws,  and  the  whole 
ford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale  of  the  House  of  system  of  its  interests  both  abroad  and  at 
Peers,  but  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  home.  Otherwise,  no  rank,  no  toleration  even, 
Lauderdale  of  Palace  Yard,^^ — ^\^q  Dukes  and  10  for  me.  I  had  no  arts  but  manly  arts.  On 
Earls  of  Brentford.  ^^  There  they  are  on  the  them  I  have  stood,  and,  please  God,  in  spite 
pavement;  there  they  seem  to  come  nearer  to  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauder- 
my  humble  level,  and,  virtually  at  least,  to  have  dale,  to  the  last  gasp  will  I  stand.  .  .  . 
waived  their  high  privilege.  .  .  .  The  Duke  of  Bedford  conceives  that  he  is 

His  Grace  thinks  I  have  obtained  too  much.  15  obliged  to  call  the  attention  of  the  House  of 
I  answer,  that  my  exertions,  whatever  they      Peers  to  his  Majesty's  grant  to  me,  which  he 
have  been,  were  such  as  no  hopes  of  pecuniary      considers  as  excessive^^  and  out  of  all  bounds, 
reward  could  possibly  excite;  and  no  pecuniary  I  know  not  how  it  has  happened,   but  it 

compensation  can  possibly  reward  them.  Be-  really  seems,  that,  whilst  his  Grace  was  medi- 
tween  money  and  such  services,  if  done  by  abler  20  tating  his  well-considered  censure  upon  me, 
men  than  I  am,  there  is  no  common  principle  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  sleep.  Homer  nods,^^  and 
of  comparison:  they  are  quantities  incom-  the  Duke  of  Bedford  may  dream,  and  as 
mensurable.  Money  is  made  for  the  comfort  dreams  (even  his  golden  dreams)  are  apt  to  be 
and  convenience  of  animal  life.  It  cannot  be  ill-pieced  and  incongruously  put  together,  his 
a  reward  for  what  mere  animal  life  must,  25  Grace  preserved  his  idea  of  reproach  to  me,  but 
indeed,  sustain,  but  never  can  inspire.  With  took  the  subject-matter  from  the  crown  grants 
submission  to  his  Grace,  I  have  not  had  more  to  his  own  family.  This  is  "the  stuff  of  which 
than  sufficient. ^5  As  to  any  noble  use,  I  trust  his  dreams  are  made." 20  In  that  way  of  putting 
I  know  how  to  employ  as  well  as  he  a  much  things  together  his  Grace  is  perfectly  in  the 
greater  fortune  than  he  possesses.  In  a  more  30  right.  The  grants  to  the  House  of  Russell^i 
confined  application,  I  certainly  stand  in  need  were  so  enormous  as  not  only  to  outrage  econ- 
of  every  kind  of  relief  and  easement  much  omy,  but  even  to  stagger  credibility.  The 
more  than  he  does.  When  I  say  I  have  not  Duke  of  Bedford  is  the  leviathan22  among  all 
received  more  than  I  deserve,  is  this  the  Ian-  the  creatures  of  the  crown.  He  tumbles  about 
guage  I  hold  to  your  Majesty?  No!  Far,  very  35  his  unwieldy  bulk,  he  plays  and  frolics  in  the 
far,  from  it!  Before  that  presence  I  claim  no  ocean  of  the  royal  bounty.  Huge  as  he  is,  and 
merit  at  all.  Everything  towards  me  is  favour  whilst  "he  lies  floating  many  a  rood,"  he  is  still 
and  bounty.  One  style  to  a  gracious  benefac-  a  creature.  His  ribs,  his  fins,  his  whalebone, 
tor;  another  to  a  proud  and  insulting  foe.  ...      his  blubber,  the  very  spiracles  through  which 

I  was  not,  Hke  his  Grace  of  Bedford,  swad-  40  he  spouts  a  torrent  of  brine^s  agamst  his  origin, 
died  and  rocked  and  dandled  into  a  legislator:  and  covers  me  all  over  with  the  spray,  every- 
"Nitor  in  adversum"^^  is  the  motto  for  a  man  thing  of  him  and  about  him  is  from  the  throne, 
like  me.  I  possessed  not  one  of  the  qualities  Is  it  for  him  to  question  the  dispensation  of  the 
nor  cultivated  one  of  the  arts,  that  recommend     royal  favour? 

men  to  the  favour  and  protection  of  the  great.  45  I  really  am  at  a  loss  to  draw  any  sort  of 
I  was  not  made  for  a  minion  or  a  tool.    As  little         „  /^  •  •    „    -^         .    t  j   r .        x-,        ^     r    ■, 

J.J  T  r  n         J. I.     J.      J       i?      •       •        ±^      1         i     1  "  Unginally  it  meant  a  kind  of  fwrn  stile  made  of  pi«es 

aid  1  tOllOW  the  trade  01  wmnmg  the  hearts  by       to  obstruct  the  passage  of  an  enemy,  and  Burke  had  in 

imposing  on  the  understandings  of  the  people.      ™^°^*^^^  ^^^^y  ^^^^}j}^n 

D                   r-     ^  18  -phe  grant  was  2500£. 

i»  In  allusion  to  Horace's  well-known  line  in  the  Ars 

"  The  PaZace  Fard  is  a  courtyard  OMfstde  the  Houses  of  Poetica,  359,  "Sometimes  even  the  good  Homer  nods." 

Parliament.     Hence,  by  Bedford  and  Lauderdale  of  the  20  "We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  on."     Teni' 

Palace  Yard,  Burke  means  they  should  be  regarded  simply  pest  IV,  i.  157. 

as  men,  and  not  as  members  of  the  House  of  Peers;  con-  21  John  Russell,  the  founder  of  the  house  of  Russell,  was 

sidered  outetde  or  apart  from  their  official  position.  a  gentleman  of  the  chamber  to  Henry  VIII,  and  was 

"  In  The  Rehearsal,  a  farce  by  the  Duke  of  Bucking-  awarded  large  grants  out  of  the  plunder  of  the  monas- 

ham,  the  Two  Kings  of  Brentford  always  appear  together  teries. 

and  do  exactly  the  same  thing.     Brentford  is  a  little  22                       "  That  sea-beast 

village  near  London,  and  the  ludicrous  incongruity  of  Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  His  works 

the  title  has  made  the  two  Kings  of  Brentford  a  byword.  Created  hugest  that  swims  the  ocean  stream." 

"Whatever  may  be  our  theory  of  Edmund  Burke's  Par.  Lost,  \,20\. 

financial  resources  and  speculations,  it  is  certain  that  23  AH  that  the  Duke  of  Dedford  possessed  was  derived 

from  1769  he  was  never  free  from  the  annoyance  of  debt.  from  Crown  grants  to  his  ancestors;  in  opposing  a  similar 

i«  I  make  my  way  against  adverse  circumstance.    Ovid,  grant  to  Burke,  the  Duke  therefore  "spouted  against  his 

Mela.  II,  73.  prigifl." 


EDMUND  BURKE  4U 

parallel  between  the  public  merits  of  his  Grace,  amble  of  a  patent ^^^  or  the  inscription  on  a 
by  which  he  justifies  the  grants  he  holds,  and  tomb.  With  them  every  man  created  a  peer 
these  services  of  mine,  on  the  favourable  con-  is  first  an  hero  ready-made.  They  judg*  of 
struction  of  which  I  have  obtained  what  his  every  man's  capacity  for  office  by  the  offices 
Grace  so  much  disapproves.  In  private  hfe  she  has  filled;  and  the  more  offices,  the  more 
I  have  not  at  all  the  honour  of  acquaintance  ability.  Every  general  officer  with  them  is 
with  the  noble  Duke;  but  1  ought  to  presume,  a  Marlborough, ^s  every  statesman  a  Burleigh,^^ 
and  it  costs  me  nothing  to  do  so,  that  he  every  judge  a  Murray^^  or  a  Yorke.^^  They, 
abundantly  deserves  the  esteem  and  love  of  who  alive,  were  laughed  at  or  pitied  by  all 
all  who  live  with  him.  But  as  to  pubhc  service,  lo  their  acquaintance,  make  as  good  a  figure  as 
why,  truly,  it  would  not  be  more  ridiculous  for  the  best  of  them  in  the  pages  of  Guillim,^^ 
me  to  compare  myself,  in  rank,  in  fortune,  in  Edmondson,  and  Collins. ^^  To  these  recorders 
splendid  descent,  in  youth,  strength,  or  figure,  so  full  of  good-nature  to  the  great  and  pros- 
with  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  than  to  make  a  perous,  I  would  willingly  leave  the  first  Baron 
parallel  between  his  services  and  my  attempts  is  Russell  and  Earl  of  Bedford,  and  the  merits 
to  be  useful  to  my  country.  It  would  not  be  of  his  grants.  But  the  aulnager,^^  the  weigher, 
gross  adulation,  but  uncivil  irony,  to  say  that  the  meter  of  grants,  will  not  suffer  us  to  ac- 
he has  any  public  merit  of  his  own  to  keep  alive  quiesce  in  the  judgment  of  the  prince  reigning 
the  idea  of  the  services  by  which  his  vast  at  the  time  when  they  were  made.  They  are 
landed  pensions  were  obtained.  My  merits,  20  never  good  to  those  who  earn  them.  Well, 
whatever  they  are,  are  original  and  personal:  then,  since  the  new  grantees  have  war  made 
his  are  derivative.  It  is  his  ancestor,  the  on  them  by  the  old,  and  that  the  word  of  the 
original  pensioner,  that  has  laid  up  this  in-  sovereign  is  not  to  be  taken,  let  us  turn  our 
exhaustible  fund  of  merit  which  makes  his  eyes  to  history,  in  which  great  men  have  always 
Grace  so  very  delicate  and  exceptions  about  the  2S  a  pleasure  in  contemplating  the  heroic  origin 
merit  of  all  other  grantees  of  the  crown.    Had      of  their  house. 

he  permitted  me  to  remain  in  quiet,  I  should  The  first  peer  of  the  name,  the  first  pur- 
have  said,  '"Tis  his  estate:  that's  enough.  It  chaser  of  the  grants,^^  was  a  Mr.  Russell,  a 
is  his  by  law:  what  have  I  to  do  with  it  or  its  person  of  an  ancient  gentleman's  family,  raised 
history?"  He  would  naturally  have  said,  on 30 by  being  a  minion  of  Henry  the  Eighth.  As 
his  side,  '"Tis  this  man's  fortune.  He  is  as  there  generally  is  some  resemblance  of  charac- 
good  now  as  my  ancestor  was  two  hundred  ter  to  create  these  relations,  the  favourite  was 
and  fifty  years  ago.  I  am  a  young  man  with  in  all  likelihood  much  such  another  as  his 
very  old  pensions;  he  is  an  old  man  with  very  master.  The  first  of  those  immoderate  grants 
young  pensions:  that's  all."  35  was  not  taken  from  the  ancient  demesne  of 

Why  will  his  Grace,  by  attacking  me,  force  the  crown,  but  from  the  recent  confiscation 
me  reluctantly  to  compare  my  httle  merit  with  of  the  ancient  nobility  of  the  land.  The  lion, 
that  which  obtained  from  the  crown  those  having  sucked  the  blood  of  his  prey,  threw 
prodigies  of  profuse  donation  by  which  he  the  offal  carcass  to  the  jackal  in  waiting, 
tramples  on  the  mediocrity  of  humble  and  40  Having  tasted  once  the  food  of  confiscation, 
laborious  individuals?  I  would  willingly  leave  the  favourites  became  fierce  and  ravenous, 
him  to  the  Herald's  College,  2*  which  the  This  worthy  favourite's  first  grant  was  from 
philosophy  of  the  sans  culottes,^^  (prouder  by  the  lay  nobility.^s  The  second,  infinitely  im- 
far  than  all  the  Garters,  and  Norroys,  and  proving  on  the  enormity  of  the  first,  was  from 
Clarencieux,  and  Rouge  Dragons,  that  ever4S 
pranced  in  a  procession  of  what  his  friends         "The  official  document  granting  the  privileges  of 

1,        •   ■  11  .    \       Ml      1     V  T-       -iU       nobility. 

call  aristocrats  and  despots)   will  abolish  Wltri  'is  Duke    of   Marlborough    (1050-1722),    the    victor   of 

contumely  and  scorn.     These  historians,  re-      ^'-^f^^'- g^X"^ ^52^^^^^^^^^  Elizabethan 

corders,   and  blazoners  of  virtues  and  arms,      statesman. 

differ  wholly  from  that  other  description  of  50  ,„ »  "^"J^g^^X^o"^™™  °ai  ^.r''"  "'"""'''•  ""' 

historians,  who  never  assign  any  act  ot  poll-         31  p/^vip  y^Aic  (1690-1764),  first  Earl  of  Hardwicke,  a 

ticians  to  a  good  motive.     These  gentle  his-      -l?-^<]rf ^  "ii'rS^ 

torians,   on  the  contrary,   dip  their  pens  m      Heralds. 

r.r.tVii'Tio-    Knf    +liP    mi'Ilr    nf    Viiimqn    kindnesses  33  CoMiVis  compiled  a  Peerage  of  England. 

notning    but    tne    milK    01    numan    Kinunebs,.  ^^  ^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^  examined  cloth  and  affixed  a 

They  seek  no  further  for  merit  than  the  pre-  55  ggal  in  guaranty  of  its  quality  or  measure  {Cent.  Diet). 

The  office  existed  until  the  reign  of  William  III. 

24  Heralds  College  or  College  of  Arms,  was  instituted  in  35  A  legal  phrase,  here  signifying  the  first  in  the  family 

the  15th  century  in  England  for  the  purpose  of  granting        to  hold  the  grants.  ,     u-    f         •*■    +t,  r,^- «f 

armorial  bearings  and  tracing  and  preserving  genealogies.  36  Ring  Henry  VIII  gave  to  hia  favorite  the  manor  of 

"  Without  breecheb,  a  name  given  in  derision  to  the  Amersham  m  Bucks,  part  of  the  estate  of  the  Duke  ol 
Erench  rabble  ^  Macbeth,  I,  v.  19.  Buckingham  who  was  executed  for  treason  m  1521. 


412  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

the  plunder  of  the  church.    In  truth,  his  Grace     domain  that  still  is  under  the  protection,  and 
is  %omewhat  excusable  for  his  dislike  to  a     the  larger  that  was  once  under  the  protection, 
gra!iit  like  mine,  not  only  in  its  quantity,  but      of  the  British  crown.*' 
in  its  kind,  so  different  from  his  own.  His  founder's  merits  were,  by  arts  in  which 

Mine  was  from  a  mild  and  benevolent  sov-  5  he  served  his  master  and  made  his  fortune,  to 
ereign:  his  from  Henry  the  Eighth.  bring  poverty,  wretchedness,  and  depopulation 

Mine  had  not  its  fund  in  the  murder  of  any  on  his  country.  Mine  were  under  a  benevolent 
innocent  person  of  illustrious  rank,  or  in  the  prince,  in  promoting  the  commerce,  manufac- 
pillage  of  any  body  of  unoffending  men.  His  tures,  and  agriculture,  of  his  kingdom, — in 
grants  were  from  the  aggregate  and  consoli-  10  which  his  Majesty  shows  an  eminent  example, 
dated  funds  of  judgments  iniquitously  legal,"  who  even  in  his  amusements  is  a  patriot,  and 
and  from  possessions  voluntarily  surrendered  in  hours  of  leisure  an  improver  of  his  native 
by  the  lawful  proprietors  with  the  gibbet  at  soil, 
their  door.  His  founder's  merit  was  the  merit  of  a  gentle- 

The  merit  of  the  grantee  whom  he  derives  15  man  raised  by  the  arts  of  a  court  and  the  pro- 
from  was  that  of  being  a  prompt  and  greedy  tection  of  a  Wolsey  to  the  eminence  of  a  great 
instrument  of  a  levelling  tyrant,  who  oppressed  and  potent  lord.  His  merit  in  that  eminence 
all  descriptions  of  his  people,  but  who  fell  with  was,  by  instigating  a  tyrant  to  injustice,  to 
particular  fury  on  everything  that  was  great  provoke  a  people  to  rebellion.  My  merit  was 
and  noble.  Mine  has  been  in  endeavouring  20  to  awaken  the  sober  part  of  the  country,  that 
to  screen  every  man,  in  every  class,  from  op-  they  might  put  themselves  on  their  guard 
pression,  and  particularly  in  defending  the  against  any  one  potent  lord,  or  any  greater 
high  and  eminent,  who,  in  the  bad  times  of  number  of  potent  lords,  or  any  combination 
confiscating  princes,  confiscating  chief  gover-  of  great  leading  men  of  any  sort,  if  ever  they 
nors,  or  confiscating  demagogues,  are  the  most  25  should  attempt  to  proceed  in  the  same  courses, 
exposed  to  jealousy,  avarice,  and  envy.  but  in  the  reverse  order, — that  is,  by  instigat- 

The  merit  of  the  original  grantee  of  his  ing  a  corrupted  populace  to  rebellion,  and, 
Grace's  pensions  was  in  giving  his  hand  to  the  through  that  rebellion,  introducing  a  tyranny 
work,  and  partaking  the  spoil,  with  a  prince  yet  worse  than  the  tyranny  which  his  Grace's 
who  plundered  a  part  of  the  national  Church  30  ancestor  supported,  and  of  which  he  profited 
of  his  time  and  country.  Mine  was  in  defend-  in  the  manner  we  behold  in  the  despotism  of 
ing  the  whole  of  the  national  Church  of  my      Henry  the  Eighth. 

own  time  and  my  own  country,  and  the  whole  The  political  merit  of  the  first  pensioner  of 

of  the  national  Churches  of  all  countries,  from  his  Grace's  house,  was  that  of  being  concerned 
the  principles  and  the  examples  which  lead  to  35  as  a  councillor  of  state  in  advising,  and  in  his 
ecclesiastical  pillage,  thence  to  a  contempt  of  person  executing,  the  conditions  of  a  dis- 
all  prescriptive  titles,  thence  to  the  pillage  of  honourable  peace  with  France, ^^ — the  sur- 
all  property,  and  thence  to  universal  desola-  rendering  the  fortress  of  Boulogne,  then  our 
tion.  outguard  on  the  Continent.    By  that  surrender, 

The  merit  of  the  origin  of  his  Grace's  fortune  40  Calais,  the  key  of  France,  and  the  bridle  in 
was  in  being  a  favourite  and  chief  adviser  to  a  the  mouth  of  that  power,  was  not  many  years 
prince  who  left  no  liberty  to  their  native  coun-  afterwards  finally  lost.  My  merit  has  been  in 
try. 38  My  endeavour  was  to  obtain  hberty  for  resisting  the  power  and  pride  of  France,  under 
the  municipal  coun  try  ^^  in  which  I  was  born,  any  form  of  its  rule;  but  in  opposing  it  with 
and  for  all  descriptions  and  denominations  in  45  the  greatest  zeal  and  earnestness,  when  that 
it.  Mine  was  to  support  with  unrelaxing  vigi-  rule  appeared  in  the  worst  form  it  could  as- 
lance  every  right,  every  privilege,  every  fran-  sume, — the  worst  indeed  which  the  prime  cause 
chise,  in  this  my  adopted,  my  dearer,  and  more  and  principle  of  all  evil  could  possibly  give  it. 
comprehensive  country;  and  not  only  to  pre-  It  was  my  endeavour  by  every  means  to  excite 
serve  those  rights  in  this  chief  seat  of  empire,  50  a  spirit  in  the  House,  where  I  had  the  honour 
but  in  every  nation,  in  every  land,  in  every  of  a  seat,  for  carrying  on  with  early  vigour 
climate,  language,  and  religion,  in  the  vast  and  decision  the  most  clearly  just  and  neces- 
sary war  that  this  or  any  nation  ever  carried 

a,^S5\t&e°„VvTtSr^U''thfS?iiSusfyTeSl"  0°'  ■»  ""^^^  *«  ^'^^^  "^  '^'"'^J^  ^'°'^  *>>"  'T, 
proceedings  of  Empson  and  Dudley,  and  inherited  by  55  yoke  of  its  power,  and  from  the  more  dreadful 

"'a^LU^grammar.     Their  refers  to  Henry  VIII  and  contagion  of  its  principles -to  preserve,  while 

Russell.  40  An  allusion  to  the  loss  of  the  American  colonies. 

35  Ireland.     Burke  evidently  means  a  land  which  is  a  *>  Boulogne,  which  had  been  taken  by  Henry  VIII  in 

separate  and  distinct  country,  but  not  a  sovereign  nation,  1544,  was  restored  to  the  French  in  1550.     The  loss  of 

like  England.  Calais  in  1558  is  said  to  have  caused  Queen  Mary's  death. 


EDMUND  BURKE  413 

they  can  be  preserved,  pure  and  untainted,  forefathers  in  that  long  series  have  degenerated 
the  ancient,  inbred  integrity,  piety,  good  na-  into  honour  and  virtue.  Let  the  Duke  of 
ture,  and  good  humour  of  the  people  of  Eng-  Bedford  (I  am  sure  he  will)  reject  with  scorn 
land, ^2  from  the  dreadful  pestilence  which,  and  horror,  the  counsels  of  the  lecturers,  those 
beginning  in  France,  threatens  to  lay  waste  5  wicked  panders  to  avarice  and  ambition,  who 
the  whole  moral  and  in  a  great  degree  the  would  tempt  him,  in  the  troubles  of  his  coun- 
whole  physical  world,  having  done  both  in  the  try,  to  seek  another  enormous  fortune  from  the 
focus  of  its  most  intense  malignity.  forfeitures  of  another  nobility  and  the  plunder 

The  labours  of  his  Grace's  founder  merited  of  another  Church.  Let  him  (and  I  trust  that 
the  "curses,  not  loud,  but  deep,"^'  of  the  Com-  loyet  he  will)  employ  all  the  energy  of  his  youth 
mons  of  England,  on  whom  he  and  his  master  and  all  the  resources  of  his  wealth  to  crush 
had  effected  a  complete  Parliamentary  Reform,*^  rebellious  principles  which  have  no  foundation 
by  making  them,  in  their  slavery  and  humilia-  in  morals,  and  rebellious  movements  that  have 
tion,  the  true  and  adequate  representatives  of  no  provocation  in  tyranny, 
a  debased,  degraded,  and  undone  people.  My  15  Then  will  be  forgot  the  rebeUions  which, 
merits  were  in  having  had  an  active,  though  by  a  doubtful  priority  in  crime,  his  ancestor 
not  always  an  ostentatious  share,  in  every  one  had  provoked  and  extinguished.  On  such  a 
act,  without  exception,  of  undisputed  consti-  conduct  in  the  noble  Duke,  many  of  his  coun- 
tutional  utility  in  my  time  and  in  having  trymen  might,  and  with  some  excuse  might, 
supported,  on  all  occasions,  the  authority,  20  give  way  to  the  enthusiasm  of  their  gratitude, 
the  efficiency,  and  the  privileges  of  the  Com-  and,  in  the  dashing  style  of  some  of  the  old 
mons  of  Great  Britain.  I  ended  my  services  declaimers,  cry  out,  that,  if  the  Fates  had 
by  a  recorded  and  fully  reasoned  assertion  on  found  no  other  way*^  in  which  they  could  give 
their  own  journals  of  their  constitutional  rights,  a  Duke  of  Bedford  and  his  opulence  as  props 
and  a  vindication  of  their  constitutional  con-  25  to  a  tottering  world,  then  the  butchery  of  the 
duct.  I  laboured  in  all  things  to  merit  their  Duke  of  Buckingham  might  be  tolerated;  it 
inward  approbation,  and  (along  with  the  as-  might  be  regarded  even  with  complacency, 
sistants  of  the  largest,  the  greatest,  and  best  whilst  in  the  heir  of  confiscation  they  saw  the 
of  my  endeavours)  I  received  their  free,  un-  sympathizing  comforter  of  the  martyrs,  who 
biassed,  public,  and  solemn  thanks.  30  suffer  under  the  cruel  confiscation  of  this  day, 

Thus  stands  the  account  df  the  compara-  whilst  they  beheld  with  admiration  his  zealous 
tive  merits  of  the  crown  grants  which  compose  protection  of  the  virtuous  and  loyal  nobility  of 
the  Duke  of  Bedford's  fortune  as  balanced  France,  and  his  manly  support  of  his  brethren, 
against  mine.  In  the  name  of  common  sense,  the  yet  standing  nobihty  and  gentry  of  his 
why  should  the  Duke  of  Bedford  think  that  35  native  land.  Then  his  Grace's  merit  would  be 
none  but  the  House  of  Russell  are  entitled  to  pure  and  new  and  sharp,  as  fresh  from  the 
the  favour  of  the  crown?  Why  should  he  imag-  mint  of  honour.  As  he  pleased,  he  might  re- 
ine  that  no  king  of  England  has  been  capable  fleet  honour  on  his  predecessors,  or  throw  it 
of  judging  of  merit  but  King  Henry  the  Eighth?  forward  on  those  who  were  to  succeed  him. 
Indeed,  he  will  pardon  me,  he  is  a  httle  mis- 40  He  might  be  the  propagator  of  the  stock  of 
taken:  all  virtue  did  not  end  in  the  first  Earl  honour,  or  the  root  of  it,  as  he  thought  proper, 
of  Bedford;  all  discernment  did  not  lose  its  Had  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  me«  the 
vision  when  his  creator  closed  his  eyes.  Let  hopes  of  succession,  I  should  have  been,  ac- 
him  remit  his  rigour  on  the  disproportion  be-  cording  to  my  mediocrity  and  the  mediocrity 
tween  merit  and  reward  in  others,  and  they  45  of  the  age  I  live  in,  asort  of  founder  of  a  family: 
will  make  no  inquiry  into  the  origin  of  his  for-  I  should  have  left  a  son,  who,  in  all  the  points 
tune.  They  will  regard  with  much  more  satis-  in  which  personal  merit  can  be  viewed,  m 
faction,  as  he  will  contemplate  with  infinitely  science,  in  erudition,  in  genius,  m  taste,  in 
more  advantage,  whatever  in  his  pedigree  has  honour,  in  generosity,  in  humanity,  m  every 
been  dulcified  by  an  exposure  to  the  influence  50  liberal  sentiment  and  every  liberal  accomplish- 
of  heaven  in  a  long  flow  of  generations  from  the  ment,  would  not  have  shown  himself  inferior 
hard,  acidulous,  metalHc  tincture  of  the  spring,  to  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  or  to  any  of  those 
It  is  little  to  be  doubted  that  several  of  his     whom  he  traces  in  his  line     His  Grace  very 

soon  would  have  wanted  all  plausibility  in  his 
,."I^^^?o^iS.S:tlrl!A:nS^^^  upon  that  provision  which  belonged 

Sbu^^ef  C\r  ^^thTnCr^^^^^^  pT^tte^'l^       ^  «  Burke  has  in  mind  a  passage  from  Lucan's  PW«a. 
""'^f^Marb^h'v 'Si '27  '" »"*  if  our  Fates  severely  have  decreed   ,, 


414  DRYDEN  TO  THE   DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

more  to  mine  than  to  me.  He  would  soon  have  to  show  that  he  was  not  descended,  as  the 
suppUed  every  deficiency,  and  symmetrized  Duke  of  Bedford  would  have  it,  from  an  un- 
every  disproportion.     It  would  not  have  been      worthy  parent. 

for  that  successor  to  resort  to  any  stagnant,  The   crown  has   considered  me  after  long 

wasting  reservoir  of  merit  in  me,  or  in  any  an-  5  service :  the  crown  has  paid  the  Duke  of  Bed- 
cestry.  He  had  in  himself  a  salient,  living  ford  by  advance.  He  has  had  a  long  credit  for 
spring  of  generous  and  manly  action.  Every  any  service  which  he  may  perform  hereafter, 
day  he  lived  he  would  have  repurchased  the  He  is  secure,  and  long  may  he  be  secure,  in  his 
bounty  of  the  crown,  and  ten  times  more,  if  advance,  whether  he  performs  any  services 
ten  times  more  he  had  received.  He  was  made  10  or  not.  But  let  him  take  care  how  he  endangers 
a  public  creature,  and  had  no  enjoyment  what-  the  safety  of  that  Constitution  which  secures 
ever  but  in  the  performance  of  some  duty.  At  his  own  utility  or  his  own  insignificance,  or 
this  exigent  moment  the  loss  of  a  finished  man  how  he  discourages  those  who  take  up  even 
is  not  easily  supplied.  puny  arms  to  defend  an  order  of  things  which, 

But  a  Disposer  whose  power  we  are  little  15  like  the  sun  of  heaven,  shines  aHke  on  the 
able  to  resist,  and  whose  wisdom  it  behooves  us  useful  and  the  worthless.  His  grants  are  en- 
not  at  all  to  dispute,  has  ordained  it  in  another  grafted  in  the  pubhc  law  of  Europe,  covered 
manner,  and  (whatever  my  querulous  weakness  with  the  lawful  hoar  of  innumerable  ages, 
might  suggest)  a  far  better.  The  storm  has  They  are  guarded  by  the  sacred  rules  of  pre- 
gone  over  me;  and  I  lie  like  one  of  those  old20scription,^9  found  in  that  full  treasury  of  juris- 
oaks  which  the  late  hurricane  has  scattered  prudence  from  which  the  jejuneness  and  penury 
about  me.  I  am  stripped  of  all  my  honours,  of  our  municipal  law  has  by  degrees  been  en- 
I  am  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  lie  prostrate  riched  and  strengthened.  This  prescription 
on  the  earth.  There,  and  prostrate  there,  I  I  had  my  share^"  (a  very  full  share)  in  bringing 
most  unfeignedly  recognize  the  Divine  justice,  25  to  its  perfection.  The  Duke  of  Bedford  will 
and  in  some  degree  submit  to  it.  But  whilst  stand  as  long  as  prescriptive  law  endures, — as 
I  humble  myself  before  God  I  do  not  know  long  as  the  great,  stable  laws  of  property, 
that  it  is  forbidden  to  repel  the  attacks  of  common  to  us  with  all  civilized  nations,  are 
unjust  and  inconsiderate  men.  The  patience  of  kept  in  their  integrity,  and  without  the  smallest 
Job  is  proverbial.  After  some  of  the  convulsive  30  intermixture  of  the  laws,  maxims,  principles,  or 
struggles  of  our  irritable  nature,  he  submitted  precedents  of  the  Grand  Revolution.  They 
himself,  and  repented  in  dust  and  ashes.  But  are  secure  against  all  changes  but  one.  The 
even  so,  I  do  not  find  him  blamed  for  repre-  whole  Revolutionary  system,  institutes,^^  di- 
hending,  and  with  a  considerable  degree  of  gest,  code,  novels,  text,  gloss,  comment,  are 
verbal  asperity,  those  ill-natured  neighbours  35  not  only  the  same,  but  they  are  the  very  re- 
of  his  who  visited  his  dunghill  to  read  moral,  verse,  and  the  reverse  fundamentally,  of  all 
political,  and  economical  lectures  on  his  misery,  the  laws  on  which  civil  life  has  hitherto  been 
I  am  alone.  I  have  none  to  meet  my  enemies  upheld  in  all  the  governments  of  the  world, 
in  the  gate.'*^  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  greatly  de-  The  learned  professors  of  the  Rights  of  Man 
ceive  myself,  if  in  this  hard  season^^  j  would  40  regard  prescription  not  as  a  title  to  bar  all 
give  a  peck  of  refuse  wheat  for  all  that  is  called  claim  set  up  against  old  possession,  but  they 
fame  and  honour  in  the  world.  This  is  the  look  on  prescription  as  itself  a  bar  against  the 
appetite*  but  of  a  few.  It  is  a  luxury,  it  is  a  possessor  and  proprietor.  They  hold  an  im- 
privilege,  it  is  an  indulgence  for  those  who  are  memorial  possession  to  be  no  more  than  a 
at  their  ease.  But  we  are  all  of  us  made  to  shun  45  long  continued  and  therefore  an  aggravated 
disgrace,  as  we  are  made  to  shrink  from  pain      injustice. 

and  poverty  and  disease.    It  is  an  instinct;  and  Such  are  their  ideas,  such  their  religion,  and 

under  the  direction  of  reason,  instinct  is  always  such  their  law.  But  as  to  our  country  and  our 
in  the  right.  I  live  in  an  inverted  order.  They  race,  as  long  as  the  well-compacted  structure 
who  ought  to  have  succeeded  me  are  gone  50     ,„,    ,        x-xi         •  ux  •     r       , 

u^f     ^  Til.  1  1.      ij    I.  u  J.  *' In  law  a  title  or  nght  accruing  from  long  continued 

before  me.     They  who  should  have  been  to      use  or  possession. 

me  as  posterity  are  in  the  place  of  ancestors.  ^.^''^"rke  assisted  in  the  passage  of  an  act  known  as 
T  ^„,«  +^  +u      1  i       1    i."         /    I,'   u  i.        S'^  George  Temples  Nullem  Tempus  Act,  according  to 

1  owe  to  the  dearest  relation  (which  ever  must  which  undisputed  possession  of  land  for  sixty  years  con- 
subsist  in  memorv)  that  act  of  piety  which  he  stituted  in  itself  a  deed  to  the  land  which  even  the  Crown 
„  ^,  1  1  1  fix  x'xxi.-  could  not  assail  or  annul. 

would  have  performed  to  me:  I  owe  it  to  him  55      ai  Legal  terms.     The  collection  of  Roman  Laws  made 

by  the  Emperor  Justinian  (A.  D.  534  and  known  as  the 

"  Psalms,  cxxvii,  3-a,  "  Lo,  children  are  an  heritage  of  Justmian  Code,  consisted  of  the  Pandects  or  Digest) 
the  Lord;  .  .  .  they  shall  speak  with  thine  enemies  in  (abstracts  of  legal  opinions),  the  Institutes  or  Laws,  and 
the  gate."  the   Novels    (supplemental   ordinances   or   const  it  utions)., 

^8  It  was  a  period  of  great  financial  depression.    In  1795       The  whole  formed  the  Corpus  Juris  Civilis,  or  Civil  Law.  \ 
Burke  had  published  Thoughts  and  Details  on  Scarcity.       A  j/ioss  is  a  marginal  note  upon  the  text  of  the  laws. 


WILLIAM  COWPER  415 

of  our  Church  and  State,  the  sanctuary,  the  count,  and  its  sword  as  a  make-weight  to  throw 
holy  of  hoHes  of  that  ancient  law,  defended  into  the  scale,  shall  be  introduced  into  our 
by  reverence,  defended  by  power,  a  fortress  city  by  a  misguided  populace,  set  on  by  proud 
at  once  and  a  temple,  shall  stand  inviolate  on  great  men,  themselves  blinded  and  intoxicated 
the  brow  of  the  British  Sion, — as  long  as  the  5  by  a  frantic  ambition,  we  shall  all  of  us  perish 
British  monarchy,  not  more  limited  than  and  be  overwhelmed  in  a  common  ruin.  If  a 
fenced  by  the  orders  of  the  state,  shall,  like  great  storm  blow  on  our  coast,  it  will  cast  the 
the  proud  Keep  of  Windsor,  rising  in  the  maj-  whales  on  the  strand,  as  well  as  the  peri- 
esty  of  proportion,  and  girt  with  the  double  winkles.*^  His  Grace  will  not  survive  the  poor 
belt  of  its  kindred  and  coeval  towers,  as  long  10  grantee  he  despises, — no,  not  for  a  twelve- 
as  this  awful  structure  shall  oversee  and  guard  month.  If  the  great  look  for  safety  in  the 
the  subjected  land, — so  long  the  mounds  and  services  they  render  to  this  Gallic  cause,  it  is 
dikes  of  the  low,  fat,  Bedford  leveP^  ^[]\  have  to  be  foolish  even  above  the  weight  of  privilege 
nothing  to  fear  from  all  the  pickaxes  of  all  the  allowed  to  wealth.  If  his  Grace  be  one  of  these 
l(^vcllers  of  France.  As  long  as  our  sovereign  15  whom  they  endeavour  to  proselytize,  he  ought 
](  rd  the  king,  and  his  faithful  subjects,  the  to  be  aware  of  the  character  of  the  sect  whose 
L  M-  ds  and  commons  of  this  realm, — the  triple  doctrines  he  is  invited  to  embrace.  With  them 
cord  which  no  man  can  break, — the  solemn,  insurrection  is  the  most  sacred  of  revolutionary 
sworn,  constitutional  frank-pledge^^  of  this  duties  to  the  state.  Ingratitude  to  benefactors 
nation, — the  firm  guarantees  of  each  other's  20  is  the  first  of  revolutionary  virtues.  Ingrati- 
being  and  each  other's  rights, — the  joint  and  tude  is,  indeed,  their  four  cardinal  virtues^^ 
several  securities,  each  in  its  place  and  order,  compacted  and  amalgamated  into  one;  and  he 
for  every  kind  and  every  quality  of  property  will  find  it  in  everything  that  has  happened 
and  of  dignity, — as  long  as  these  endure,  so  since  the  commencement  of  the  philosophic 
long  the  Duke  of  Bedford  is  safe,  and  we  are  25  Revolution  to  this  hour.  If  he  pleads  the 
all  safe  together, — the  high  from  the  blights  merit  of  having  performed  the  duty  of  insur- 
of  envy  and  the  spoliations  of  rapacity,  the  •  rection  against  the  order  he  lives  in,  (God  for- 
low  from  the  iron  hand  of  oppression  and  the  bid  he  ever  should!)  the  merit  of  others  will  be 
insolent  spurn  of  contempt.  Amen!  and  so  to  perform  the  duty  of  insurrection  against 
be  it!  and  so  it  will  be, —  30  him.    If  he  pleads  (again  God  forbid  he  should, 

and  I  do  not  suspect  he  will)  his  ingratitude  to 
Dum  domus  Mnece  Capitolt  immobili  saxum  the  crown  for  its  creation  of  his  family,  others 

Accolet,  imperiumque  pater  Romanus  hahehit.^^     will  plead  their  right  and  duty  to  pay  him  in 
>  kind.    They  will  laugh,  indeed  they  will  laugh. 

But  if  the  rude  inroad  of  Gallic  tumult,"  with  35  at  his  parchment  and  his  wax.    His  deeds  will 
its  sophistical  rights  of  man  to  falsify  the  ac-      be  drawn  out  with  the  rest  of  the  lumber  of 
^2  "The  great  Bedford  level  which  compviBea  upward  of     his  evidence-room,  and  burnt  to  the  tune  of 

800,000  acres   and   extends   into   six   counties,   with   its       Qa  ira^  in  the  COUrtS  of  Bedford^^  (then  Equal- 
princnpie  area  in  Cambridgeshire,  is  the  largest  tract  of        •+    \  tt 
f<n-Iand  in  the  Kingdom."    Duke  of  Bedford:  The  Story  of      Ity;  JlOUSe. 
a  Great  Agricultural  Estate.  ^  .     .       40 

^3  Among  the  early  English  each  household  in  a  tithing 
or  aggregation  of  ten  families  was  responsible  for  the  ^l^tlltwvM-  /ITAtnti^l* 

offences  of  the  other  households  and  bound  to  give  satis-  WltUalU  VlbVlUIJ.PI^I' 

faction  for  any  injury  done.     This  system  of  common 

responsibility  was  known  as  a  frank-pledge,  or  the  pledge  1731—1800 

of  freemen.    Burke  represents  the  Crown,  the  Parliament, 

and  the  People,   the   "triple  cord  which   no  man  can  t  T7"T"T't?dc3    T?"Dr\A/r    ni  MTT'V 

bref-k,"  as  bound  to  each  other  by  a  similar  pledge  of  45  Lili/illLKb    J^KUiVl    UliiNHil 

mutual  obligation  and  responsibility.  ,  „„„„»t  i 

"  As  long  as  the  house  of  ^neas  holds  the  immovable  TO  THE  REV.   WILLIAM  UNWIN 

Of  the  Capitol  hill,  and  the  grand  old  Roman  con-  October  31,  1779. 

tinues  to  rule.  ^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^^  y^^  jy^^^  Friend— I  wrote  my  last  letter 

55  An  allusion  to  the  story  of  Brennus  the  Gaul,  whose  gg  merely  to  inform  yOU  that  I   had  nothing  tO 

night  attack  upon  the  Capitol  (390  B.  C.)  was  frustrated  ^  „      snails 

by  the  cackling  of  the  geese  of  Juno  and  the  bravery  of  „        "ancient     philosophy    were     justice,     prudence, 

Ahmhus    Capitolmus.      After    a    six-months     siege    the  tpmnprancp   and  fortitude 

garrison  bought  Brennus  off  with  one  thousand  Pounds  of  ^^^P^^HpenkS  words  of  a  popular  song  of  the  French 

god.      When   the   gold    was   being   weighed,    a    Roman  t,^^,^^;^!^    meaning    "That    will    go." 

tribune  according  to  the  story,  remonstrated  against  the  ^^The  London  mansion  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  which 

use  of  false  weights  by  the  Gauls.     Brennus  threw  his  ^    ^;^J  occupied  the  north  side  of  Bloomsbury  Square. 

sword  into  the  scale  with  the  exclamation    Vce  metis!  J^^^s  torn  down  by  the  Duke  of  Bedford  soon  after  the 

(Woe  to  the  conquered !),     In  Burke's  pregnant  allusion  ^^^f ,f^Vt?oS  of  Burke's  letter  and  Russell  Square  laid  out 

tlie  English  Constitution  is  the  Capitol  endangered  by  the  P"  Ua  «ifp^         ^"^^"^ 

Gallic    invasion    of    revolutionary    ideas.      The    French  «» ^^  ^^^e.                                 ,  ,  .      ,        pt^  ™o=  +v,o  o^t,  nf 

theories  of  the  "  Rights  of  Man"  are  the  "false  weights"  i  One  o    Cowper's  dearest. friends.  _He^^^«  *°«  ^°^  ?{ 

and  the  Reign  of  Terror,  with  its  violence  and  bloodshed,  Rev.  Morley  and  Mary  Un win  who  exercised  a  great  and 

is  the  sword  thrown  into  the  scale.  helpful  influence  on  Cowper  a  lite. 


416  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

say,  in  answer  to  which  you  have  said  nothing,  to  degenerate  into  declamation.  Oh!  I  could 
I  admire  the  propriety  of  your  conduct,  though  thrash  his  old  jacket  till  I  made  his  pension* 
I  am  a  loser  by  it.    I  will  endeavour  to  say     jingle  in  his  pockets. 

something  now,  and  shall  hope  for  something  I  could  talk  a  good  while  longer,  but  I  have 
in  return.  5  no  room.     Our  love  attends  yourself,   Mrs. 

I  have  been  well  entertained  with  Johnson's     Unwin,  and  Miss  Shuttle  worth,  not  forgetting 
biography, 2  for  which  I  thank  you:  with  one     the   two   miniature   pictures   at  your  elbow, 
exception,  and  that  a  swinging  one,  I  think     Yours  affectionately,  W.  C. 
he  has  acquitted  himself  with  his  usual  good  , 

sense  and  sufficiency.    His  treatment  of  Milton  10  ^o  the  rev.  john  Newton^ 

is  unmerciful  to  the  last  degree.    A  pensioner^  May  3,  1780. 

is  not  likely  to  spare  a  republican,  and  the  Dear  Sir — You  indulge  me  in  such  a  variety 
Doctor,  in  order,  I  suppose  to  convince  his  of  subjects,  and  allow  me  such  a  latitude  of 
royal  patron  of  the  sincerity  of  his  monarchical  excursion  in  this  scribbling  employment,  that 
principles,  has  belaboured  that  great  poet's  15 1  have  no  excuse  for  silence.  I  am  much  obliged 
character  with  the  most  industrious  cruelty,  to  you  for  swallowing  such  boluses  as  I  send 
As  a  man,  he  has  hardly  left  him  the  shadow  you,  for  the  sake  of  my  gilding,  and  verily  be- 
6f  one  good  quality.  Churlishness  in  his  pri-  lieve  I  am  the  only  man  alive  from  whom  they 
vate  life,  and  a  rancorous  hatred  of  everything  would  be  welcome  to  a  palate  like  yours.  I  wish 
royal  in  his  pubUc,  are  the  two  colours  with  20 1  could  make  them  more  splendid  than  they 
which  he  has  smeared  all  the  canvas.  If  he  are,  more  alluring  to  the  eye  at  least,  if  not 
had  any  virtues,  they  are  not  to  be  found  in  more  pleasing  to  the  taste;  but  my  gold-leaf 
the  Doctor's  picture  of  him,  and  it  is  well  for  is  tarnished,  and  has  received  such  a  tinge 
Milton  that  some  sourness  in  his  temper  is  the  from  the  vapours  that  are  ever  brooding  over 
only  vice  with  which  his  memory  has  been  25  my  mind,  that  I  think  that  no  small  proof  of 
charged;  it  is  evident  enough  that  if  his  biog-  your  partiality  to  me  that  you  will  read  my 
rapher  could  have  discovered  more  he  would  letters.  I  am  not  fond  of  long-winded  meta- 
not  have  spared  him.  As  a  poet,  he  has  treated  phors;  I  have  always  observed  that  they  halt 
him  with  severity  enough,  and  has  plucked  one  at  the  latter  end  of  their  progress,  and  so  does 
or  two  of  the  most  beautiful  feathers  out  of  30  mine.  I  deal  much  in  ink,  indeed,  but  not  such 
his  Muse's  wing,  and  trampled  them  under  ink  as  is  employed  by  poets  and  writers  of 
his  great  foot.  He  has  passed  sentence  of  essays.  Mine  is  a  harmless  fluid,  and  guilty  of 
condemnation  upon  Lycidas,  and  has  taken  no  deceptions  but  such  as  may  prevail  without 
occasion,  from  that  charming  poem,  to  expose  the  least  injury  to  the  person  imposed  on.  I 
to  ridicule  (what  is  indeed  ridiculous  enough)  35  draw  mountains,  valleys,  woods,  and  streams, 
the  childish  prattlement  of  pastoral  composi-  and  ducks,  and  dab-chicks. ^  I  admire  them 
tions,  as  if  Lycidas  was  the  prototype  and  myself,  and  Mrs.  Unwin  admires  them;  and 
pattern  of  them  all.  The  liveliness  of  the  her  praise  and  my  praise  put  together  are  fame 
description,  the  sweetness  of  the  numbers,  the  enough  for  me.  Oh!  I  could  spend  whole  days 
classical  spirit  of  antiquity,  that  prevails  in  it,  40  and  moonlight  nights  in  feeding  upon  a  lovely 
go  for  nothing.  I  am  convinced,  by  the  way,  prospect!  My  eyes  drink  the  rivers  as  they 
that  he  has  no  ear  for  poetical  numbers,  or  flow.  If  every  human  being  upon  the  earth 
that  it  was  stopped  by  prejudice  against  the  could  think,  for  one  quarter  of  an  hour,  as  I 
harmony  of  Milton's.  Was  there  ever  any-  have  done  for  many  years,  there  might  perhaps 
thmg  so  delightful  as  the  music  of  the  Paradise  45  be  many  miserable  men  among  them,  but  not 
Lostf  It  is  Uke  that  of  a  fine  organ,  has  the  an  unawakened  one  would  be  found,  from  the 
fullest  and  the  deepest  tones  of  majesty,  with  Arctic  to  the  Antarctic  circle.  At  present,  the 
all  the  softness  and  elegance  of  the  Dorian  difference  between  them  and  me  is  greatlv  to 
flute;  variety  without  end,  and  never  equaUed,  their  advantage.  I  delight  in  baubles,  "and 
unless  perhaps  by  Virgil.  Yet  the  Doctor  50  know  them  to  be  so;  for  rested  in,  and  viewed 
has  little  or  nothing  to  say  upon  this  copious  without  a  reference  to  their  Author,  what  is 
theme,  but  talks  something  about  the  unfitness  the  earth,  what  are  the  planets,  what  is  the 
of  the  English  language  for  blank  verse,  and  sun  itself  but  a  bauble?  Better  for  a  man 
how  apt  It  is,  m  the  mouth  of  some  readers,  never  to  have  seen  them,  or  to  see  them  with 
in\?f6.'^T:U'trofth^^£ioi^^^^^^^  f^f  ?^^  brute  stupid  and  unconscious  of 

Johnson  had  agreed  to  furnish  for  an  edition  of  the  ^'^^^  ^^  Denolds,  than  not  to  be  able  to  say, 
h^thliS^''-     '^H^  prefaces    collected  and  published  i  John  Newton  (1725-1807) ,  an  English  clergyman  and 

y^^'  *  A  newly  hatched  chick.  v 


EDWARD  GIBBON  417 

^ '  The  Makerof  all  these  wonders  is  my  friend."  that  leads  to  Dropshort — a  little  before  she 
Their  eyes  have  never  been  opened  to  see  that  came  to  the  house,  he  got  the  start  and  turned 
they  are  trifles;  mine  have  been,  and  will  be  her;  she  pushed  for  the  town  again,  and  soon 
till  they  are  closed  forever.  They  think  a  fine  after  she  entered  it  sought  shelter  in  Mr.  Wag- 
estate,  a  large  conservatory,  a  hothouse  rich  5  staff's  tanyard,  adjoining  to  old  Mr.  Drake's — 
as  a  West  Indian  garden,  things  of  conse-  Sturge's  harvest  men  were  at  supper,  and  saw 
quence:  visit  them  with  pleasure,  and  muse  her  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  There 
upon  them  with  ten  times  more.  I  am  pleased  she  encountered  the  tan-pits  full  of  water;  and 
with  a  frame  of  four  hghts,  doubtful  whether  while  she  was  struggling  out  of  one  pit  and 
the  few  pines  it  contains  will  ever  be  worth  a  10  plunging  into  another,  and  almost  drowned, 
farthing;  amuse  myself  with  a  greenhouse  one  of  the  men  drew  her  out  by  the  ears  and 
which  Lord  Bute's  gardener  could  take  upon  secured  her.  She  was  then  well  washed  in  a 
his  back  and  walk  away  with;  and  when  I  have  bucket,  to  get  the  hme  out  of  her  coat,  and 
paid  it  the  accustomed  visit,  and  watered  it,  brought  home  in  a  sack  at  ten  o'clock, 
and  given  it  air,  I  say  to  myself — '  'This  is  not  15  This  frohc  cost  us  four  shillings,  but  you 
mine,  'tis  a  plaything  lent  me  for  the  present;  may  believe  we  did  not  grudge  a  farthing  of  it. 
I  must  leave  it  soon."  W.  C.         The  poor  creature  received  only  a  little  hurt  in 

one  of  her  claws,  and  in  one  of  her  ears,  and  is 
TO  THE  SAME  j^q^  almost  as  well  as  ever. 

August  21,  1780.  20  I  do  not  call  this  an  answer  to  your  letter, 
The  following  occurrence  ought  not  to  be  but  such  as  it  is  I  send  it,  presuming  upon  that 
passed  over  in  silence,  in  a  place  where  so  few  interest  which  I  know  you  take  in  my  minutest 
notable  ones  are  to  be  met  with.  Last  Wednes-  concerns,  which  I  cannot  express  better  than 
day  night,  while  we  were  at  supper,  between  in  the  words  of  Terence,  a  little  varied — Nihil 
the  hours  of  eight  and  nine,  I  heard  an  unusual  25  mei  a  te  alienum  putas.^ 
noise  in  the  back  parlour,  as  if  one  of  the  hares  Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 

was  entangled,  and  endeavouring  to  disengage 

herself.    I  was  just  going  to  rise  from  the  table  ™  ™b  same  (extract) 

•when  it  ceased.    In  about  five  minutes  a  voice  June  12,  1793. 

on  the  outside  of  the  parlour  door  inquired  30  As  to  myself,  I  have  always  the  same  song  to 
if  one  of  my  hares  had  got  away.  I  immediately  sing — well  in  body,  but  sick  in  spirit:  sick 
rushed  into  the  next  room,  and  found  that  my     nigh  unto  death. 

poor  favorite  Puss^  had  made  her  escape.    She      "Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
had  gnawed  in  sunder  the  strings  of  the  lattice-      God,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  heavenly  day, 
work,  with  which  I  thought  I  had  sufficiently  35  Or  sight  of  cheering  truth,  or  pardon  seal'd, 
secured  the  window,  and  which  I  preferred  to      Or  joy,  or  hope;  or  Jesus'  face  divine; 
any  other  sort  of  blind,  because  it  admitted      ^^^  ^loud,  i  etc. 

plenty  of  air.    From  thence  I  hastened  to  the         I  could  easily  set  my  complaint  to  Milton's 
kitchen,  where  I  saw  the  redoubtable  Thomas      tune,  and  accompany  him  through  the  whole 
Freeman,  who  told  me,  that  having  seen  her,  40  passage,  on  the  subject  of  a  blindness  more 
just  after  she  dropped  into  the  street,  he  at-      deplorable  than  his;  but  time  fails  me. 
tempted  to  cover  her  with  his  hat,  but  she 
screamed  out,   and  leaped  directly  over  his 

head.    I  then  desired  him  to  pursue  as  fast  as  CEOtDatD  ^ibbOH 

possible,  and  added  Richard  Golem  en  to  the  45  17'^7-17Q4 

chase,    as   being   nimbler,    and   carrying   less 

weight  than  Thomas;  not  expecting  to  see  her  q^^^q^  IS  INSPIRED  TO  WRITE 

agam,  but  desirous  to  learn,  if  possible,  what  ^jg  HISTORY 

became  of  her.     In  something  less  than  an 

hour    Richard    returned,    almost    breathless,  50  (From  Autobiography) 

with  the  following  account.     That  soon  after 

he  began  to  run,  he  left  Tom  behind  him,  and  June,  1765. 

came  in  sight  of  a  most  numerous  hunt  of  The  pilgrimage  to  Italy,  which  I  now  accom- 

men,  women,  children,  and  dogs;  and  that  he  plished,  had  long  been  the  object  of  my  curious 
did  his  best  to  keep  back  the  dogs,  and  presently  55  ^^- Yc>u  tbink  n^o^.f  ^^^^^^^^ 

outstripped  the  crowd,  so  that  the  race  was  at       Terence-  Homo  sum:  humani  nihil  a  me  alienum.  puto 

last  disputed  between  himself  and  Puss— she      ^JrnThuStyV"'''^''^  °°*^'°^  ^''''°  *°  ""^  ""'^'^'^  ''°''' 
ran  right  through  the  town,  and  down  the  lane      ''"^^  l^gnificlnt  paraphrase  of  Par.  Lost,  III.  41-45. 
1  i.  e.,  one  of  his  pet  hares.  V.  p.  223,  supra. 


418  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

devotion.  The  passage  of  Mount  Cenis,  the  contagion  of  mystery  and  magic,  which  pol- 
regular  streets  of  Turin,  the  Gothic  cathedral  luted  the  groves  of  the  academy;  but  he  im- 
of  Milan,  the  scenery  of  the  Boromean  Islands,  bibed  the  spirit,  and  imitated  the  method  of 
the  marble  palaces  of  Genoa,  the  beauties  of  his  dead  and  living  masters,  who  attempted  to 
Florence,  the  wonders  of  Rome,  the  curiosities  5  reconcile  the  strong  and  subtile  sense  of  Aris- 
of  Naples,  the  galleries  of  Bologna,  the  sin-  tatle  with  the  devout  contemplation  and  sub- 
gular  aspect  of  Venice,  the  amphitheatre  of  lime  fancy  of  Plato.  After  his  return  to  Rome, 
Verona,  and  the  Palladian  architecture  of  and  his  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  his  friend, 
Vicenza,  are  still  present  to  my  imagination,  the  patrician  Symmachus,  Boethius  still  con- 
I  read  the  Tuscan  writers  on  the  banks  of  the  10  tinued,  in  a  palace  of  ivory  and  marble,  to 
Arno;  but  ray  conversation  was  with  the  dead  prosecute  the  same  studies.  The  church  was 
rather  than  the  living,  and  the  whole  College  edified  by  his  profound  defence  of  the  orthodox 
of  Cardinals  was  of  less  value  in  my  eyes  than  creed  against  the  Arian,  the  Eutychian,  and 
the  transfiguration  of  Raphael,  the  Apollo  of  the  Nestorian  heresies;  and  the  Catholic  unity 
the  Vatican,  or  the  massy  greatness  of  the  15  was  explained  or  exposed  in  a  formal  treatise 
Coliseum.  It  was  at  Rome,  on  the  fifteenth  of  by  the  indifference  of  three  distinct  though 
October,  1764,  as  I  sat  musing  amidst  the  ruins  consubstantial  persons.  For  the  benefit  of  his 
of  the  Capitol,  while  the  barefooted  friars  were  Latin  readers,  his  genius  submitted  to  teach  the 
singing  vespers  in  the  temple  of  Jupiter,  that  first  element  of  the  arts  and  sciences  of  Greece, 
the  idea  of  writing  the  decline  and  fall  of  the  20  The  geometry  of  Euclid,  the  music  of  Pythag- 
City  first  started  to  my  mind.  After  Rome  oras,  the  arithmetic  of  Nicomachus,  the 
has  kindled  and  satisfied  the  enthusiasm  of  the  mechanics  of  Archimedes,  the  astronomy  of 
Classic  pilgrim,  his  curiosity  for  all  meaner  Ptolemy,  the  theology  of  Plato,  and  the  logic 
objects  insensibly  subsides.  of  Aristotle,  with  the  commentary  of  Porphyry, 

25  were  translated  and  illustrated  by  the  inde- 

fatigable  pen  of  the  Roman  senator.    And  he 

BOETHIUS  alone  was  esteemed  capable  of  describing  the 

(From  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman         wonders  of  art,  a  sun-dial,  a  water-clock   or  a 

Empire  1776-88)  sphere  which  represented  the  motions  of  the 

'  30  planets.     From   these   abstruse   speculations. 

The  senator  Boethius^  is  the  last  of  the  Boethius  stooped,  or  to  speak  more  truly  he 
Romans  whom  Cato  or  Tully  could  have  ac-  rose  to  the  social  duties  of  public  and  pri- 
knowledged  for  their  countryman.  As  a  vate  life;  the  indigent  were  relieved  by  his 
wealthy  orphan,  he  inherited  the  patrimony  liberality;  and  his  eloquence,  which  flattery 
and  honors  of  the  Anician  family,  a  name  35  might  compare  to  the  voice  of  Demosthenes 
ambitiously  assumed  by  the  kings  and  em-  or  Cicero,  was  uniformly  exerted  in  the  cause 
perors  of  the  age;  and  the  appellation  of  Man-  of  innocence  and  humanity.  Such  conspicuous 
lius  asserted  his  genuine  or  fabulous  descent  merit  was  felt  and  rewarded  by  a  discerning 
from  a  race  of  consuls  and  dictators,  who  had  prince;  the  dignity  of  Boethius  was  adorned 
repulsed  the  Gauls  from  the  Capitol,  and  sacri-  40  with  the  titles  of  consul  and  patrician,  and  his 
ficed  their  sons  to  the  discipline  of  the  republic,  talents  were  usefully  employed  in  the  impor- 
In  the  youth  of  Boethius,  the  studies  of  Rome  tant  station  of  master  of  the  offices.  Notwith- 
were  not  totally  abandoned;  a  Virgil  is  now  standing  the  equal  claims  of  the  East  and  West, 
extant,  corrected  by  the  hand  of  a  consul;  his  two  sons  were  created,  in  their  tender  youth, 
and  the  professors  of  grammar,  rhetoric,  and  45  the  consuls  of  the  same  year.  On  the  memor- 
jurisprudence,  were  maintained  in  their  privi-  able  day  of  their  inauguration,  they  proceeded 
leges  and  pensions  by  the  liberality  of  the  in  solemn  pomp  from  their  palace  to  the  forum 
Goths.  But  the  erudition  of  the  Latin  Ian-  amidst  the  applause  of  the  senate  and  people; 
guage  was  insuflicient  to  satiate  his  ardent  and  their  joyful  father,  the  true  consul  of 
curiosity;  and  Boethius  is  said  to  have  em- 50  Rome,  after  pronouncing  an  oration  in  the 
ployed  eighteen  laborious  years  in  the  schools  praise  of  his  royal  benefactor,  distributed  a 
of  Athens,  which  were  supported  by  the  zeal,  triumphal  largess  in  the  games  of  the  circus, 
the  learning  and  the  diligence  of  Proclus  and  Prosperous  in  his  fame  and  fortunes,  in  his 
his  disciples.  The  reason  and  piety  of  their  pitblic  honors  and  private  alliances,  in  the 
Roman  pupil  were  fortunately  saved  from  the  55  cultivation  of  science  and  the  consciousness  of 

^AniciusManliusSeverinus  Boethius  (cA75-52^A.BX  T'"^''^'     Boethius     might     have     been     styled 

author  of  The  Consolation  of  Philosophy.     He  was  consul  happy,    if    that    prCCariOUS    epithet    COUld    be 

in  510,  and  was  put  to  death  on  a  charge  of  treason  by  cofplv  nnnliprl   bpfnrp  flip  Inest  fprm   nf  tVip  lifp 

Theodoric  the  Ostrogoth,  who  ruled  over  the  kingdom  .^^  appiiea  Deiore  tne  last  term  Ot  tHe  llle 

of  the  East-Goths  (which  included  Italy),  493-527  A.  D.  of  man. 


EDWARD  GIBBON  419 

A  philosopher,  liberal  of  his  wealth  and  of  an  unattainable  blessing;  but  they  would 
parsimonious  of  his  time,  might  be  insensible  to  have  shown  less  indulgence  to  the  rash  confes- 
the  common  allurements  of  ambition,  the  thirst  sion  of  Boethius,  that  had  he  known  of  a  con- 
of  gold  and  employment.  And  some  credit  may  spiracy,  the  tyrant  never  should.  The  advo- 
be  due  to  the  asseveration  of  Boethius,  that  5  cate  of  Albinus  was  soon  involved  in  the  danger 
he  had  reluctantly  obeyed  the  divine  Plato,  and  perhaps  the  guilt  of  his  client;  their  signa- 
who  enjoins  every  virtuous  citizen  to  rescue  ture  (which  they  denied  as  a  forgery)  was 
the  state  from  the  usurpation  of  vice  and  ig-  aflSxed  to  the  original  address,  inviting  the 
norance.  For  the  integrity  of  his  public  con-  emperor^  to  deliver  Italy  from  the  Goths;  and 
duct  he  appeals  to  the  memory  of  his  country.  10  three  witnesses  of  honorable  rank,  perhaps  of 
His  authority  had  restrained  the  pride  and  infamous  reputation,  attested  the  treasonable 
oppression  of  the  royal  oflScers,  and  his  elo-  designs  of  the  Roman  patrician.  Yet  his 
quence  had  delivered  Paulianus  from  the  dogs  innocence  must  be  presumed,  since  he  was  de- 
of  the  palace.2  He  had  always  pitied,  and  prived  by  Theodoric  of  the  means  of  justifica- 
often  relieved,  the  distress  of  the  provincials,  15  tion,  and  rigorously  confined  in  the  tower  of 
whose  fortunes  were  exhausted  by  public  and  Pavia,  while  the  senate,  at  the  distance  of  five 
private  rapine;  and  Boethius  alone  had  courage  hundred  miles,  pronounced  a  sentence  of  con- 
to  oppose  the  tyranny  of  the  Barbarians,  fiscation  and  death  against  the  most  illustrious 
elated  by  conquest,  excited  by  avarice,  and,  of  its  members.  At  the  command  of  the  Bar- 
as  he  complains,  encouraged  by  impunity.  20  barians,  the  occult  science  of  a  philosopher  was 
In  these  honorable  contests  his  spirit  soared  stigmatized  with  the  names  of  sacrilege  and 
above  the  consideration  of  danger,  and  perhaps  magic.  A  devout  and  dutiful  attachment  to 
of  prudence;  and  we  may  learn  from  the  ex-  the  senate  was  condemned  as  criminal  by  the 
ample  of  Cato,  that  a  character  of  pure  and  trembling  voices  of  the  senators  themselves; 
inflexible  virtue  is  the  most  apt  to  be  misled  25  and  their  ingratitude  deserved  the  wish  or 
by  prejudice,  to  be  heated  by  enthusiasm,  and  prediction  of  Boethius,  that,  after  him  none 
to  confound  private  enmities  with  public  should  be  found  guilty  of  the  same  offence, 
justice.    The  disciple  of  Plato  might  exaggerate  While  Boethius,  oppressed  with  fetters,  ex- 

the  infirmities  of  nature,  and  the  imperfections  pected  each  moment  the  sentence  or  the  stroke 
of  society;  and  the  mildest  form  of  a  Gothic  30  of  death,  he  composed,  in  the  tower  of  Pavia, 
kingdom,  even  the  weight  of  allegiance  and  the  Consolation  of  Philosophy;  a  golden  volume, 
gratitude,  must  be  insupportable  to  the  free  not  unworthy  of  the  leisure  of  Plato  or  Tully, 
spirit  of  a  Roman  patriot.  But  the  favor  and  but  which  claims  incomparable  merit  from  the 
fidelity  of  Boethius  declined  in  just  proportion  barbarism  of  the  times  and  the  situation  of  the 
with  the  public  happiness;  and  an  unworthy  35  author.  The  celestial  guide,  whom  he  had  so 
colleague  was  imposed,  to  divide  and  control  long  invoked  at  Rome  and  Athens,  now  con- 
the  power  of  the  master  of  the  oflBces.  In  the  descended  to  illumine  his  dungeon,  to  revive 
last  gloomy  season  of  Theodoric,  he  indignantly  his  courage,  and  to  pour  into  his  wounds  her 
felt  that  he  was  a  slave;  but  as  his  master  had  salutary  balm.  She  taught  him  to  compare 
only  power  over  his  life,  he  stood  without  40  his  long  prosperity  and  his  recent  distress,  and 
arms  and  without  fear  against  the  face  of  an  to  conceive  new  hopes  from  the  inconstancy  of 
angry  Barbarian,  who  had  been  provoked  to  fortune.  Reason  had  informed  him  of  the  pre- 
believe  that  the  safety  of  the  senate  was  in-  carious  condition  of  her  gifts;  experience  had 
compatible  with  his  own.  The  senator  Al-  satisfied  him  of  their  real  value;  he  had  en- 
binus^  was  accused  and  already  convicted  45  joyed  them  without  guilt;  he  might  resign 
on  the  presumption  of  hoping,  as  it  was  said,  them  without  a  sigh,  and  calmly  disdain  the 
the  hberty  of  Rome.  "If  Albinus  be  criminal,"  impotent  mahce  of  his  enemies,  who  had  left 
exclaimed  the  orator,  "the  senate  and  myself  him  happiness,  since  they  had  left  him  virtue, 
are  all  guilty  of  the  same  crime.  If  we  are  From  the  earth,  Boethius  ascended  to  heaven 
innocent,  Albinus  is  equally  entitled  to  the  50  in  search  of  the  Supreme  Good;  explored  the 
protection  of  the  laws."  These  laws  might  metaphysical  labyrinth  of  chance  and  destiny, 
not  have  punished  the  simple  and  barren  wish     of  prescience  and  free  will,  of  time  and  eternity; 

2  The  attacks  of  Boethius  on  corruption  and  misgovern-      and    generously   attempted    to   reconcile   the 

ment,  aroused  the  enmity  of  the  evil  men  who  finally       perfect   attributes   of   the   Deity  with   the   ap- 

?^^ty,i'^unStrZi^o°Ln!iJ'^ll£^:Z65p<.vent  disorders  of  his  moral   and   physical 

calculated  to  provoke  these  palatince  canes  (dogs  of  the  government.  Such  topicS  of  COnsolatlon  SO 
palace),  as  Boethius  calls  them,  to  measures  of  revenge.        °u„-   ,,„   or^^.ao-n^   nr  sn  nh«?f rn^p    irp  inpffpctlial 

3  His  defence  of  Albinus  was  one  of  the  chief  causes  of      obvious,  SO  vague,  or  SO  aDstruse,  are  meneciuai 

the  downfall  of  Boethius.     By  saving  Albinus  from  pun-  .      .      t     t-  t  *u     h         ^-  t?  ct^,.r. 

ishment.  Boethius  incurred  the  hatred  of  a  certain  m-  *  Jiistm   I,    Emperor  of  the  Byzantine,   or  iiastern, 

former  named  Cyprianus.  Empire,  518—527. 


420  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 

^  subdue  the  feelings  of  human  nature.  Yet  unshaken  above  the  floods  of  the  Nile.  A  com- 
the  sense  of  misfortune  may  be  diverted  by  plex  figure  of  various  and  minute  parts  is  more 
the  labor  of  thought;  and  the  sage  who  could  accessible  to  injury  and  decay;  and  the  silent 
artfully  combine  in  the  same  work  the  various  lapse  of  time  is  often  accelerated  by  hurricanes 
riches  of  philosophy,  poetry,  and  eloquence,  5  and  earthquakes,  by  fires  and  inundations, 
must  already  have  possessed  the  intrepid  The  air  and  earth  have  doubtless  been  shaken; 
calmness  which  he  affected  to  seek.  Suspense,  and  the'  lofty  turrets  of  Rome  have  tottered 
the  worst  of  evils,  was  at  length  determined  from  their  foundations;  but  the  Seven  Hills 
by  the  ministers  of  death,  who  executed,  and  do  not  appear  to  be  placed  on  the  great  cavities 
perhaps  exceeded,  the  inhuman  mandate  of  10  of  the  globe;  nor  has  the  city,  in  any  age,  been 
Theodoric.  A  strong  cord  was  fastened  round  exposed  to  the  convulsions  of  nature,  which, 
the  head  of  Boethius,  and  forcibly  tightened,  in  the  climate  of  Antioch,  Lisbon,  or  Lima,^ 
till  his  eyes  almost  started  from  their  sockets;  have  crumbled  in  a  few  moments  the  works  of 
and  some  mercy  may  be  discovered  in  the  ages  into  dust.  Fire  is  the  most  powerful  agent 
milder  torture  of  beating  him  with  clubs  tiU  he  15  of  life  and  death:  the  rapid  mischief  may  be  kin- 
expired.  But  his  genius  survived  to  diffuse  a  died  and  propagated  by  the  industry  or  negli- 
ray  of  knowledge  over  the  darkest  ages  of  the  gence  of  mankind;  and  every  period  of  the 
Latin  world;  the  writings  of  the  philosopher  Roman  annals  is  marked  by  the  repetition  of 
were  translated  by  the  most  glorious  of  the  similar  calamities.  A  memorable  conflagration, 
English  kings,^  and  the  third  emperor  by  the  20  the  guUt  or  misfortune  of  Nero's  reign,  contin- 
name  of  Otho  removed  to  a  more  honorable  ued,  though  with  unequal  fury,  either  six,  or 
tomb  the  bones  of  a  Catholic  saint,^  who  from  nine  days.  Innumerable  buildings,  crowded  in 
his  Arian  persecutors,  had  acquired  the  honors  close  and  crooked  streets,  suppHed  perpetual 
of  martyrdom,  and  the  fame  of  miracles.  fuel  for  the  flames;  and  when  they  ceased,  four 

25  only  of  the  fourteen  regions  were  left  entire; 

three  were  totally  destroyed,  and  seven  were 

rr^rm   /-»  a  ttcitio   /-vt-i  mTTTi   "dtttat  r\-o  deformcd  by  the  rclics  of  smoking  and  lacerated 

THE  CAUSES  OF  THE  RUIN  OF  edifices.     In  the  fuU  meridian  of  empire,  the 

ROME  metropolis  arose  with  fresh  beauty  from  her 

(From  the  same)  30  ashes,  yet  the  memory  of  the  old  deplored 

their  irreparable  losses,  the  arts  of  Greece,  the 
After  a  diligent  inquiry,  I  can  discern  four  trophies  of  victory,  the  monuments  of  primitive 
principal  causes  of  the  ruin  of  Rome,  which  or  fabulous  antiquity.  In  the  days  of  distress 
continued  to  operate  in  a  period  of  more  than  and  anarchy,  every  wound  is  mortal,  every 
a  thousand  years.  I.  The  injuries  of  time  and  35  fall  irretrievable;  nor  can  the  damage  be  re- 
nature.  II.  The  hostile  attacks  of  the  Bar-  stored  either  by  the  pubUc  care  of  government, 
barians  and  Christians.  III.  The  use  and  or  the  activity  of  private  interest.  Yet  two 
abuse  of  the  materials.  And,  IV.  The  domestic  causes  may  be  alleged,  which  render  the  calam- 
quarrels  of  the  Romans.  I.  The  art  of  man  ity  of  fire  more  destructive  to  a  flourishing 
is  able  to  construct  monuments  far  more  per- 40  than  a  decayed  city.  1.  The  more  combustible 
manent  than  the  narrow  span  of  his  own  exist-  materials  of  brick,  timber,  and  metals,  are 
ence;  yet  these  monuments  like  himseK,  are  first  melted  or  consumed;  but  the  flames  may 
perishable  and  frail;  and  in  the  boundless  play  without  injury  or  effect  on  the  naked  walls, 
annals  of  time,  his  life  and  his  labors  must  and  massy  arches,  that  have  been  despoiled  of 
equally  be  measured  as  a  fleeting  moment.  45  their  ornaments.  2.  It  is  among  the  common 
Of  a  simple  and  solid  edifice,  it  is  not  easy,  and  plebeian  habitations,  that  a  mischievous 
however,  to  circumscribe  the  duration.  As  spark  is  most  easily  blown  to  a  conflagration; 
the  wonders  of  ancient  days,  the  pyramids,  but  as  soon  as  they  are  devoured,  the  greater 
attracted  the  curiosity  of  the  ancients;  a  hun-  edifices,  which  have  resisted  or  escaped,  are 
dred  generations,  the  leaves  of  autumn,  have  50  left  as  so  many  islands  in  a  state  of  solitude  and 
dropped  into  the  grave;  and  after  the  fall  of  safety.  From  her  situation,  Rome  is  exposed 
the  Pharaohs  and  Ptolemies,  the  Caesars  and  to  the  danger  of  frequent  inundations.  With- 
cahphs,  the  same  pyramids  stand  erect  and      out  excepting  the  Tyber,  the  rivers  that  descend 

6  Alfred.  The  Great.    V.  p.  21,  supra.  ^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^ide  of  the  Apennine  have  a  short 

« "After  his  death  Boethius  came  to  be  regarded  by  55  and  irregular  course;  a  shallow  stream  in  the 

the  church  of  Rome  as  a  martyr  for  the  orthodox  faith,  onmrnpr  }ipqf«5-  nn   iTnnpfnnn«?  tnrrpnf     wVipn   it 

and  was  canonized  as  St.  Severinus.     Many  works  on  summer  neatS,  an  impetUOUS  torrent,   wnen  It 

doctrinal  theology  have  been  attributed  to  him,  but  mod-  i  Antioch  has  suffered   repeatedly  from  earthquakes; 

ern  scholars  are  not  agreed  as  to  his  authorship  of  them,  Lisbon  was  nearly  destroyed  by  earthquake  in  1755,  some 

nor  even  as  to  his  having  been  a  Christian  at  all."    W,  J.  twenty  years  before  Gibbon  began  to  publish  his  History; 

Sedgefield.  Lima  suffered  severely  from  an  earthquake  in  1746. 


EDWARD  GIBBON  421 

is  swelled  in  the  spring  or  winter,  by  the  fall  the  Ghibelines,^  the  Colonna  and  Ursini;^  and 
of  rain,  and  the  melting  of  the  snows.  When  if  much  has  escaped  the  knowledge,  and  much 
the  current  is  repelled  from  the  sea  by  adverse  is  unworthy  of  the  notice,  of  history,  I  have 
winds,  when  the  ordinary  bed  is  inadequate  exposed  in  the  two  preceding  chapters  the 
to  the  weight  of  waters,  they  rise  above  the  5  causes  and  effects  of  the  pubhc  disorders.  At 
banks,  and  overspread,  without  limits  or  con-  such  a  time,  when  every  quarrel  was  decided 
trol,  the  plains  and  cities  of  the  adjacent  by  the  sword,  and  none  could  trust  their  lives 
country.  Soon  after  the  triumph  of  the  first  or  properties  to  the  impotence  of  law,  the 
Punic  war,  the  Tyber  was  increased  by  unusual  powerful  citizens  were  armed  for  safety,  or 
rains;  and  the  inundation,  surpassing  all  10  offence,  against  the  domestic  enemies  whom 
former  measure  of  time  and  place,  destroyed  they  feared  or  hated.  Except  Venice  alone, 
all  the  buildings  that  were  situate  below  the  the  same  dangers  and  designs  were  common 
hills  of  Rome.  According  to  the  variety  of  to  all  the  free  republics  of  Italy;  and  the  nobles 
ground,  the  same  mischief  was  produced  by  usurped  the  prerogative  of  fortifying  their 
different  means;  and  the  edifices  were  either  15  houses,  and  erecting  strong  towers,  that  were 
swept  away  by  the  sudden  impulse,  or  dis-  capable  of  resisting  a  sudden  attack.  The  cities 
solved  and  undermined  by  the  long  continu-  were  filled  with  these  hostile  edifices,  and  the 
ance,  of  the  flood.  Under  the  reign  of  Augustus,  example  of  Lucca,  which  contained  three 
the  same  calamity  was  renewed,  the  lawless  hundred  towers;  her  law,  which  confined  their 
river  overturned  the  palaces  and  temples  on  20  height  to  the  measure  of  fourscore  feet,  may 
its  banks;  and,  after  the  laboi-s  of  the  emperor  be  extended  with  suitable  latitude  to  the  more 
in  cleansing  and  widening  the  bed  that  was  opulent  and  populous  states.  The  first  step  of 
encumbered  with  ruins,  the  vigilance  of  his  the  senator  Brancaleone*  in  the  establishment 
successors  was  exercised  by  similar  dangers  of  peace  and  justice,  was  to  demohsh  (as  we 
and  designs.  The  project  of  diverting  into  new  25  have  already  seen)  one  hundred  and  forty  of 
channels  the  Tyber  itself,  or  some  of  the  de-  the  towers  of  Rome;  and,  in  the  last  days  of 
pendent  streams,  was  long  opposed  by  super-  anarchy  and  discord,  as  late  as  the  reign  of 
stition  and  local  interests;  nor  did  the  use  Martin  the  Fifth,^  forty-four  still  stood  in 
compensate  the  toil  and  cost  of  the  tardy  and  •  one  of  the  thirteen  or  fourteen  regions  of  the 
imperfect  execution.  The  servitude  of  rivers  30  city.  To  this  mischievous  purpose  the  re- 
is  the  noblest  and  most  important  victory  which  mains  of  antiquity  were  most  readily  adapted: 
man  has  obtained  over  the  licentiousness  of  na-  ^  the  temples  and  arches  afforded  a  broad  and 
ture;  and  if  such  were  the  ravages  of  the  Tyber  solid  basis  for  the  new  structures  of  bricV 
under  a  firm  and  active  government  what  could  and  stone;  and  we  can  name  the  modern  tu. 
oppose,  or  who  can  enumerate,  the  injuries  of  35  rets  that  were  raised  on  the  triumphal  monu- 
the  city,  after  the  fall  of  the  Western  empire?  ments  of  Julius  Caesar,  Titus,  and  the  Antouines. 
A  remedy  was  at  length  produced  by  the  evil  With  some  slight  alterations,  a  theatre,  an  am- 
itself:  the  accumulation  of  rubbish  and  earth,  phitheatre,  a  mausoleum,  was  transformed  into 
that  has  been  washed  down  from  the  hills,  is  a  strong  and  spacious  citadel.  I  need  not  re- 
supposed  to  have  elevated  the  plain  of  Rome,  40  peat  that  the  mole  of  Adrian  has  assumed  the 
fourteen  or  fifteen  feet,  perhaps,  above  the  title  and  form  of  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  the 
ancient  level;  and  the  modern  city  is  less  Septizonium«  of  Severus  was  capable  of  stand- 
accessible  to  the  attacks  of  the  river.  ...  ing  against  a  royal  army;  the  sepulcher  of 
IV.  I  have  reserved  for  the  last,  the  most  Metella  has  sunk  under  its  outworks;  the 
potent  and  forcible  cause  of  destruction,  the  45  theatres  of  Pompey  and  Marcellus  were  oc- 
domestic  hostifities  of  the  Romans  them-  cupied  by  the  SaveUi  and  Ursini  families;  and 
selves.  Under  the  dominion  of  the  Greek  and  the  rough  fortress  has  been  gradually  softened 
French  emperors,  the  peace  of  the  city  was  to  the  splendor  and  elegance  of  an  Italian 
disturbed  by  accidental,  though  frequent,  .  ^^^^„„„ 
seditions:  it  is  from  the  dechne  of  the  latter,  50  ^^/hj-^rnVT^^^^^^^^^ 

from  the  beginning  of  the  tenth  century,  that       the  popular  party,  and  were  on  the  side  of  the  Pope;  the 

we  may  date  the  licentiousness  of  private  war,      ^^Z:^::;?  Sl^S^X^'  """"""  7'";°" 

which  violated  with  impunity  the  laws  of  the  3  Two  noble  and  influential  Italian  famihes  whose  long 

Code  and  the  Gospel,  without  respecting  the      ^ifj^^SS^^li^to^^^^^^ 
majesty  of  the  absent  sovereign,  or  the  presence  55  were  allied  with  the  Guelphs. 

o«^  r^ar-a^r.  r^f  fV.o  -.nnci.  rsf  Thn'^f       Tn  ft  Hflrk  *  Duridolo  Bra7ic.ale.one  was  elected  podesia,  or  senator, 

and  person  Ot  tne  vicar  Ot  <^nnst.      in  a  aark       ^^  ^^^^^  .^^  ^253.     He  repressed  the  nobles,  and  forced 
period  of  five  hundred   years,   Rome  was  per-       Pope  innocent  IV  to  recognize  the  popular  power. 

petually  afflicted  by  the  sanguinary  quarrels         IrhTsS^zinSmtllt.  septem-zona),  the  name  given 

of  the  nobles  and  the  people,  the  Guelphs  and       to  the  monument  of  the  Emperor  Septimus  Severus. 


422  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

palace.  Even  the  churches  were  encompassed  Whatever  was  precious,  or  portable,  or  pro- 
with  arms  and  bulwarks,  and  the  military  en-  fane,  the  statues  of  gods  and  heroes,  and  the 
gines  on  the  roof  of  St,  Peter's  were  the  terror  costly  ornaments  of  sculpture  which  were  cast 
of  the  Vatican  and  the  scandal  of  the  Christian  in  brass,  or  overspread  with  leaves  of  silver  and 
world.  Whatever  is  fortified  will  be  attacked;  6  gold,  became  the  first  prey  of  conquest  or 
and  whatever  is  attacked,  may  be  destroyed,  fanaticism,  of  the  avarice  of  the  Barbarians 
Could  the  Romans  have  wrested  from  the  or  the  Christians.  In  the  massy  stones  of  the 
Popes  the  castle  of  St.  Angelo,  they  had  re-  Coliseum,  many  holes  are  discerned;  and  the 
solved  by  a  pubhc  decree  to  annihilate  that  two  most  probable  conjectures  represent  the 
monument  of  servitude.  Every  building  of  10  various  accidents  of  its  decay.  These  stones 
defense  was  exposed  to  a  siege;  and  in  every  were  connected  by  solid  links  of  brass  or  iron, 
siege  the  arts  and  engines  of  destruction  were  nor  had  the  eye  of  rapine  overlooked  the  value 
laboriously  employed.  After  the  death  of  of  the  baser  metals;  the  vacant  space  was 
Nicholas  the  Fourth,'^  Rome,  without  a  sov-  converted  into  a  fair  or  market;  the  artisans  of 
ereign,  or  a  senate,  was  abandoned  six  months  15  the  Coliseum  are  mentioned  in  an  ancient  sur- 
to  the  fury  of  civil  war.  "The  houses,"  says  vey;  and  the  chasms  were  perforated  or  en- 
a  cardinal  and  poet  of  the  times,  "were  crushed  larged  to  receive  the  poles  that  supported  the 
by  the  weight  and  velocity  of  enormous  stones;  shops  or  tents  of  the  mechanic  trades.  Re- 
the  walls  were  perforated  by  the  strokes  of  the  duced  to  its  naked  majesty,  the  Flavian  amphi- 
battering-ram ;  the  towers  were  involved  in  20  theatre  was  contemplated  with  awe  and  ad- 
fire  and  smoke;  and  the  assailants  were  stimu-  miration  by  the  pilgrims  of  the  North;  and 
lated  by  rapine  and  revenge."  The  work  was  their  rude  enthusiasm  broke  forth  in  a  sublime 
consummated  by  the  tyranny  of  the  laws;  and  proverbial  expression  which  is  recorded  in  the 
the  factions  of  Italy  alternately  exercised  a  eighth  century,  in  the  fragments  of  the  vener- 
blind  and  thoughtless  vengeance  on  their  ad- 25  able  Bede:  "As  long  as  the  Coliseum  stands, 
versaries,  whose  houses  and  castles  they  razed  Rome  shall  stand;  when  the  CoHseum  falls, 
to  the  ground.  In  comparing  the  days  of  Rome  will  fall;  when  Rome  falls,  the  world 
foreign,  with  the  ages  of  domestic,  hostility,  wiU  fall."  In  the  modem  system  of  war,  a 
we  must  pronounce,  that  the  latter  have  been  situation  commanded  by  three  hills  would  not 
far  more  ruinous  to  the  city;  and  our  opinion  30  be  chosen  for  a  fortress,  but  the  strength  of  the 
is  confirmed  by  the  evidence  of  Petrarch,  walls  and  arches  could  resist  the  engines  of 
"Behold,"  says  the  laureate,  "the  relics  of  assault;  a  numerous  garrison  might  be  lodged 
Rome,  the  image  of  her  pristine  greatness!  in  the  enclosure;  and  while  one  faction  occupied 
neither  time  nor  the  Barbarian  can  boast  the  the  Vatican  and  the  Capitol,  the  other  was 
merit  of  this  stupendous  destruction;  it  was  35  entrenched  in  the  lateran  and  the  Coliseum.  .  . 
perpetrated  by  her  own  citizens,  by  the  most  The  use  of  the  amphitheatre  was  a  rare, 

illustrious  of  her  sons;  and  your  ancestors  (he  perhaps  a  singular,  festival;  the  demand  for 
writes  to  a  noble  Annabaldi)  have  done  with  the  materials  was  a  daily  and  continual  want 
battering  ram  what  the  Punic  hero  could  not  which  the  citizens  could  gratify  without  re- 
accomplish  with  the  sword.  The  influence  of  40  straint  or  remorse.  In  the  fourteenth  century, 
the  two  last  principles  of  decay  must  in  some  a  scandalous  act  of  concord  secured  to  both 
degree  be  multiplied  by  each  other;  since  the  factions  the  privilege  of  extracting  stones  from 
houses  and  towers,  which  were  subverted  by  the  free  and  common  quarry  of  the  Coliseum; 
civil  war,  required  a  new  and  perpetual  supply  and  Poggius  laments,  that  the  greater  part  of 
from  the  monuments  of  antiquity.  45  these  stones  had  been  burnt  to  hme  by  the 

These  general  observations  may  be  sepa-  folly  of  the  Romans.  To  check  this  abuse, 
rately  applied  to  the  amphitheatre  of  Titus,  and  to  check  the  nocturnal  crimes  that  might 
which  has  obtained  the  name  of  the  Coliseum,  be  perpetrated  in  the  vast  and  gloomy  recess, 
either  from  its  magnitude,  or  from  Nero's  Eugenius  the  Fourth^  surrounded  it  with  a 
colossal  statue;  an  edifice,  had  it  been  left  50  wall;  and,  by  a  charter  long  extant,  granted 
to  time  and  nature,  which  might  perhaps  have  both  the  ground  and  edifice  to  the  monks  of  an 
claimed  an  eternal  duration.  The  curious  an-  adjacent  convent.  After  his  death,  the  wall 
tiquaries,  who  have  computed  the  numbers  was  overthrown  in  a  tumult  of  the  people;  and 
and  seats,  are  disposed  to  believe,  that  above  had  they  themselves  respected  the  noblest 
the  upper  row  of  stone  steps  the  amphitheatre  55  monument  of  their  fathers,  they  might  have 
was  encircled  and  elevated  with  several  stages  justified  the  resolve  that  it  should  never  be 
of  wooden  galleries,  which  were  repeatedly  degraded  to  private  property.  The  inside  was 
consumed  by  fire,  and  restored  by  the  emperors,      damaged:  but  in  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth 

7  Pope  Nicholas  IV,  died  1292.  -  a  Pope,  1431-1447. 


EDWARD  GIBBON  423 

century,  an  era  of  taste  and  learning,  the  are  eclipsed  by  the  sun  of  the  Vatican,  by  the 
exterior  circumference  of  one  thousand  six  dome  of  St.  Peter,  the  most  glorious  structure 
hundred  and  twelve  feet  was  still  entire  and  that  ever  has  been  applied  to  the  use  of  reli- 
in violate;  a  triple  elevation  of  fourscore  arches,  gion.  The  fame  of  JuHus  the  Second,  Leo  the 
which  rose  to  the  height  of  one  hundred  and  5  Tenth,  and  Sixtus  the  Fifth,  is  accompanied 
eight  feet.  Of  the  present  ruin,  the  nephews  by  the  superior  merit  of  Bramante  and  Fon- 
of  Paul  the  third^  are  the  guilty  agents;  and  tana,  of  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo;  and  the 
every  traveller  who  views  the  Farnese  palace  same  munificence  which  had  been  displayed  in 
may  curse  the  sacrilege  and  luxury  of  these  palaces  and  temples  was  directed  with  equal 
upstart  princes.  A  similar  reproach  is  applied  10  zeal  to  revive  and  emulate  the  labors  of  antiq- 
to  the  Barberini;  and  the  repetition  of  injury  uity.  Prostrate  obehsks  were  raised  from  the 
might  be  dreaded  from  every  reign,  till  the  ground,  and  erected  in  the  most  conspicuous 
Coliseum  was  placed  under  the  safeguard  of  places,  of  the  eleven  aqueducts  of  the  Caesars 
religion  by  the  most  hberal  of  the  pontiffs,  and  consuls,  three  were  restored;  the  artificial 
Benedict  the  Fourteenth,  ^°  who  consecrated  15  rivers  were  conducted  over  a  long  series  of 
a  spot  which  persecution  and  fable  had  stained  old,  or  of  new  arches,  to  discharge  into  marble 
with  the  blood  of  so  many  Christian  martyrs,      basins   a  flood   of  salubrious  and  refreshing 

When  Petrarch  first  gratified  his  eyes  with  waters;  and  the  spectator,  impatient  to  ascend 
a  view  of  those  monuments,  whose  scattered  the  steps  of  St.  Peter's,  is  detained  by  a  column 
fragments  so  far  surpass  the  most  eloquent  20  of  Egyptian  granite,  which  rises  between  two 
descriptions,  he  was  astonished  at  the  supine  lofty  and  perpetual  fountains,  to  the  height  of 
indifference  of  the  Romans  themselves;  he  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet.  The  map,  the 
was  humbled  rather  than  elated  by  the  dis-  description,  the  monuments  of  ancient  Rome, 
CO  very,  that,  except  his  friend  Rienzi,"  and  have  been  elucidated  by  the  diligence  of  the 
one  of  the  Colonna,  a  stranger  of  the  Rhone,  25  antiquarian  and  the  student  and  the  footsteps 
was  more  conversant  with  the  antiquities  than  of  heroes,  the  relics,  not  of  superstition,  but 
the  nobles  and  natives  of  the  metropolis.  ...       of  empire,  are  devoutly  visited  by  a  new  race 

But  the  clouds  of  barbarism  were  gradually  of  pilgrims  from  the  remote,  and  once  savage, 
dispelled;  and  the  peaceful  authority  of  Martin      countries  of  the  North. 

the  Fifth  and  his  successors  restored  the  orna-  30  Of  these  pilgrims,  and  of  every  reader,  the 
ments  of  the  city  as  well  as  the  order  of  the  attention  will  be  excited  by  a  History  of  the 
ecclesiastical  state.  The  improvements  of  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire;  the 
Rome,  since  the  fifteenth  century,  have  not  greatest,  perhaps,  and  most  awful  scene  in 
been  the  spontaneous  produce  of  freedom  and  the  history  of  mankind.  The  various  causes 
industry.  The  fii»t  and  most  natural  root  35  and  progressive  effects  are  connected  with 
of  a  great  city  is  the  labor  and  populousness  many  of  the  events  most  interesting  in  human 
of  the  adjacent  country,  which  suppUes  the  annals:  the  artful  policy  of  the  Caesars,  who 
materials  of  subsistence,  of  manufactures,  and  long  maintained  the  name  and  image  of  a  free 
of  foreign  trade.  But  the  greater  part  of  the  RepubUc;  the  disorders  of  military  despotism; 
Campagna  of  Rome  is  reduced  to  a  dreary  and  40  the  rise,  establishment,  and  sects  of  Chris- 
desolate  wilderness:  the  overgrown  estates  of  tianity;  the  foundation  of  Constantinople;  the 
the  princes  and  the  clergy  are  cultivated  by  division  of  the  monarchy;  the  invasions  and 
the  lazy  hands  of  indigent  and  hopeless  vassals;  settlements  of  the  Barbarians  of  Germany  and 
and  the  scanty  harvests  are  confined  or  ex-  Scythia;  the  institutions  of  the  civil  law;  the 
ported  for  the  benefit  of  a  monopoly.  A  second  45  character  and  religion  of  Mahomet;  the  tem- 
and  more  artificial  cause  of  the  growth  of  a  poral  sovereignty  of  the  popes;  the  restoration 
metropolis  is  the  residence  of  a  monarch,  the  and  decay  of  the  Western  empire  of  Charle- 
expense  of  a  luxurious  court,  and  the  tributes  magne;  the  crusades  of  the  Latins  in  the  East; 
of  dependent  provinces.  .  .  .  The  ecclesiastical  the  conquests  of  the  Saracens  and  Turks;  the 
revenues  were  more  decently  employed  by  50  ruin  of  the  Greek  empire;  the  State  and  revolu- 
the  popes  themselves  in  the  pomp  of  the  tions  of  Rome  in  the  middle  age.  The  his- 
Catholic  worship;  but  it  is  superfluous  to  torian  may  applaud  the  importance  and  va- 
enumerate  their  pious  foundations  of  altars,  riety  of  his  subject;  but  while  he  is  conscious 
chapels  and  churches,  since  these  lesser  stars      of  his  own  imperfections,  he  must  often  accuse 

» Alessandro  Farnese,  Pope.  1534-1549.  55  the  deficiency  of  his  materials.    It  was  among 

10  Benedict  XIV,  who  was  Pope  from  1740-58,  was  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol  that  I  first  conceived 
Katu'°e.  scLlS  at/art^f^b^'ltTuTheltS  w^     the  idea  of  a  work  which  haa  amused  and  exer- 

interested  in  the  architectural  ruins  of  ancient  Rome.              cised  near  twenty  years  of  my  life,  and  whlch, 
"  CoZa  di  fttenzi  (c.  1313-54),  the  Italian  patriot,  lived       ,  .       , ,,„.^     ,^    „„    ^_-„     «MaVi<>a      T 

and  died  in  Rome,  his  native  city.  however   madequate   to   my   own   wisnes,    i 


424  DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

finally  deliver   to   the   curiosity   and   candor      pointed  sayings,   describe  his   particularities, 

of  the  public.  and  boast  of  his  being  his  guest  sometimes  till 

Lausanne,  June  27,  1787.  two  or  three  in  the  morning.    At  his  house  I 

hoped  to  have  many  opportunities  of  seeing 
5  the  sage,  as  Mr.  Sheridan  obhgingly  assured 
31^11100  315O0tD0U  ™®  ^  should  not  be  disappointed. 

When  I  returned  to  London  in  the  end  of 
1740-1795  1762,  to  my  surprise  and  regret  I  found  an  irrec- 

oncilable difference  had  taken  place  between 
BOSWELL'S  FIRST  MEETING  WITH    lo  Johnson  and  Sheridan.    A  pension  of  two  hun- 
DR.  JOHNSON  dred  pounds  a  year  had  been  given  to  Sheridan. 

/i?-^^  TAr^  ^t  Tr^h^^r.^    i7Qi\  Johnson,  who,  as  has  been  already  mentioned, 

(From.  Life  of  Johnson,  1791)  ;,        ,  ^     ,-  i^-     i        r   oi.    -j     >        i. 

thought  slightmgly  of   feheridan  s   art,   upon 

This  is  to  me  a  memorable  year;  for  in  it  I  hearing  that  he  was  also  pensioned,  exclaimed, 
had  the  happiness  to  obtain  the  acquaintance  15  "What!  have  they  given  him  a  pension?  Then 
of  that  extraordinary  man  whose  memoirs  it  is  time  for  me  to  give  up  mine."  Whether 
I  am  now  writing;  an  acquaintance  which  I  this  proceeded  from  a  momentary  indignation, 
shall  ever  esteem  as  one  of  the  most  fortunate  as  if  it  were  an  affront  to  his  exalted  merit 
circumstances  in  my  life.  Though  then  but  that  a  player  should  be  rewarded  in  the  same 
two-and-twenty,  I  had  for  several  years  read  20  manner  with  him,  or  was  the  sudden  effect  of 
his  works  with  delight  and  instruction,  and  a  fit  of  peevishness,  it  was  unluckily  said,  and, 
had  the  highest  reverence  for  their  author,  indeed,  cannot  be  justified.  Mr.  Sheridan's 
which  had  grown  up  in  my  fancy  into  a  kind  of  pension  was  granted  to  him  not  as  a  player, 
mysterious  veneration,  by  figuring  to  myself  but  as  a  sufferer  in  the  cause  of  Government, 
a  state  of  solemn  elevated  abstraction,  in  which  25  when  he  was  manager  of  the  Theatre  Royal  in 
I  supposed  him  to  live  in  the  immense  metrop-  Ireland,  when  parties  ran  high  in  1753.  And 
olis  of  London.  Mr.  Gentleman,  a  native  of  it  must  also  be  allowed  that  he  was  a  man  of 
Ireland,  who  passed  some  years  in  Scotland  literature,  and  had  considerably  improved  the 
as  a  player,  and  as  an  instructor  in  the  English  arts  of  reading  and  speaking  with  distinctness 
language,  a  man  whose  talents  and  worth  were  30  and  propriety.  .  .  . 

depressed  by  misfortunes,   had   given  me  a  Mr.  Thomas  Davies  the  actor,  who  then  kept 

representation  of  the  figure  and  manner  of  a  bookseller's  shop  in  Russell  Street,  Covent 
Dictionary  Johnson!  as  he  was  then  generally  Garden,  told  me  that  Johnson  was  very  much 
called;  and  during  my  first  visit  to  London,  his  friend,  and  came  frequently  to  his  house, 
which  was  for  three  months  in  1760,  Mr.  35  where  he  more  than  once  invited  me  to  meet 
Derrick  the  poet,^  who  was  Gentleman's  friend  him;  but  by  some  unlucky  accident  or  other 
and  countryman,  flattered  me  with  hopes  that  he  was  prevented  from  coming  to  us. 
he  would  introduce  me  to  Johnson,  an  honour  Mr.  Thomas  Davies  was  a  man  of  good  un- 
of  which  I  was  very  ambitious.  But  he  never  derstanding  and  talents,  with  the  advantage  of 
found  an  opportunity;  which  made  me  doubt  40  a  liberal  education.  Though  somewhat  pom- 
that  he  had  promised  to  do  what  was  not  in  pous,  he  was  an  entertaining  companion;  and 
his  power;  tiU  Johnson  some  years  afterwards  his  literary  performances  have  no  inconsider- 
told  me,  "Derrick,  sir,  might  very  well  have  able  share  of  merit.  He  was  a  friendly  and 
introduced  you.  I  had  a  kindness  for  Derrick,  very  hospitable  man.  Both  he  and  his  wife 
and  am  sorry  he  is  dead."  45  (who   has   been   celebrated   for   her  beauty), 

In  the  summer  of  1761  Mr.  Thomas  Sheri-  though  upon  the  stage  for  many  years,  main- 
dan2  was  at  Edinburgh,  and  delivered  lee-  tained  an  uniform  decency  of  character:  and 
tures  upon  the  English  Language  and  PubHc  Johnson  esteemed  them,  and  lived  in  as  easy 
Speaking  to  large  and  respectable  audiences,  an  intimacy  with  them  as  with  any  family  he 
I  was  often  in  his  company,  and  heard  him  50  used  to  visit.  Mr.  Davies  recollected  several 
frequently  expatiate  on  Johnson's  extraordi-  of  Johnson's  remarkable  sayings,  and  was  one 
nary  knowledge,  talents,  and  virtues,  repeat  his     of  the  best  of  the  many  imitators  of  his  voice 

and  manner  while  relating  them.    He  increased 
HegSftS^i^^^L-iTigufriaTeMo^ty      "y   impatience  more   and   more   to  see   the 

his  LeUers,  which  were  commended  by  Johnson.  55  extraordinary     man     whose     WOrks     I     highly 

2  r/iom<xs  iSAeridan  (1721-1788),  the  second  of  his  name       vaIiipH     nnrl   whnsp  ronvpr'^fltmn   wnq  ri^nnrtf^d 

to  gain  distinction,  was  an  Irish  actor,  elocutionist,  and      vaiuea,  ana  wnose  conversation  was  reportea 

author.     He  wrote  a  life  of  Swift,  and  an  English  Die-  to  be  SO  peculiarly  excellent. 

tionary.  was  at  one  time  manager  of  a  theater  in  Dublin.  \f  ir,ai   nn  MnnHav   thp  Ifith  nf  Mnv   wVipti  T 

and  in  1745  acted  with  Garrick.     He  was  the  father  of  ^^  :^7'     .      ,  ?      -X"^'  .     ,  ^X      .          ^'         .       \ 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  the  dramatist.  was  Slttmg  m  Mr.  DavieS  S  back  parloUT,  after  ]' 


JAMES  BOSWELL  425 

having  drunk  tea  with  him  and  Mrs.  Davies,  I  had  long  indulged  of  obtaining  his  acquaint- 
Johnson  unexpectedly  came  into  the  shop;  ance  was  blasted.  And,  in  truth,  had  not 
and  Mr.  Davies  having  perceived  him  through  my  ardour  been  uncommonly  strong,  and  my 
the  glass  door  in  the  room  in  which  we  were  resolution  uncommonly  persevering,  so  rough 
sitting,  advancing  towards  us, — he  announced  5  a  reception  might  have  deterred  me  for  ever 
his  awful  approach  to  me,  somewhat  in  the  from  making  any  further  attempts.  For- 
manner  of  an  actor  in  the  part  of  Horatio,  tunately,  however,  I  remained  upon  the  field 
when  he  addresses  Hamlet  on  the  appearance  not  wholly  discomfited;  and  was  soon  rewarded 
of  his  father's  ghost,  "Look,  my  lord,  it  by  hearing  some  of  his  conversation.  .  .  . 
comes."  I  found  that  I  had  a  very  perfect  10  I  was  highly  pleased  with  the  extraordinary 
idea  of  Johnson's  figure,  from  the  portrait  of  vigour  of  his  conversation,  and  regretted  that 
him  painted  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  soon  I  was  drawn  away  from  it  by  an  engagement 
after  he  had  published  his  Dictionary,  in  the  at  another  place.  I  had,  for  a  part  of  the 
attitude  of  sitting  in  his  easy  chair  in  deep  evening,  been  left  alone  with  him,  and  had 
meditation;  which  was  the  first  picture  his  15  ventured  to  make  an  observation  now  and 
friend  did  for  him,  which  Sir  Joshua  very  then,  which  he  received  very  civilly;  so  that 
kindly  presented  to  me,  and  from  which  an  I  was  satisfied  that  though  there  was  a  rough- 
engraving  has  been  made  for  this  work.  Mr.  ness  in  his  manner  there  was  no  ill-nature  in 
Davies  mentioned  my  name,  and  respectfully  his  disposition.  Davies  followed  me  to  the 
introduced  me  to  him.  I  was  much  agitated;  20  door,  and  when  I  complained  to  him  a  little 
and  recollecting  his  prejudice  against  the  of  the  hard  blows  which  the  great  man  had 
Scotch,  of  which  I  had  heard  much,  I  said  to  given  me,  he  kindly  took  upon  him  to  console 
Davies,  "Don't  tell  where  I  come  from."  me  by  saying,  "Don't  be  uneasy.  I  can  see 
"From    Scotland,"    cried    Davies    roguishly,      he  Ukes  you  very  well." 

"Mr.  Johnson  (said  I),  I  do  indeed  come  from 25  A  few  days  afterwards  I  called  on  Davies, 
Scotland,  but  I  cannot  help  it."  I  am  willing  and  asked  him  if  he  thought  I  might  take 
to  flatter  myself  that  I  meant  this  as  fight  the  Hberty  of  waiting  on  Mr.  Johnson  at  his 
pleasantry  to  soothe  and  conciliate  him,  and  chambers  in  the  Temple.  He  said  I  certainly 
not  as  an  humiliating  abasement  at  the  expense  might,  and  that  Mr.  Johnson  would  take  it  as 
of  my  country.  But  however  that  might  be,  30  a  compliment.  So  upon  Tuesday  the  24th 
this  speech  was  somewhat  unlucky;  for  with  of  May,  ...  I  boldly  repaired  to  Johnson, 
that  quickness  of  wit  for  which  he  was  so  re-  His  chambers  were  on  the  first  floor  of  No.  1 
markable,  he  seized  the  expression  "come  Inner  Temple  Lane,  and  I  entered  with  an 
from  Scotland,"  which  I  used  in  the  sense  of  impression  given  me  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Blair' 
being  of  that  country;  and,  as  if  I  had  said  35  of  Edinburgh,  who  had  been  introduced  to 
that  I  had  come  away  from  it,  or  left  it,  re-  him  not  long  before,  and  described  his  having 
torted,  "That,  sir,  I  find,  is  what  a  very  great  *' found  the  Giant  in  his  den;"  an  expression 
many  of  your  countrymen  cannot  help."  which,  when  I  came  to  be  pretty  well  ac- 
This  stroke  stunned  me  a  good  deal;  and  when  quainted  with  Johnson,  I  repeated  to  him,  and 
we  had  sat  down  I  felt  myself  not  a  little  em-  40  he  was  diverted  at  this  picturesque  account 
barrassed  and  apprehensive  of  what  might  of  himself.  .  .  He  received  me  very  cour- 
come  next.  He  then  addressed  himself  to  teously;butitmust  be  confessed  that  his  apart- 
Davies:  "What  do  you  think  of  Garrick?  ment,  and  furniture,  and  morning  dress  were 
He  has  refused  me  an  order  for  the  play  for  sufficiently  uncouth.  His  brown  suit  of  clothes 
Miss  Wilfiams,  because  he  knows  the  house  45  looked  very  rusty;  he  had  on  a  little  old 
will  be  full,  and  that  an  order  would  be  worth  shrivelled  unpowdered  wig,  which  was  too 
three  shillings."  Eager  to  take  any  opening  small  for  his  head;  his  shirt-neck  and  knees 
to  get  into  conversation  with  him,  I  ventured  of  his  breeches  were  loose;  his  black  worsted 
to  say,  "O,  sir,  I  cannot  think  Mr.  Garrick  stockings  ill  drawn  up;  and  he  had  a  pair  of 
would  grudge  such  a  trifle  to  you."  "Sir,  50 unbuckled  shoes  by  way  of  slippers.  But  all 
(said  he,  with  a  stem  look)  I  have  known  David  these  slovenly  particularities  were  forgotten 
Garrick  longer  than  you  have  done;  and  I  the  moment  he  began  to  talk.  Some  gentle- 
know  no  right  you  have  to  talk  to  me  on  the  men,  whom  I  do  not  recollect,  were  sitting  with 
subject."  Perhaps  I  deserved  this  check;  for  him;  and  when  they  went  away  I  also  rose; 
it  was  rather  presumptuous  in  me,  an  entire  55 but  he  said  to  me,  "Nay,  don't  go."  "Sir 
stranger,  to  express  any  doubt  of  the  justice      (said  I),  I  am  afraid  that  I  intrude  upon  you. 

of  the  animadversion  upon   his  old   acquaint-  3fl^uj;/ifitoir(1718-1800),  minister  of  the  High  Church, 

ance  and  pupil.    I  now  felt  myself  much  morti-     E^oburgb,  pro|j- o^jhe^o""  -?^bf  -  leuj,  m  the 

ned,  and  began  to  think  that  the  hope  wmch       Rhetoric,  a  once  famous  book. 


426  DRYDEN  TO   THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 

It  is  benevolent  to  allow  me  to  sit  and  hear  Johnson,  though,  indeed,  upon  a  smaller 
you."     He  seemed  pleased  with  this  compli-     scale. 

ment,  which  I  sincerely  paid  him,  and  an-  At  this  time^  I  think  he  had  published  noth- 
Bwered,  "Sir,  I  am  obliged  to  any  man  who  ing  with  his  name,  though  it  was  pretty  gen- 
visits  me."  .  .  When  I  rose  a  second  time  Serally  known  that  one  Dr.  Goldsmith  was  the 
he  again  pressed  me  to  stay,  which  I  did.  author  oi  An  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of 

He  told  me  that  he  generally  went  abroad  Polite  Learning  in  Europe,  and  of  The  Citizen 
at  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  seldom  came  of  thz  World,'^  a  series  of  letters  supposed  to  be 
home  until  two  in  the  morning.  I  took  the  written  from  London  by  a  Chinese.  No  man 
liberty  to  ask  if  he  did  not  think  it  wrong  to  lO  had  the  art  of  displaying  with  more  advantage 
live  thus,  and  not  make  more  use  of  his  great  as  a  writer  whatever  literary  acquisitions  he 
talents.  He  owned  it  was  a  bad  habit.  On  made.  '^ Nihil  quod  tetigit  non  ornavit."^  His 
reviewing,  at  the  distance  of  many  years,  my  mind  resembled  a  fertile,  but  thin  soil.  There 
journal  of  this  period,  I  wonder  how,  at  my  was  a  quick,  but  not  a  strong  vegetation,  of 
first  visit,  I  ventured  to  talk  to  him  so  freely,  15  whatever  chanced  to  be  thrown  upon  it.  No 
and  that  he  bore  it  with  so  much  indulgence.  deep  root  could  be  struck.     The  oak  of  the 

Before  we  parted  he  was  so  good  as  to  prom-      forest  did  not  grow  there;  but  the  elegant 

ise  to  favour  me  with  his  company  one  evening      shrubbery  and  the  fragrant  parterre  appeared 

at  my  lodgings;  and  as  I  took  my  leave,  shook      in  gay  succession.    It  has  been  generally  circu- 

me  cordially  by  the  hand.    It  is  almost  need-  20  lated  and  believed  that  he  was  a  mere  fool  in 

less  to  add,  that  I  felt  no  little  elation  at  having      conversation;  but  in  truth  this  has  been  greatly 

now  so  happily  established  an  acquaintance      exaggerated.    He  had,  no  doubt,  a  more  than 

of  which  I  had  been  so  long  ambitious.  common  share  of  that  hurry  of  ideas  which  we 

often  find  in  his  countrymen,  and  which  some- 

25  times  produces  a  laughable  confusion  in  ex- 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  pressing  them.    He  was  very  much  what  the 

/'TTr.^Tv,  +v,«  aorv,«\  Frcnch  call  un  etourdi.^  and  from  vanity  and 

(r  rom  the  same)  ,    .         <.  u  •  •  i. 

eager  desire  of  bemg   conspicuous   wherever 

As   Dr.    Oliver   Goldsmith   will   frequently     he  was,  he  frequently  talked  carelessly  without 

appear  in  this  narrative,  I  shall  endeavour  to  30  knowledge   of   the  subject,    or   even   without 

make  my  readers  in  some  degree  acquainted      thought.     His  person  was  short,  his  counte- 

with  his  singular  character.    He  was  a  native      nance  coarse  and  vulgar,  his  deportment  that 

of    Ireland,    and   a   contemporary   with    Mr.      of   a   scholar   awkwardly   affecting   the   easy 

Burke  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  but  did  not      gentleman.    Those  who  were  in  any  way  dis- 

then  give  much  promise  of  future  celebrity.  35  tinguished  excited  envy  in  him  to  so  ridiculous 

He,  however,  observed  to  Mr.  Malone,  that     an  excess  that  the  instances  of  it  are  hardly 

"though  he  made  no  great  figure  in  mathe-      credible.     When  accompanying  two  beautiful 

matics,  which  was  a  study  in  much  repute     young  ladies  with  their  mother  on  a  tour  in 

there,  he  could  turn  an  Ode  of  Horace  into      France,    he   was   seriously   angry   that   more 

English  better  than  any  of  them."    He  after- 40  attention  was  paid  to  them  than  to  him;  and 

wards  studied  physic  at  Edinburgh,  and  upon      once  at  the  exhibition  of  the  Fantoccini^  in 

the  Continent,   and,   I  have  been  informed,      London,  when  those  that  sat  next  him  ob- 

was  enabled  to  pursue  his  travels  on  foot,      served  with  what  dexterity  a  puppet  was  made 

partly  by  demanding  at  Universities  to  enter     to  toss  a  pike,  he  could  not  bear  that  it  should 

the  lists  as  a  disputant,  by  which,  according  45  have  such  praise,  and  exclaimed  with  some 

to  the  custom  of  many  of  them,  he  was  en-     warmth,   "Pshaw!   I  can   do  it  better   my- 

titled  to  the  premium  of  a  crown,  when  luckily     seK." 

for  him  his  challenge  was  not  accepted;  so         He,  I  am  afraid,  had  no  settled  system  of 

that,  as  I  once  observed  to  Dr.  Johnson,  he     any  sort,  so  that  his  conduct  must  not  be 

dispitfeti  his  passage  through  Europe.    He  then  50  strictly   scrutinised;   but   his   affections   were 

came  to  England,  and  was  employed  succes-     social  and  generous,  and  when  he  had  money 

sively  in  the  capacities  of  an  usher  to  an  acad-     he  gave  it  away  very  liberally.    His  desire  of 

emy,  a  corrector  of  the  press,  a  reviewer,  and 

a  writer  for  a  newspaper.     He  had  sagacity         JIa^- l^^^-.  v.,- r.  j  •    ,^r«  ^  ,•     -.^    , 

^„^„„i     .  li.*      i.  -J  1      J. I.  '    f  2  The  Inquiry  was  published  m  1759;  Golcunnith  also 

enough  to  cultivate  assiduously  the  acquaint-  55  published  The  Bee,  a  collection  of  essays,  iD  the  same 

ance  of  Johnson,  and  his  faculties  were  gradu-     y®"v  ^^^  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  v.  p.  397,  supra. 

„ii.. -I          J  u      J.1-             A.          1   J.-           j>          1  He  touched  nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn:  from 

ally  enlarged  by  the  contemplation  of  such  a  Dr.  Johnson's   epitaph   on  Goldsmith  in   Weatminster 

model.    To  me  and  many  others  it  appeared  ■^^4^a^-j^ 

that   he    studiously   copied    the    manner    of  6PuppefB?TAaL/an«ocanorkuttIedoU.orpu*»«*^ 


THOMAS  GRAY  427 

imaginary    consequence    predominated    over  POETS   OF   THE    ROMANTIC 

his  attention  to  truth.    When  he  began  to  rise  SCHOOL 

into  notice,  he  said  he  had  a  brother  who  wa^ 

Dean  of  Durham,  a  fiction  so  easily  detected,  t!I/bOttia0  <&tdV 

that  it  was  wonderful  how  he  should  have  5  >»  K 

been  so  inconsiderate  as  to  hazard  it.     He  1716-1771 

boasted  to  me  at  this  time  of  the  power  of  his     ^j^^   ^^    ^    DISTANT    PROSPECT    OF 

pen  m  commanding  money,  which  1  beueve  ETON  COLLEGE 

was  true  in  a  certain  degree,  though  in  the 

instance  he  gave  he  was  by  no  means  correct,  lo  (1747) 

He  told  me  that  he  had  sold  a  novel  for  four     Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

hundred  pounds.    This  was  his  Vicar  of  Wake-         That  crown  the  watry  glade, 

field.    But  Johnson  informed  me,  that  he  had     Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

made   the   bargain   for   Goldsmith,    and   the      .  ^^^  ^1^^?'^' ^?l^  ^h^?' u 

price  was  sixty  pounds.     "And,  sir  (said  he),  - ^?t/,^,^^^^^^^^^^^^^  ' 

a  sufficient  price  too,  when  it  was  sold,-  for         q^  g^.^^^^  of  1^^^,^  of  mead  survey, 

then  the  fame  of  Goldsmith  had  not  been     Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 

elevated,  as  it  afterwards  was,  by  his  Traveller;     Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

and  the  bookseller  had  such  faint  hopes  of         His  silver-winding  way:  lo 

profit  by  his  bargain,  that  he  kept  the  manu-  20 

script  by  him  a  long  time,  and  did  not  publish      ^' J[^^PP5^  ^1^^?'  ^h  .P^®^4^S  shade, 

it  till  after  the  Traveller  had  appeared.   Then,     ^  Ah,  fields  belov  d  m  vain, 

,     ,  .,  -J     4.  ^^  4.U  ^'     Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray 'd, 

to  be  sure,  it  waa  accidentaUy  worth  more         ^  stranger  yet  to  pain! 

™o°ey.  ,  .    ,  ,  I  feel  the  gales,  that  from  ye  blow,  15 

Mrs.  Piozzi«  and  Sir  John  Hawkins^  have  25  a  momentary  bliss  bestow, 
strangely  misstated  the  history  of  Goldsmith's         As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 
situation  and  Johnson's  friendly  interference.      My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 
when  this  novel  was  sold.    I  shall  give  it  au-      And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 
thentically   from   Johnson's   own   exact   nar-         To  breathe  a  second  spring.  20 

ration:— _  ^  ^^ Say,  father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

"I  received  one  mornmg  a  message  from         ^'^^  ^^^^^y  ^  sprightly  race 
poor  Goldsmith  that  he  was  m  great  distress.      Disporting  on  thy  margent  green 
and  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 

begging  that  I  would  come  to  him  as  soon  as      Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave  20 

possible.    I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  35  With  phant  arm  thy  glassy  wave? 
to  come  to  him  directly.     I  accordingly  went         The  captive  linnet  which  enthral? 
as  soon  as  I  was  drest,  and  found  that  his     ^^^^^^^XSngSe's  speed 
landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,   at     ^""of^^tet^h^r^' 
which  he  was  m  a  violent  passion.     1  per- 
ceived that  he  had  already  changed  my  guinea,  40  while  some  on  earnest  business  bent 
and  had  got  a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass         Their  murm'ring  labours  ply 
before  him.     I  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,      'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constrstint, 
desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk         To  sweeten  liberty: 

to  him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be     gome  bold  adventurers  disdain  35 

extricated.     He  then  told  me  that  he  had  a  45  Th^  l^n^^ts^f  their  little  reign 

,         irxi  U-I.U  A  r.  A  And  unknown  regions  dare  descry, 

novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he  produced      g^.^  ^  ^^      ^^^  ^^^^  l^^k  behind, 

to  me.    I  looked  into  it,  and  saw  its  ment;  told      r^hey  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

the  landlady  I  should  soon  return,  and,  having         And  snatch  a  fearful  joy.  ^      40 

gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds. 

I  brought  Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  dis-  50  Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

charged  his  rent,  not  without  rating  his  land-         Less  pleasing  when  possest; 

lady  in  a  high  tone  for  having  used  him  so     The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

.,1  ,f  ^  ^  The  sunshine  of  the  breast: 

Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue,  45 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever-new, 

•Hester   Lynch   Salisbury    (1741-1821),   a   friend   of  55       And  lively  cheer  of  vigour  born; 

Johnson,  who  met  her  in  1764,  shortly  after  her  marriage  rpr  ^  fVirMin-Vifloaa  rlnv    fhp  pnqv  niffht 

to  Henry  Thrale.    In  1784  she  married  an  Italian  musi-  ^^^  thOUgiltiess  aay,  me  easy  nignt, 

cian  named  Piozzi.     She  published  a  book  of  anecdotes  The  Spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  llgnt, 

and  correspondence  relating  to  Johnson.  That  fly  th'  approach  of  morn.                          60 

''  One  of  Johnson's  executors,  and  author  of  a  life  of  .    ,..^ 

Johnson.  i  Henry  VI,  who  founded  Eton  College  in  1440t 


428 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


Alas,  regardless  of  their  doom 

The  little  victims  play! 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day: 
Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait  66 

The  Ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train! 
Ah,  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand 
To  seize  their  prey  the  murth'rous  band! 

Ah,  tell  them,  they  are  men!  60 

These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  sculks  behind; 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth,      65 
Or  Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth. 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart, 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visag'd  comfortless  Despair, 

And  sorrow's  piercing  dart*  70 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high, 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice, 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try,      75 
And  hard  Unkindness'  alter'd  eye, 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forc'd  to  flow; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defil'd. 
And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 

Amid  severest  woe.  80 

Lo,  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  grisly  troop  are  seen, 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  Queen: 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins,   85 
That  every  labouring  sinew  strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage: 
Lo,  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 

And  slow-consuming  Age.  90 

To  each  his  suff 'rings:  all  are  men, 

Condemn'd  alike  to  groan, 
The  tender  for  another's  pain; 

Th'  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah!  why  should  they  know  their  fate?   95 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late. 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies, 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 
No  more;  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise.  lOO 

SONNET 

ON  THE   DEATH   OF  MR.   RICHARD   WEST  ^ 

In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 

And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire: 

The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join; 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire: 

*  A  fellow-atudent  of  Gray's  at  Eton,  and  one  of  his 
most  intimate  friends.  West  died  at  the  age  of  25,  June  Ist, 
1742,  and  the  sonnet  on  his  death  was  written  in  the  fol- 
lowing August. 


These  ears,  alas !  for  other  notes  repine ;  5 

A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require: 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine; 
*    And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire. 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 

And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier 
men:  lo 

The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear : 

To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain: 
I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear. 

And  weep  the  more,  because  I  weep  in  vain. 


ELEGY    WRITTEN     IN    A     COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD 

(1751) 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting^  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea. 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the 
sight,  5 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds. 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight. 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower. 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain  lo 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's 
shade 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering 
heap. 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid  15 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Mom, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built 

shed. 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly 

bed. 2  20 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn. 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 

No  children  run  to  hsp  their  sire's  return. 
Or  chmb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield,  25 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has 
broke: 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  oiieir  team  afield  I 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy 
stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure;      3C 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

1  Here —dying. 

2  This  is  to  be  understood  literally:  it  does  not  mean  the     ^ 
grave. 


THOMAS  GRAY 


429 


The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour.  35 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 

If  Mem'ry  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted 

vault 

The   pealing   anthem   swells    the   note   of 

praise.  40 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  Honour's  voice  provoke'  the  silent  dust. 

Or  Flatt'ry  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid  45 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 
sway'd. 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  Ijrre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage,  51 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen,  55 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless 

breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood. 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's 

blood.  60 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command. 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  read  their  hist'ry  in  a  nation's  eyes. 

Their  lot  forbad :  nor  circumscrib'd  alone  65 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  con- 
fin'd; 

Forbad  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride  71 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn 'd  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequester'd  vale  of  life  75 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture 
deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh.  80 

*  Call  forth,  summon. 


Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd 
muse. 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 

That  teach  the  rustic  morahst  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey,  85 

This  pleasirg  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  hng'ring  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  rehes, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires;    90 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries. 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,*  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led,  95 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  Swain  may  say, 
''Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn.       lOO 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech. 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn,  105 
Mutt'ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan;  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  craz'd  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless 
love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  custom'd  hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree;  no 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he: 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw 
him  borne: 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the 
lay.  115 

Grav'd   on   the    stone   beneath   yon    aged 
thorn." 

THE   EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown; 

Fair  Science^  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth. 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own.  120 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 

He  gave  to  Mis'ry  all  he  had,  a  tear. 
He  gain'd  from  heav'n  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a 
friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose,  125 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 
*  i.  e.,  Gray  himself.      *  Kind,  or  gracious,  learning. 


430 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


THE  BARDi 

(From  Odes,  1757) 
I.  1 
"Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait,   ' 
Tho'  fann'd  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Hehn,  nor  Hauberk's  twisted  mail,  5 

Nor  even  thy  virtues,  Tyrant,  shall  avail 

To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 
From  Cambria' s^  curse,  from  Cambria's 
tears!" 
Such  were  the  sounds,  that  o'er  the  crested 
pride 
Of  the  first  Edward  scatter'd  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side    1 1 
He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long 
array. 
Stout   Glo'ster^   stood    aghast    in    speechless 

trance: 
"To  arms!"  cried  Mortimer,'*  and  couch'd  his 
quiv'ring  lance. 


1.2 


15 


On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe. 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood; 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 

Stream'd,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled 
air),  20 

And  with  a  Master's  hand,  and  Prophet's  fire, 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre. 

"Hark,  how  each  giant-oak,  and  desert 
cave, 
Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath! 
O'er  thee,  oh  King!  their  hundred  arms  they 
wave,  25 

Revenge    on    thee    in    hoarser    murmurs 
breathe; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day. 
To  high-born  Hoel's*  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's 
lay." 

L3 
"Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue. 
That  hush'd  the  stormy  main :  30 

Brave  IJrien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed: 
Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-top'd 
head. 
On  dreary  Arvon's  shore"  they  lie,         35 

1  "This  ode  is  founded  on  a  tradition  current  in  Wales 
that  Edward  I,  when  he  completed  the  conquest  of  that 
country,  ordered  all  the  bards  that  fell  into  his  hands  to  be 
put  to  death."    Gray. 

2  Cambria,  the  ancient  name  of  Wales. 

*  Gilbert  de  Clare,  Earl  of  Gloucester,  who  had  con- 
ducted the  war  in  South  Wales  before  joining  forces  with 
the  king. 

*  Edward  de  Mortimer,  who  co-operated  with  the  king 
in  North  Wales. 

'  Probably  Howel  ab  Owain,  a  bard  of  the  latter  12th 
century.  For  many  of  the  other  bards,  Gray  appears 
simply  to  have  selected  appropriate  national  names, 
without  having  any  specific  Welsh  poet  in  mind. 

*  i.  e.,  on  the  coast  ofiParnarvonshire  (Arvon  =  Carnar- 
von =Caer-yn-Arvon,  tne  camp  in  Arvon). 


Smear'd  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale: 
Far,  far  aloof  th'  affrighted  ravens  sail; 

The  f  amish'd  Eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art. 

Dear,  as  the  Hght  that  visits  these  sad 

eyes,  40 

Dear,  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye    died    amidst    your    dying    country's 
cries — 
No  more  I  weep.   They  do  not  sleep. 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 
I  see  them  sit,  they  linger  yet,  .45 

Avengers  of  their  native  land: 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join. 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy 
line." 

n.  1 

"  Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof. 
The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race.  50 

Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night, 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  aftright 
The  shrieks  of  death,  thro'  Berkley's  roofs  that 
ring,  55 

Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  King!^ 

She-Wolf    of    France,^   with   unrelenting 
fangs, 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  Mate, 
From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country 
hangs 
The  scourge  of  Heav'n.^    What  Terrors  round 
him  wait!  60 

Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combined, 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  be- 
hind." 

11.2 
"Mighty  Victor,  mighty  Lord! 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies! 

No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford  65 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 

Is  the  sable  Warriour  fled? 
Thy  son  is  gone.    He  rests  among  the  Dead. 
The  Swarm,  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were 

bom? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  Mom.  70 

Fair  laughs  the  Mom,  and  soft  the  Zephyr 
blows. 
While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  Vessel  goes; 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the 
helm; 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  Whirlwind's  sway,  75 
That,  hush'd  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  even- 
ing prey." 

IL  3 

"Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl. 
The  rich  repast  prepare, 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the 
feast: 

7  The  Severn  flows  near  to  Berkeley  Castle,  where 
Edward  II  was  murdered. 

8  The  French  Princess.  Isabelle,  wife  of  Edward  II, 
who  allied  herself  with  Mortimer  to  compass  the  ruin  of 
her  husband.  '  Edward  III. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS 


431 


Close  by  the  regal  chair  80 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baflaed  Guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 

Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined 
course,  85 

And  thro'  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their 
way. 
Ye  Towers  of  JuUus,^"  London's  lasting 
shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murther  fed. 
Revere  his  Consort's  faith,  his  Father's 
fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  Usurper's"  holy  head.      90 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread: 
The  bristled  Boar^^  [^  infant  gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  Brothers,  bending  o'er  th'  accursed  loom 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his 
doom."  96 

III.l 
"Edward,  lo!  to  sudden  fate" 
(Weave  we  the  woof.   The  thread  is  spun). 

Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 
(The  web  is  wove .   The  work  is  done) .  1 00 

Stay,  oh  stay!  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unbless'd,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn: 
In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the  western  skies, 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But  oh!   what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's 
height  105 

Descending  slow  their  glitt'ring  skirts  un- 
roU? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight, 

Ye  unborn  Ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail. 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  Kings,  Britannia's  Issue, 
hail!" 


110 


m.  2 


"  Girt  with  many  a  Baron  bold 

Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear; 
And  gorgeous  Dames,  and  Statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  Form  divine  I^^  115 

Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line; 
Her  lyon-port,  her  awe-commanding  face, 
Attemper'd  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air. 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her 
play.  _  120 

Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,^^  hear; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring,  as  she  sings, 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heav'n  her  many-colour'd 
wings." 

10  The  Tower  of  London,  popularly,  but  erroneously, 
supposed  to  have  been  built  by  Julius  Caesar. 

11  Henry  VI.  His  consort  was  Margaret  of  Anjou, 
and  his  father,  Henry  V. 

12  The  badge  of  Richard  III. 

13  Eleanor,  the  Queen  of  Edward  I,  died  suddenly  dur- 
ing her  husband's  absence. 

14  Queen  Elizabeth.  She  is  of  the  Briton-line,  being  the 
granddaughter  of  Henry  VII,  a  descendant  of  the  Welsh, 
:>T  British,  gentleman  Owen  Tudor. 

15  A  famous  British  bard  of  the  sixth  century. 


IIL3 

' '  The  verse  adorn  again  125 

Fierce  War,  and  faithful  Love, 
And  truth  severe,  by  fairy  Fiction  arest. 

In  buskin'd  measures  move 
Pale  Grief,  and  Pleasing  Pain, 
With  Horrour,  Tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 
A  Voice,  as  of  the  Cherub-Choir,  131 

Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear; 
And  distant  warblings^^  lessen  on  my  ear, 

That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 
Fond  impious  Man,  think' st  thou,  yon  sanguine 
cloud,  135 

Rais'd  by  thy  breath,  has  quench'd  the 
Orb  of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood. 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled 
ray. 
Enough  for  me:  With  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  Fates  assign.       140 
Be  thine  Despair,  and  sceptr'd  Care, 
To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine." 
He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain's 

height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plung'd  to  endless 
night. 


William  CoUittfii 

1721-1759 

ODE  TO  EVENING 

(From  Odes,  1746) 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop^  or  pastoral  song. 

May  hope,  chaste  eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs. 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales, 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired 

sun,  .     5 

Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed: 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 

With  short,  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern 

wing;  10 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path. 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum : 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed,  15 

To  breath  some  softened  strain. 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darken- 
ing vale. 
May,  not  unseemly,  with  its  stillness  suit. 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return !  20 

ifi  i.  e.,  of  the  poets  succeeding  Milton,  who  is  referred 
to  in  the  preceding  lines. 

1  Here  =  the  shepherd's  pipe  of  reed,  or  oateP  straw; 
(Vergil's  avena). 


432 


DRYDEN   TO   THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


For  when  thy  folding  star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  flowers  the  day. 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows 
with  sedge,  25 

And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier 
still, 
The  pensive  pleasures  sweet 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  lead,  calm  votaress,  where  some  sheety 

lake 
Cheers  the  lone  heath,'  or  some  time-hallowed 
pile,  30 

Or  up-land  fallows  grey 
Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

But  when  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut. 

That  from  the  mountain's  side,  35 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floodJs, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil.  40 

While  spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he 

wont. 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  eve! 

While  summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves  ;4  5 
Or  winter  yelling  through  the  troublous  air. 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train. 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes; 

So  long,  sure-found  beneath  the  sylvan  shed. 
Shall    fancy,    friendship,    science,    rose-lipp'd 
health,  50 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 

And  hymn  thy  favorite  name! 


THE  PASSIONS 

AN   ODE   FOR  MUSIC 

(From  the  same) 

When  music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung. 
The  passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell,  "^ 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell,  ^ 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting,  5 

Possest  beyond  the  muse's  painting: 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired. 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired,  10 

From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 

>  Lyre.    The  primitive  lyre  was  supposed  to  have  been 
£nade  by  stretching  strings  across  the  shell  of  a  tortoise. 


Each  (for  madness  ruled  the  hour)  U 

Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 
First  fear,  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid. 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why. 

Even  at  the  sound  himself  had  made.         2C 
Next  anger  rushed;  his  eyes  on  fire. 

In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings: 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept,  with  hurried  hand,  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  despair  25 

Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 

What  was  thy  delightful  measure?  30 

Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure. 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale. 

She  called  on  echo  still,  through  all  the  song;  35 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every 

close, 

And  hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her 

golden  hair. 
And  longer  had  she  sung; — ^but,  with  a  frown, 
Revenge  impatient  rose:  40 

He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword,  in  thunder, 
down; 
And  with  a  withering  look. 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took. 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe!      45 
And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum,  with  furious  heat; 
And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  be- 
tween, 
Dejected  pity,  at  his  side. 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied,  50 

Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  burst- 
ing from  his  head. 
Thy    numbers,    jealoUsy,    to    naught    were 
fixed; 
Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state; 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was 
mixed;  55 

And  now  it  courted  love,  now  raving  called 
on  hate. 
With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired. 
Pale  melancholy  sat  retired; 
And,  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet,  60 

Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive 
soul: 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  meas- 
ure stole. 
Or,    o'er    some    haunted    stream,    with    fond 
delay,  6£ 

Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing. 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 


THOMAS  PERCY 


433 


But  O!  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone, 
When    cheerfulness,    a   nymph   of    healthiest 
hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung,  71 

Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket 
rung. 
The  hunter's  call,  to  faun  and  dryad  known! 
The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed 
queen,  75 

Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen. 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green: 
Brown  exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 

And  sport  leapt  up,  and  seized  his  beecheu 
spear. 
Last  came  joy's  ecstatic  trial:  80 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest; 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol. 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the 

best; 

They   would   have    thought   who    heard   the 

strain  85 

They    saw,    in    Tempe's   vale,   her   native 

maids. 
Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 

While,    as    his    flying    fingers    kissed    the 

strings. 

Love  framed  with  mirth  a  gay  fantastic 

round:  90 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  im- 

bound; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 

O  music!  sphere-descended  maid,  95 

Friend  of  pleasure,  wisdom's  aid! 

Why,  goddess!  why,  to  us  denied, 

Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside? 

As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower. 

You  learned  an  all-commanding  power,         100 

Thy  mimic  soul,  O  nymph  endeared, 

Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard; 

Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart. 

Devote  to  virtue,  fancy,  art? 

Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time,^  105 

Warm,  energic,  chaste,  sublime! 

Thy  wonders,  in  that  godhke  age, 

Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page — 

'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale. 

Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail,         110 

Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 

Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age; 

E''en  all  at  once  together  found, 

Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound — 

O  bid  our  vain  endeavours  cease;  115 

Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece: 

Return  in  all  thy  simple  state! 

Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate! 

2  Collins  was  unaware  of  the  progress  which  music  wag 
making  in  England  at  this  time,  or  else  chose  to  ignore  it 
for  the  sake  of  his  poetic  effect.  Most  of  Handel's  greatest 
works  were  produced  between  1739  and  1751,  and  his 
Messiah  was  received  with  great  enthusiasm  in  London 
three  years  before  Collins  published  hia  Odes. 


ODE 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  YEAR  1746' 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest, 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blessed! 
When  spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold. 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod  5 

Than  fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 

By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 

There  honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  grey. 

To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay;      10 

And  freedom  shall  awhile  repair. 

To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there! 

DIRGE  IN  CYMBELINE^ 

SUNG     BY     GUIDERIUS     AND     ARVIRAGUS     OVER 
FIDELE,    SUPPOSED   TO   BE   DEAD 

(First  published  in  The  Gentleman's  Magazine, 
for  October,  1749) 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet  of  earliest  bloom, 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear  5 

To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here. 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen; 

No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew:  10 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green. 

And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew! 

The  redbreast  oft,  at  evening  hours. 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid. 
With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flowers,      15 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds  and  beating  rain. 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell; 

Or  'midst  the  chase,  on  every  plain. 
The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell;  20 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore; 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed; 
Beloved  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 

And  mourned  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 

1729-1811 
THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray, 
Walked  forth  to  tell  his  beads, 

And  he  met  with  a  lady  fair, 
Clad  in  a  pilgrim's  weeds. 

1  In  this  year  England  was  at  war  both  on  the  con- 
tinent and  in  Scotland.  The  Jacobite  victory  of  Falkirk 
was  Jan.  17,  1746,  and  the  crushing  Jacobite  defeat  of 
CuUoden,  April  16th  of  the  same  year. 

1  V.  Cymbeline,  Act  IV,  sc.  ii. 


434 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


"Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend  friar!  5 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me, 
If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 

My  true  love  thou  didst  see."  , 

"And  how  should  I  know  your  true  love 
From  many  another  one?"  10 

"Oh!  by  his  cockle  hat^  and  staff, 
And  by  his  sandle  shoon:^ 

"But  chiefly  by  his  face  and  mien, 

That  were  so  fair  to  view, 
His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curled,  15 

And  eyne  of  lovely  blue." 

"O  lady,  he  is  dead  and  gone! 

Lady,  he's  dead  and  gone! 
And  at  his  head  a  green  grass  turf. 

And  at  his  heels  a  stone.  20 

"Within  these  holy  cloisters  long 

He  languished,  and  he  died, 
Lamenting  of  a  lady's  love, 

And  'plaining  of  her  pride. 

"Here  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier  25 

Six  proper  youths  and  tall; 
And  many  a  tear  bedewed  his  grave 

Within  yon  kirkyard  wall' 

"And  art  thou  dead,  thoU  gentle  youth — 
And  art  thou  dead  and  gone?  30 

And  didst  thou  die  for  love  of  me? 
Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone!" 

"O  weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  so. 

Some  ghostly  counsel  seek: 
Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart,  35 

Nor  tears  bedew  thy  cheek." 

"O  do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar, 

My  sorrow  now  reprove; 
For  I  have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 

That  e'er  wan^  lady's  love.  40 

"And  now,  alas!  for  thy  sad  loss 

I'll  evermore  weep  and  sigh; 
For  thee  I  only  wished  to  live, 

For  thee  I  wish  to  die." 

"Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more;  45 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain : 
For  violets  plucked  the  sweetest  showers 

Will  ne'er  make  grow  again. 

"Our  joys  as  winged  dreams  do  fly; 

Why  then  should  sorrow  last?  (    60 

Since  grief  but  aggravates  thy  loss. 

Grieve  not  for  what  is  past." 

"O  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar! 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so; 
For  since  my  true  love  died  for  me,  55 

'Tis  meet  my  tears  should  flow. 

» Hat  bearing  a  scallop-shelU  the  sign  of  a  pilgrim. 
•  Sandal = shoes.  »  Won. 


And  will  he  ne'er  come  again — 

Will  he  ne'er  come  again? 
Ah,  no!  he  is  dead,  and  laid  in  his  grave. 

For  ever  to  remain.  60 

"His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose — 

The  comeliest  youth  was  he: 
But  he  is  dead,  and  laid  in  his  grave, 

Alas!  and  woe  is  me." 

"Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more,  65 

Men  were  deceivers  ever; 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  land. 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

"Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false. 
And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy;  70 

For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found, 
Since  summer  trees  were  leafy." 

"Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so; 
My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart —  75 

O  he  was  ever  true! 

"And  art  thou  dead,  thou  much-loved  youth? 

And  didst  thou  die  for  me? 
Then  farewell  home;  for  evermore 

A  pilgrim  I  will  be.  80 

"But  first  upon  my  true-love's  grave 

My  weary  Umbs  I'll  lay. 
And  thrice  I'll  kiss  the  green  grass  turf 

That  wraps  his  breathless  clay." 

"Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  rest  awhile  85 

Beneath  this  cloister  wall; 
The  cold  wind  through  the  hawthorn  blows. 

And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall." 

"O  stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar, 

O  stay  me  not,  I  pray; 
No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  me. 

Can  wash  my  fault  away." 

"Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  turn  again, 

And  dry  those  pearly  tears; 
And  see,  beneath  this  gown  of  gray. 

Thy  own  true  love  appears. 

"Here  forced  by  grief  and  hopeless  love. 

These  holy  weeds  I  sought; 
And  here,  amid  these  lonely  walls, 

To  end  my  days  I  thought.  100 

"But  haply,  for  my  year  of  grace 

Is  not  yet  passed  away. 
Might  I  still  hope  to  win  thy  love. 

No  longer  would  I  stay." 


90 


95 


"Now  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy 

Once  more  unto  my  heart; 
For  since  I've  found  thee,  lovely  youth. 

We  never  more  will  part." 


109 


WILLIAM  COWPER 


435 


William  ctotDper 

1731-1800 
THE  TASK 

(1785) 

(Selections  from  Book  I.    The  Sofa) 

But  though  true  worth  and  virtue,  in  the 
mild 
And  genial  soil  of  cultivated  life, 
Thrive  most,  and  may  perhaps  thrive  only 
there,  680 

Yet  not  in  cities  oft :  in  proud  and  gay 
And  gain-devoted  cities.    Thither  flow, 
As  to  a  common  and  most  noisome  sewer. 
The  dregs  and  feculence  of  every  land. 
In  cities  foul  example  on  most  minds  685 

Begets  its  likeness.   Rank  abundance  breeds 
In  gross  and  pampered  cities  sloth  and  lust, 
And  wantonness  and  gluttonous  excess. 
In  cities  vice  is  hidden  v/ith  most  ease, 
Or    seen    with    least    reproach;    and    virtue, 
taught  690 

By  frequent  lapse,  can  hope  no  triumph  there 
Beyond  the  achievement  of  successful  flight. 
I  do  confess  them  nurseries  of  the  arts, 
In  which  they  flourish  most;  where,  in  the 

beams 
Of  warm  encouragement,  and  in  the  eye  695 

Of  public  note,  they  reach  their  perfect  size. 
Such  London  is,  by  taste  and  wealth  proclaimed 
The  fairest  capital  of  all  the  world. 
By  riot  and  incontinence  the  worst. 
There,   touched  by  Reynolds,^  a  dull  blank 
becomes  700 

A  lucid  mirror,  in  which  Nature  sees 
All  her  reflected  features.    Bacon  ^  there 
Gives  more  than  female  beauty  to  a  stone, 
And  Chatham's  eloquence  to  marble  lips. 
Nor  does  the  chisel  occupy  alone  705 

The  powers  of  sculpture,  but  the  style  as  much; 
Each  province  of  her  art  her  equal  care. 
With  nice  incision  of  her  guided  steel 
She  ploughs  a  brazen  field,  and  clothes  a  soil 
So  sterile,  with  what  charms  soe'er  she  will,   710 
The  richest  scenery  and  the  loveliest  forms. 
Where  finds  Philosophy  her  eagle  eye, 
With  which  she  gazes  at  yon  burning  disk 
Undazzled,  and  detects  and  counts  his  spots? 
In  London.    Where  her  implements  exact,     715 
With  which  she  calculates,  computes,  and  scans 
All  distance,  motion,  magnitude,  and  now 
Measures  an  atom,  and  now  girds  a  world? 
In  London.    Where  has  commerce  such  a  mart, 
So  rich,  so  thronged,  so  drained,  and  so  sup- 
plied, 720 
As  London,  opulent,  enlarged,  and  still 
Increasing  London?    Babylon  of  old 
Not  more  the  glory  of  the  earth  than  she, 
A  more  accomplished  world's  chief  glory  now. 

1  At  this  time  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  (1723-1792)  was  at 
the  height  of  his  fame  as  a  painter. 

2  John  Bacon  (1740-1799),  a  distinguished  sculptor  of 
the  day. 


She  has  her  praise.     Now  mark  a  spot  or 

two  725 

That  so  much  beauty  would  do  well  to  purge; 

And  show  this  queen  of  cities,  that  so  fair 

May  yet  be  foul,  so  witty  yet  not  wise. 

It  is  not  seemly,  nor  of  good  report, 

That  she  is  slack  in  discipline;  more  prompt   730 

To  avenge  than  to  prevent  the  breach  of  law; 

That  she  is  rigid  in  denouncing  death 

On  petty  robbers,  and  indulges  hfe 

And  liberty,  and  oftimes  honour  too, 

To  peculators  of  the  public  gold ;  735 

That  thieves  at  home  must  hang,  but  he  that 

puts 
Into  his  overgorged  and  bloated  purse 
The  wealth  of  Indian  provinces,  escapes. 
Nor  is  it  well,  nor  can  it  come  to  good, 
That,  through  profane  and  infidel  contempt  740 
Of  Holy  Writ,  she  has  presumed  to  annul 
And  abrogate,  as  roundly  as  she  may, 
The  total  ordinance  and  will  of  God; 
Advancing  Fashion  to  the  post  of  Truth, 
And  centering  all  authority  in  modes  745 

And  customs  of  her  own,  till  Sabbath  rites 
Have  dwindled  into  unrespected  forms, 
And  knees  and  hassocks  are  well-nigh  divorced. 
God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the 

town: 
What  wonder  then,  that  health  and  virtue, 

gifts  750 

That  can  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
That  hfe  holds  out  to  all,  should  most  abound 
And  least  be  threatened  in  the  fields  and  groves? 
Possess  ye  therefore,  ye  who,  borne  about 
In  chariots  and  sedans,  know  no  fatigue         755 
But  that  of  idleness,  and  taste  no  scenes 
But  such  as  art  contrives,  possess  ye  still 
Your  element;  there  only  ye  can  shine. 
There  only  minds  like  yours  can  do  no  harm. 
Our  groves  were  planted  to  console  at  noon    760 
The  pensive  wanderer  in  their  shades.    At  eve 
The  moonbeam,  sliding  softly  in  between 
The  sleeping  leaves,  is  all  the  light  they  wish, 
Birds  warbling  all  the  music.     We  can  spare 
The  splendour  of  your  lamps,  they  but  eclipse 
Our  softer  satellite.    Your  songs  confound      766 
Our  more  harmonious  notes:  the  thrush  departs 
Scared,  and  the  offended  nightingale  is  mute. 
There  is  a  public  mischief  in  your  mirth. 
It  plagues  your  country.    Folly  such  as  yours 
Graced  with  a  sword,  and  worthier  of  a  fan,  771 
Has  made,  what  enemies  could  ne'er  have  done, 
Our  arch  of  empire,  steadfast  but  for  you, 
A  mutilated  structure,  soon  to  fall.  .  .  . 

Book  II. — The  Time-piece 
Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade,  _ 
Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 
Might  never  reach  me  more!    My  ear  is  pained, 
My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report  6 

Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filled. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 
It  does  not  feel  for  man ;  the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax  10 


436 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  coloured  like  his  own,  and  having  power 
To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey.       15 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.    Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys;  20 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored, 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his 

sweat 
With  stripes  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart. 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast.  25 

Then  what  is  man?    And  what  man  seeing  this, 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man? 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  1  sleep,  30 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 
No :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave  35 

And  wear  the  bonds,  than   fasten   them  on 

him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home. — Then  why  abroad? 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England;'  if  their 

lungs  40 

Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles 

fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.    Spread  it  then. 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein  45 

Of  all  your  empire;  that  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too.  .  .  . 

Book  III. — The  Garden 
I  was  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd        108 
Long  since;  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infixed 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  with- 
drew 110 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
There  was  I  found  by  One  who  had  Himself 
Been  hurt  by  the  archers.    In  His  side  He 

bore. 
And  in  His  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts,  115 

He  drew  them  forth,  and  healed,  and  bade  me 

live. 
Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 
And  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  those 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene; 
With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more.    120 
Here  much  I  ruminate,  as  much  I  may, 
With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 
Than  once,  and  others  of  a  hfe  to  come.  .  .  . 

*  The  question  as  to  whether  slaves  were  legally  eman- 
ripated  by  being  brought  to  England  was  judicially 
Fettled  in  1772.  In  a  case  decided  in  that  year,  the  court 
held  that  every  slave,  as  .eoou  as  he  lauded  on  English 
soil,  acquired  his  freedom. 


Book  IV. — The  Winter's  Evening 
Hark!  'tis  the  twanging  horn!     O'er  yonder 

bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  un wrinkled  face  reflected  bright, 
He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world,  5 

With   spattered   boots,    strapped   waist,    and 

frozen  locks, 
News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 
True  to  his  charge,  the  close-packed  load  be- 
hind, 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn,  10 

And  having  dropped  the  expected  bag — pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch. 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful:  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some. 
To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy.  15 

Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears  that  trickled   down  the  writer's 

cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill. 
Or   charged    with   amorous   sighs   of   absent 

swains,  20 

Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  oh  the  important  budget!  ushered  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings?  have  our  troops  awaked? 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged,        26 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave? 
Is  India  free?'*  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 
And  jewelled  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace. 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still?   The  grand  debate,    30 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply. 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 
And  the  loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them  all; 
I  burn  to  set  the  imprisoned  wranglers  free. 
And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again. 
Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters 

fast,  36 

Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round. 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each,  40 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in.  .  .  . 
Oh  Winter!  ruler  of  the  inverted  year,  120 
Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  filled. 
Thy    breath    congealed    upon    thy    lips,    thy 

cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other 

snows 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapt  in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  thronei25 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheals. 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way; 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem  est, 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art.    Thou  holdest  the  sun 
A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undaw^ning  east,  130 

Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 

*  The  relation  of  England  to  India  was  one  of  the 
important  political  issues  of  the  time.  In  1784  Pitt 
introduced  a  bill  for  the  Government  of  India,  and  in 
1786  (a  year  after  the  publication  of  The  Task)  the  trial  ol 
Warren  Hastings  was  begun. 


WILLIAM   COWPER 


437 


And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease,  135 

And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought. 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
1  crown  thee  King  of  intimate  delights, 
P'ireside  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness,    140 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know.  ...     143 
Come,  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace; 
Return,  sweet  Evening,  and  continue  long! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  in  the  streaky  west,  245 

With  matron  step  slow  moving,  while  the  Night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train;  one  hand  em- 
ployed 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charged  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day;  250 

Not  sumptuously  adorned,  nor  needing  aid. 
Like  homely-featured  Night,  of  clustering  gems; 
A  star  or  two  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow 
Suffices  thee;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn  indeed  on  high    255 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ample  round. 
Come  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary 

calm. 
Or  make  me  so.    Composure  is  thy  gift :  260 

And  whether  I  devote  thy  gentler  hours 
To  books,  to  music,  or  the  poet's  toil; 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit; 
Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels, 
When  they  command  whom  man  was  born  to 

please :  265 

I   slight  thee  not,   but  make  thee  welcome 

still.  .  .  . 
In  such  a  world,  so  thorny,  and  where  none  333 
Finds  happiness  unblighted,  or,  if  found, 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side,  335 

It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguished  than  ourselves,  that 

thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills. 
And  sympathize  with  others,  suffering  more.  340 
111  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team. 
The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogged  wheels;  and  in  its  sluggish  pace 
Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow,  346 

The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 
While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forced  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 
Upon   their  jutting   chests.     He,    formed   to 

bear  3.50 

The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night. 
With  half-shut  eyes  and  puckered  cheeks,  and 

teeth 
?resented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 
One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 
lie  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip,         355 


Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 
Oh  happy!  and  in  my  account,  denied 
The  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 
Refinement  is  endued,  thrice  happy  thou. 
Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed      360 
The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpaired. 
The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 
Thy  vigorous  pulse;  and  the  unhealthful  east. 
That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every 

bone 
Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee.  365 

Thy  davs  roll  on  exempt  from  household  care; 
Thy  waggon  is  thy  wife;  and  the  poor  beasts. 
That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro, 
Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 
Ah,  treat  them  kindly!  rude  as  thou  appearest, 
Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy,  which  the 

great,  371 

With  needless  hurry  whirled  from  place  to  place. 
Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 
Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat. 
Such  claim  compassion  in  a  night  like  this,  375 
And  have  a  friend  in  every  feeling  heart.  .  .  . 

Book  VI. — The  Winter  Walk  at  Noon 
The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood,57 
The  morning  sharp  and  clear.     But  now  at 

noon. 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills. 
And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern 

blast,  60 

The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage. 
And  has  the  warmth  of  May.    The  vault  is  blue 
Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 
The  dazzling  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 
Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale  65 

And  through  the  trees  I  view  the  embattled 

tower^ 
Whence  all  the  music.    I  again  perceive 
The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 
And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 
The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms,  70 
Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 
The   roof,   though   moveable  through  all  its 

length 
As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufficed, 
And  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 
The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me.     75 
No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 
The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 
With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  sup- 
pressed : 
Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 
From  spray  to  spray,   where'er  he  rests  he 

shakes  80 

From  many  a  twig  the  pendant  drops  of  ice, 
That  tinkle  in  the  withered  leaves  below. 
Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft. 
Charms  more  than  silence.    Meditation  here 
May  think  down  hours  to  moments.    Here  the 

heart  .     85 

May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head, 
And  learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 
Knowledge  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  one, 

*  Supposed  to  refer  to  the  church  at  Emberton,  about  a 
mile  from  Olney. 


438 


DRYDEN   TO   THE   DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


Have    oftimes    no    connection.      Knowledge 

dwells 
In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men,   90 
Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 
Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass, 
The  mere  materials  with  which  wisdom  builds, 
Till  smoothed  and  squared  and  fitted  to  its 

place. 
Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  to  enrich.   95 
Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learned  so 

much; 
Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more.  .  .  . 
I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends         560 
(Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine 

sense, 
Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 
That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path ;      565 
But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarned, 
Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  hve. 
The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight. 
And  charged  perhaps  with  venom,   that  in- 
trudes, 
A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes  570 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  the  alcove, 
The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die: 
A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 
Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 
And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air,     575 
Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field: 
There  they  are  privileged:  and  he  that  hunts 
Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wrong. 
Disturbs  the  economy  of  nature's  realm, 
Who,   when   she  formed,   designed   them   an 

abode.  580 

The  sum  is  this:  if  man's  convenience,  health, 
Or  safety  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 
Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 
Else  they  are  all — the  meanest  things  that  are — 
As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life,  585 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first. 
Who  in  His  sovereign  wisdom  made  them  all. 
Ye  therefore  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 
To  love  it  too.    The  spring-time  of  our  years 
Is  soon  dishonoured  and  defiled  in  most  590 

By  budding  ills,  that  ask  a  prudent  hand 
To  check  them.    But,  alas!  none  sooner  shoots. 
If  unrestrained,  into  luxuriant  growth. 
Than  cruelty,  most  devilish  of  them  all. 
Mercy  to  him  that  shows  it,  is  the  rule  595 

And  righteous  hmitation  of  its  act. 
By  which  Heaven  moves  in  pardoning  guilty 

man. 
And  he  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years. 
And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits. 
Shall  seek  it  and  not  find  it  in  his  turn.  600 

Distinguished  much  by  reason,  and  still  more 
By  our  capacity  of  grace  divine, 
From  creatures  that  exist  but  for  our  sake. 
Which,  having  served  us,  perish,  we  are  held 
Accountable,  and  God,  some  future  day,        605 
Will  reckon  with  us  roundly  for  the  abuse 
Of  what  He  deems  no  mean  or  trivial  trust. 
Superior  as  we  are,  they  yet  depend 
Not  more  on  human  help  than  we  on  theirs. 


Their  strength,  or  speed,  or  vigilance,  were 
given  610 

In  aid  of  our  defects.    In  some  are  found 
Such  teachable  and  apprehensive  parts, 
That  man's  attainments  in  his  own  concerns, 
Matched  with  the  expertness  of  the  brutes  in 

theirs, 
Are  oftimes  vanquished  and  thrown  far  be- 
hind. ...  615 


THE  BASTILLEi 

(Book  V.   The  Winter  Morning  Walk) 

Then  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobrious 
more 
To  France  than  all  her  losses  and  defeats. 
Old  or  of  later  date,  by  sea  or  land. 
Her  house  of  bondage,  worse  than  that  of  old 
Which  God  avenged  on  Pharoah — the  Bastille.^ 
Ye  horrid  towers,  the  abode  of  broken  hearts,  81 
Ye  dungeons,  and  ye  cages  of  despair. 
That  monarchs  have  supplied  from  age  to  age 
With  music  such  as  suits  their  sovereign  ears, 
The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men !  85 

There's  not  an  English  heart  that  would  not 

leap 
To  hear  that  ye  were  fallen  at  last;  to  know 
That  even  our  enemies,  so  oft  employed 
In  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were  free. 
For  he  who  values  liberty  confines  90 

His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 
No  narrow  bounds;  her  cause  engages  him 
Wherever  pleaded.    'Tis  the  cause  of  man. 
There  dwell  the  most  forlorn  of  human  kind. 
Immured  though  unaccused,  condemned  un- 
tried, 95 
Cruelly  spared,  and  hopeless  of  escape. 
There,  like  the  visionary  emblem  seen 
By  him  of  Baby  Ion,  ^  fife  stands  a  stump. 
And  filleted  about  with  hoops  of  brass. 
Still  lives,  though  all  his  pleasant  boughs  are 
gone,                                                         100 
To  count  the  hour-bell,  and  expect  no  change; 
And  ever  as  the  sullen  sound  is  heard, 
Still  to  reflect,  that  though  a  joyless  note 
To  him  whose  moments  all  have  one  dull  pace, 
Ten  thousand  rovers  in  the  world  at  large       1 05 
Account  it  music;  that  it  summons  some 
To  theatre  or  jocund  feast  or  ball; 
The  wearied  hireling  finds  it  a  release 
From  labour;  and  the  lover,  who  has  chid 
Its  long  delay,  feels  every  welcome  stroke       no 
Upon   his   heart-strings,    trembling   with   de- 
light:— 
To  fly  for  refuge  from  distracting  thought 
To  such  amusements  as  ingenious  woe 
Contrives,    hard    shifting    and    without    her 

tools: — 
To  read  engraven  on  the  mouldy  walls,  1 15 

In  staggering  types,  his  predecessor's  tale, 
A  sad  memorial,  and  subjoin  his  own : — 

1  The  Bastille,  the  famous  state  prison  in  Paris,  fell 
before  the  fury  of  the  mob  at  the  beginning  of  the  French 
Revolution,  1789. 

2  Nebuchadnezzar,  v.  Dan.  iv.,  13-17. 


WILLIAM   COWPER 


439 


To  turn  purveyor  to  an  overgorged 
And  bloated  spider,  till  the  pampered  pest 
Is  made  familiar,  watches  his  approach,  120 

Comes  at  his  call,  and  serves  him  for  a  friend: — 
To  wear  out  time  in  numbering  to  and  fro 
The  studs  that  thick  emboss  his  iron  door, 
Then  downward  and  then  upward,  then  aslant, 
And  then  alternate,  with  a  sickly  hope  125 

By  dint  of  change  to  give  his  tasteless  task 
Som(^  relish,  till  the  sum  exactly  found 
In  all  directions,  he  begins  again: — 
Oh  comfortless  existence!  hemmed  around 
With  woes,  which  who  that  suffers  would  not 
kneel  130 

And  beg  for  exile,  or  the  pangs  of  death? 
That  man  should  thus  encroach  on  fellow  man, 
Abridge  him  of  his  just  and  native  rights, 
Eradicate  him,  tear  him  from  his  hold 
Upon  the  endearments  of  domestic  life  135 

And  social,  nip  his  fruitfulness  and  use. 
And  doom  him  for  perhaps  a  heedless  word 
To  barrenness,  and  solitude,  and  tears, 
Moves  indignation,  makes  the  name  of  king 
(Of  king  whom  such  prerogative  can  please)   140 
As  dreadful  as  the  Manichean  god,' 
Adored  through  fear,  strong  only  to  destroy. 

'Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flower 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume, 
And  we  are  weeds  without  it.  145 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER'S 
PICTURE  OUT  OF  NORFOLK 

THE  GIFT  OF  MY  COUSIN,  ANN  BODHAM 
(C.  1790) 

O  That  those  lips  had  language!     Life  has 


With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say,        5 
"Grieve  not,  my  child,   chase  all  thy  fears 

away!" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blessed    be    the    art   that    can    immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same.  10 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here! 
Who  bidst  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long,^ 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone,  15 
But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 

And,  while  that  face  renews  my  fihal  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  revery, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she.  20 

My  mother!  when  I  learnt  that  thou  wast 
dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 

3  Manichaeism,  a  religious  sect  that  arose  in  Western 
Asia  in  the  third  century,  believing  that  the  body  must 
be  subdued,  taught  and  rigidly  enforced  the  most  extreme 
asceticism. 

1  Cowper  was  six  years  old  when  his  mother  died. 


Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son. 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss: 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss —       26 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile!  it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew  30 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu! 
But  was  it  such?    It  was. — Where  thou  art 

gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more!  35 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  con- 
cern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled,  40 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learnt  at  last  submission  to  my  lot; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot.  45 
Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no 
more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day. 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped,     51 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession!     But  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps,  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outhves  many  a  storm  that  has  effaced     56 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly 

laid; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home,        60 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and 

glowed; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall,    65 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes; 
All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay  7o 

Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere. 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed 
here. 
Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the 
hours. 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flow- 
ers, ''^ 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and 
smile). 


440 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear,  80 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them 

here? 
I  would  not  trust  ray  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much,  85 

That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The   storms   all   weathered   and   the   ocean 

crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven 'd  isle,       90 
Where  spices  breathe,   and  brighter  seasons 

smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay ;  95 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift!  hast  reached  the 

shore, 
"Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar," 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  hfe  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest,       100 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed — 
Me   howling   blasts   drive   devious,   tempest- 
tossed, 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass 

lost. 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet,  Oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and 

he!  ^  106 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise —    110 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies! 
And  now,  farewell — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again; 
To  have  renewed   the  joys  that  once  were 

mine,  116 

Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine: 
And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free. 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft —      120 
Thy  self  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me 

left. 


ON     THE     LOSS     OF     THE     "ROYAL 
GEORGE"! 

WRITTEN   WHEN   THE    NEWS   ARRIVED,    SEPTEM- 
BER, 1782,  TO  THE  MARCH  IN  "SCIPIO" 

Toll  for  the  brave! 
The  brave  that  are  no  more! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 
Fast  by  their  native  shore! 

» The  Royal  CJeorge  was  lost  off  Spithcad,  Aug.  29, 
1792.  The  ship  had  been  heeled  over  for  repairs.  While 
the  crew  were  at  dinner,  she  was  struck  by  a  .sudden 
squall,  and,  the  leeward  deck  ports  being  left  open,  she 
rapidly  filled  and  sank. 


Eight  hundred  of  the  brave,  f 

Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel. 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset;  lo 

Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 

His  last  sea-fight  is  fought;  is 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 

She  sprang  no  fatal  leak; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock.  20 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath; 
His  fingers  held  the  pen. 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 
With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up,  23 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound. 
And  she  may  float  again  30 

Full-charged  with  England's  thunder, 
And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone. 

His  victories  are  o'er; 

And  he  and  his  eight  hundred  35 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


THE  CAST-AWAY 

(March  20,  1799) 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky, 
The  Atlantic  billows  roared. 
When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 
Washed  headlong  from  on  board, 
Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 
His  floating  home  forever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 
Than  he  with  whom  he  went. 
Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast 
With  warmer  wishes  sent. 
He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 
Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay; 

Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline. 

Or  courage  die  away; 

But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife. 

Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted:  nor  his  friends  had  failed 

To  check  the  vessel's  course. 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevailed, 

That,  pitiless  perforce. 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 


10 


15 


20 


JAMES  BEATTIE 


441 


Some  succor  yet  they  could  afford ;  25 

And  such  as  storms  allow, 

The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 

Delayed  not  to  bestow. 

But  he  (they  knew)  nor  ship  nor  shore, 

What  e'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more.    30 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seemed,  could  he 

Their  haste  himself  condemn. 

Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 

Alone  could  rescue  them ; 

Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die  35 

Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self-upheld: 

And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repelled;  40 

And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew, 

Entreated  help,  or  cried — "Adieu!" 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past. 

His  comrades,  who  before 

Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast,  45 

Could  catch  the  sound  no  more: 

For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 

The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

No  poet  wept  him ;  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere,  50 

That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear:^ 

And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 

Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream,  63 

Descanting  on  his  fate. 

To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date: 

But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 

Its  semblance  in  another's  case.  60 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allayed, 

No  light  propitious  shone. 

When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perished,  each  alone: 

But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea,  65 

And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 


William  3\n\in&  ^itfele 

1735-1788 

THERE'S  NAE  LUCK  ABOUT  THE 
HOUSE! 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark? 

Mak    haste,  lay  by  your  wheel; 
Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  thread,  5 

When  Colin's  at  the  door? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I'll  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

There's  nae  luck  at  a';  10 

»  The  Castaway  is  founded  on  an  incident  related  in 
Anson's  narrative  of  his  Voyage  Round  the  World. 

1  Often  called  The  Mariner's  Wife.    Thia  poem,  a  copy 


There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 
W^hen  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet,^ 

My  bishop's  satin  gown; 
For  i  maun  tell  the  baillie's  wife  15 

That  Colin's  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey^^  slippers  maun  gae  on, 

My  stockings  pearly  blue; 
It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman. 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true.  20 

Rise,  lass,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside. 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown. 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat; 
And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes,*     25 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw; 
It's  a'  to  pleasure  my  gudeman. 

For  he's  been  lang  awa'. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop. 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair;  30 

Mak  haste  and  thraw^  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare; 
And  mak  our  table  neat  and  clean. 

Let  everything  look  braw. 
For  wha  tell  how  CoHn  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa'?  35 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again?  40 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought. 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet  !^ 

Since  Cohn's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave;  45 

And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae, 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought,         50 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman's  awa'.  55 

blames:  llBeattie 

1735-1803 

THE  MINSTREL   (1771-1774) 

(Selections) 

Book  I 

Ah !  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 

The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines 

afar; 
Ah !  Who  can  tell  how  many  a  soul  sublime 
Has  felt  the  influence  of  malignant  star, 

of  which  was  found  among  Mickle's  manuscripts  has  been 
frequently  attributed  to  Jane  Adam,  a  Scotch  school- 
mistress, and  minor  poet.  *  A  cap,  or  head-dress. 

3  Turkish.  *  Sloes, — the  fruit  of  the  blackthorn. 

*  Wring.  •  Weep. 


442 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


And  waged  with  Fortune  an  eternal  war;  5 

Check'd   by  the  scofif  of   Pride,   by  Envy's 

frown, 
And  Poverty's  unconquerable  bar. 
In  life's  low  vale  remote  has  pined  alone, 
Then  dropt  into  the  grave,  unpitied  and  un- 
known! 

And  yet  the  languor  of  inglorious  days,  l  o 

Not  equally  oppressive  is  to  all; 

Him,  who  ne'er  listen 'd  to  the  voice  of  praise, 

The  silence  of  neglect  can  ne'er  appal. 

There  are,  who,  deaf  to  mad  Ambition's  call, 

Would  shrink  to  hear  th'  obstreperous  trump  of 

Fame;  15 

Supremely  blest,  if  to  their  portion  fall 
Health,  competence,  and  peace.     Nor  higher 

aim 
Had  he,  whose  simple  tale  these  artless  lines 

proclaim. 

The  rolls  of  fame  I  will  not  now  explore; 
Nor  need  I  here  describe  in  learned  lay,  20 

How  forth  the  Minstrel  far'd  in  days  of  yore. 
Right  glad  of  heart,  though  homely  in  array; 
His  waving  locks  and  beard  all  hoary  grey: 
While  from  his  bending  shoulder,  decent  hung 
His  harp,  the  sole  companion  of  his  way,  25 

Which  to  the  whisthng  wind  responsive  rung: 
And  ever  as  he  went  some  merry  lay  he  sung. 

Fret  not  thyself,  thou  glittering  child  of  pride. 
That  a  poor  villager  inspires  my  strain; 
With  thee  let  Pageantry  and  Power  abide :       30 
The  gentle  Muses  haunt  the  sylvan  reign; 
Where  through  wild  groves  at  eve  the  lonely 

swain 
Enraptur'd  roves,  to  gaze  on  Nature's  charms. 
They  hate  the  sensual  and  scorn  the  vain. 
The  parasite  their  influence  never  warms,        35 
Nor  him  whose  sordid  soul  the  love  of  gold 

alarms.  .  .  . 

There  hved  in  Gothic  days  as  legends  tell,        9 1 
A  shepherd-swain,  a  man  of  low  degree; 
Whose  sires,  perchance,  in  Fairy-land  might 

dwell, 
Sicilian  groves,  or  vales  of  Arcady ; 
But  he,  I  ween,  was  of  the  north  countrie ;^       95 
A  nation  fam'd  for  song,  and  beauty's  charms; 
Zealous,  yet  modest,  innocent,  though  free; 
Patient  of  toil;  serene  amidst  alarms; 
Inflexible  in  faith;  invincible  in  arms. 

The  shepherd-swain  of  whom  I  mention  made, 
On  Scotia's  mountains  fed  his  little  flock ;       1 01 
The  sickle,  scythe,  or  plow,  he  never  sway'd; 
An  honest  heart  was  almost  all  his  stock; 
His  drink  the  living  water  from  the  rock; 
The  milky  dams  supplied  his  board,  and  lent 
Their  kindly  fleece  to  baffle  win ter's  shock ;     1 06 
And  he,  though  oft  with  dust  and  sweat  be- 
sprent, ^ 
Did  guide  and  guard  their  wanderings,  where- 
soe'er  they  went. 
*  Scotland.  *  Besprinkled. 


From  labor  health,  from  health  contentment 

springs; 
Contentment  opes  the  source  of  every  joy.      110 
He  envied  not,  he  never  thought  of  kings; 
Nor  from  those  appetites  sustain 'd  annoy. 
That  chance  may  frustrate,  or  indulgence  cloy : 
Nor   Fate   his   calm   and   humble   hopes   be- 
guiled; 114 
He  mourn 'd  no  recreant  friend,  nor  mistress  coy, 
For  on  his  vows  the  blameless  Phoebe  smil'd, 
And  her  alone  he  lov'd,  and  lov'd  her  from  a 
child. 

No  jealousy  their  dawn  of  love  o'ercast, 

Nor   blasted   were   their   wedded   days   with 

strife; 
Each  season  look'd  delightful  as  it  past,  120 

To  the  fond  husband  and  the  faithful  wife. 
Beyond  the  lowly  vale  of  shepherd-life 
They  never  roam'd;  secure  beneath  the  storm 
Which  in  Ambition's  lofty  hand  is  rife, 
Where  peace  and  love  are  canker'd  by  the 

worm  125 

Of  pride,  each  bud  of  joy  industrious  to  deform. 

The  wight  whose  tale  these  artless  lines  un- 
fold. 

Was  all  the  offspring  of  this  humble  pair: 

His  birth  no  oracle  or  seer  foretold : 

No  prodigy  appear'd  in  earth  or  air,  130 

Nor  aught  that  might  a  strange  event  declare. 

You  guess  each  circumstance  of  Edwin's  birth; 

The  parent's  transport,  and  the  parent's  care; 

The  gossip's^  prayer  for  wealth,  and  wit  and 
worth; 

And  one  long  summer-day  of  indolence  and 
mirth.  135 

And  yet  poor  Edwin  was  no  vulgar  boy. 

Deep  thought  oft  seem'd  to  fix  his  infant  eye, 

Dainties  he  heeded  not,  nor  gaud,^  nor  toy. 

Save  one  short  pipe  of  rudest  minstrelsy; 

Silent  when  glad ;  affectionate  though  shy;      140 

And  now  his  look  was  most  demurely  sad; 

And  now  he  laugh'd  aloud,  yet  none  knew 

why. 
The  neighbors  star'd,  and  sigh'd,  yet  bless'd 

the  lad: 
Some  deem'd  him  wondrous  wise,  and  some 

believ'd  him  mad.  ...  144 

Lo!  where  the  stripling  wrapt  in  wonder,  roves 
Beneath  the  precipice  o'erhung  with  pine;       164 
And  sees,  on  high,  amidst  th'  encircling  groves. 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  foaming  torrents  shine: 
While  waters,  woods   and  winds,  in   concert 

join, 
And  Echo  swells  the  chorus  to  the  skies. 
Would  Edwin  this  majestic  scene  resign  169 

For  aught  the  huntsman's  puny  craft  supplies? 
Ah!  no:  he  better  knows  great  Nature's  charms 

to  prize. 

'  Originally,  one  who  stood  sponsor  for  a  child  at 
baptism;  a  godfather,  or  godmother.  {Gotaip  mean? 
literally  God-relative) . 

*  Glittering  trinket,  or  possibly  jest,  sport. 


JAMES  BEATTIE 


443 


And  oft  he  traced  the  uplands,  to  survey, 
When  o'er  the  sky  advanc'd  the  kindling  dawn, 
The  crimson  cloud,  blue  main,  and  mountain 

grey, 
And  lake,  dim-gleaming  on  the  smoky  lawn :  175 
Far  to  the  west,  the  long,  long  vale  withdrawn, 
Where  twihght  loves  to  linger  for  awhile; 
And  now  he  faintly  kens  the  bounding  fawn, 
And  villager  abroad  at  early  toil. 
But  lo!  the  Sun  appears!  and  heaven,  earth, 

ocean,  smile.  180 

And  oft  the  craggy  cliff  he  lov'd  to  climb. 
When  all  in  mist  the  world  below  was  lost. 
What  dreadful  pleasure!  there  to  stand  sub- 

hme. 
Like  shipwreck'd  mariner  on  desert  coast, 
And  view  th'  enormous  waste  of  vapor,  tost  185 
In  billows,  length' ning  to  th'  horizon  round, 
Now  scoop'd  in  gulfs,   with  mountains  now 

emboss'd! 
And  hear  the  voice  of  mirth  and  song  rebound. 
Flocks,  herds,  and  waterfalls,  along  the  hoar 

profound!  ...  189 

When  the  long-sounding  curfew  from  afar      280 
Loaded  with  loud  lament  the  lonely  gale, 
Young  Edwin,  lighted  by  the  evening  star, 
Lingering  and  listening,  wander'd  down  the 

vale. 
There  would  he  dream  of  graves,  and  corses 

pale;  284 

And  ghosts  that  to  the  charnel-dungeon  throng. 
And  drag  a  length  of  clanking  chain,  and  wail. 
Till  silenc'd  by  the  owl's  terrific  song. 
Or  blast  that  shrieks  by  fits  the  shuddering 

isles  along. 

Or,  when  the  setting  Moon,  in  crimson  dyed, 
Hung  o'er  the  dark  and  melancholy  deep,       290 
To  haunted  stream,  remote  from  man,  he  hied, 
Where  fays  of  yore  their  revels  wont  to  keep; 
And  there  let  Fancy  rove  at  large,  till  sleep 
A  vision  brought  to  his  entranced  sight.  294 

And  first  a  wildly-murmuring  wind  'gan  creep 
Shrill  to  his  ringing  ear;  then  tapers  bright. 
With  instantaneous  gleam,  illum'd  the  vault  of 
night. 

Anon  in  view  a  portal's  blazon 'd  arch 
Arose;  the  trumpet  bids  the  valves  unfold :  299 
And  forth  an  host  of  little  warriors  march, 
Grasping  the  diamond  lance,  and  targe  of  gold. 
Their  look  was  gentle,  their  demeanor  bold,  302 
And  green  their  helms,  and  green  their  silk 

attire; 
And  here  and  there,  right  venerably  old. 
The  long-rob'd  minstrels  wake  the  warblmg 

wire,  305 

And  some  with  mellow  breath  the  martial  pipe 

inspire.  .  .  . 

But  who  the  melodies  of  mom  can  tell?  334 

The  wild  brook  babbHng  down  the  mountain- 
side; 
The  lowing  herd;  the  sheepf old's  simple  bell; 


The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley;  echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide;  340 

The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love, 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal 
grove. 

The  cottage  curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark; 
Crown'd  with  her  pail,  the  tripping  milk-maid 

sings; 
The   whistUng   plowman   stalks   afield;   and, 

hark!  345 

Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon 

rings; 
Through   rustling   corn   the   hare   astonish'd 

springs; 
Slow  tolls  the  village  clock  the  drowsy  hour; 
The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings; 
Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequester'd  bower, 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial 

tour.  351 

O  Nature  now  in  every  charm  supreme! 
Whose  votaries  feast  on  raptures  ever  new! 
O  for  the  voice  and  fire  of  seraphim, 
To  sing  thy  glories  with  devotion  due!  355 

Blest  be  the  day  I  'scaped  the  wrangling  crew. 
From  Pyrro's  maze,^  and  Epicurus^  sty; 
And  held  high  converse  with  the  godlike  few, 
Who  to  th'  enraptur'd  heart,  and  ear,  and  eye. 
Teach  beauty,   virtue,   truth,  and  love,  and 
melody.  360 

Hence!  ye  who  snare  and  stupefy  the  mind. 
Sophists,  of  beauty,  virtue,  joy,  the  bane! 
Greedy  and  fell,  though  impotent  and  blind. 
Who  spread  your  filthy  nets  in  Truth's  fair 

fane,  365 

And  ever  ply  your  venom'd  fangs  amain ! 
Hence  to  dark  Error's  den,  whose     rankling 

slime 
First  gave  you  form!  Hence!  lest  the  Muse 

should  deign, 
(Though  loth  on  theme  so  mean  to  waste  a 

rhyme),  .      .^70 

With  vengeance  to  pursue  your  sacrilegious 

crime. 

But  hail,  ye  mighty  masters  of  the  lay, 
Nature's  true  sons,  the  friends  of  man,  and 

truth! 
Whose  song,  sublimely  sweet,  serenely  gay, 
Amus'd  my  childhood.,  and  inform'd  my  youth. 
O  let  your  spirit  still  my  bosom  soothe,  376 

Inspire  my  dreams,  and  my  wild  wanderings 

guide! 
Your  voice  each  rugged  path  of  life  can  smooth: 
For  well  I  know,  wherever  ye  reside, 
There   harmony,   and   peace,   and  innocence 

abide.  .  .  . 

5  Pyrrho's  uncertainty,  perplexities,  and  doubts. 
Pyrrho  (c.  360-c.  270  B.  C),  was  a  Greek  philosopher,  who 
taught  that  we  had  no  certain  knowledge  of  the  nature  of 

6°A^Greek  philosopher  (342-270  B.  C),  founder  of  the 
Epicurean  School.  He  was  popularly  supposed  to  have 
taught  that  pleasure  and  self-mdulgence  were  the  chief 
objects  of  man's  existence.  (Cf.  the  various  meanings  of 
Epicure) . 


444 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


THE  HERMIT 

(Written  c.  1766) 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 
When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the 

hill, 
And  nought  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  the 

grove: 
'Twas  thus  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar,  5 
While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  hermit 

began; 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war, 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as  a  man. 

*'Ah!  why,  all  abandon'd  to  darkness  and  woe, 
Why,  lone  Philomela,^  that  languishing  fall?  10 
For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow, 
And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  enthral. 
But,  if  pity  inspire  you,  renew  the  sad  lay, 
Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to 
mourn; 

0  soothe  him,  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass 

away:  15 

Full  quickly  they  pass — but  they  never  return. 

"Now  gliding  remote,  on  the  verge  of  the  sky. 
The  Moon  half  extinguished  her  crescent  dis- 
plays: 
But  lately  I  mark'd,  when  majestic  on  high 
She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her 
blaze.  20 

Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
The  path   that   conducts  thee   to  splendour 

again: 
But  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew! 
Ah,  fool!  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain! 

"  'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more: 

1  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for 

you;  ^  26 

For  morn  is  approaching,  your  charms  to  re- 
store, 
Perfum'd  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glittering 

with  dew : 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn ; 
Kind  Nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save:     30 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering 

urn! 
O  when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the 
grave!" 

"'Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science^ 

betray'd. 
That  leads,  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles,  to  blind. 
My  thoughts  wont  to  roam,  from  shade  onward 

to  shade,  35 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 
"O  Pity,  great  Father  of  light,"  then  I  cried, 
"Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander 

from  thee; 
Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride: 
From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst 

free."  40 

*  Or  Philomel,  the  nightingale. 
'  Knowledge,  learning. 


"And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away; 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint,  and  astray. 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 

See  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy,  in  triumph  de- 
scending, 45 

And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  Death  smiles  and  roses  are 
blending. 

And  Beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb. " 


1738-1796 

CARTHON:  A  POEM 

(Selections  from  translation  of  Ossian,^  ed.  of 
1773) 

Tell,  said  the  mighty  Fingal,  the  tale  of  thy 
youthful  days.  Sorrow,  like  a  cloud  on  the 
sun,  shades  the  soul  of  Clessdmmor.  Mournful 
are  thy  thoughts,  alone,  on  the  banks  of  the 
5  roaring  Lora.  Let  us  hear  the  sorrow  of  thy 
youth,  and  the  darkness  of  thy  days! 

"It  was  in  the  days  of  peace,"  rephed  the 
great  Cless4mmor,  "I  came  in  my  bounding 
ship,  to  Balclutha's  walls  of  towers.  The 
10  winds  had  roared  behind  my  sails,  and  Clutha's 
streams  received  my  dark-bosomed  ship. 
Three  days  I  remained  in  Reuthamir's  halls, 
and  saw  his  daughter,   that  beam  of  light. 

1  In  ancient  Gaelic  tradition,  Ossian  (or  Oison)  was 
famous  as  a  bard  and  warrior.  He  was  the  son  of  Finn, 
or  Fin  (the  Fingal  of  Macpherson's  poem),  and  he  lived  in 
the  latter  half  of  the  third  century.  In  1762,  James 
Macpherson,  a  young  Scotch  schoolmaster,  published 
Fingal,  an  Ancient  Epic  Poem  in  Six  Books,  with  other 
lesser  poems.  Ancient  Gjeiic  legends  had  been  preserved 
in  remote  parts  of  Scotland  as  well  as  in  Ireland,  and 
Macpherson  asserted  that  his  book  was  a  translation  of 
certain  poems  of  Osaian,  out  of  the  original  Gaelic.  This 
claim  was  contested  by  Dr.  Johnson,  and,  although  the 
matter  has  been  fully  discussed  and  investigated,  the 
authenticity  of  Macpherson's  so-called  "translation,"  has 
never  been  fully  established.  But,  whatever  its  origin, 
Macpherson's  Ossian,  was  a  widely  read  and  highly  in- 
fluential book,  and  with  all  its  faults  it  holds  an  important 
place  in  the  rise  of  romanticism  in  the   18th  century. 

Carthon,  one  of  the  short  poems  of  Macpherson's 
collection,  is  supposed  to  be  "a  tale  of  the  times  of  old," 
related  by  Ossian  to  Malvina,  the  betrothed  of  his 
dead  son,  and  the  companion  and  comfort  of  his  age. 
The  following  story,  partly  told,  and  partly  implied,  forms 
the  basis  of  the  poem.  When  a  young  man,  Clessdmmor, 
the  uncle  of  Fingal,  came  to  Balclutha,  a  British  town 
on  the  river  Clulha,  or  Clyde.  There  he  married  Moina, 
the  daughter  of  Reuthamir,  the  chief  man  of  the  town, 
but,  having  killed  a  rival  in  a  quarrel  ("the  son  of  a 
stranger"),  Clessammor  was  forced  to  leave  Moina  and 
fly  for  his  life.  Carthon,  the  son  of  Clessammor  and 
Moina,  was  born  after  his  father's  flight  and  grew  up 
ignorant  of  his  parentage.  While  Carthon  was  a  child, 
Comhal,  Fingal's  father  and  the  brother-in-law  of  Cles- 
sammor, attacks  and  burns  Balclutha,  and  when  Carthon 
comes  to  manhood,  he  resolves  to  take  vengeance  for  this 
act  of  destruction  on  Comhal's  family.  Carthon  is  thus 
unwittingly  involved  in  a  feud  with  his  own  kindred,  and 
in  an  expedition  of  vengeance,  he  meets  Clessammor  in 
single  combat.  Both  combatants  are  ignorant  of  the 
relationship  between  them,  and  Carthon  dies  by  his 
father's  hand.  The  poem  opens  on  the  night  before  the 
young  hero's  death. 


JAMES   MACPHERSON  445 

The  joy  of  the  shell  went  round,  and  the  thy  half-worn  shield.  And  let  the  blast  of  the 
aged  hero  gave  the  fair.  .  .  .  My  love  for  desert  come!  we  shall  be  renowned  in  our  day! 
Moina  was  great:  my  heart  poured  forth  in  The  mark  of  my  arm  shall  be  in  battle;  my 
joy.  V  name  in  the  song  of  bards.     Raise  the  song; 

"The  son  of  a  stranger  came;  a  chief  who  5 send  round  the  shell:  let  joy  be  heard  in  my 
loved  the  white-bosomed  Moina.  His  words  hall.  When  thou,  sun  of  heaven,  shalt  fail!  if 
were  mighty  in  the  hall;  he  often  half-un-  thou  shalt  fail,  thou  mighty  light!  if  thy  bright- 
sheathed  his  sword.  Where,  said  he,  is  the  ness  is  for  a  season,  like  Fingal;  our  fame  shall 
mighty  Comhal,  the  restless  wanderer  of  the      survive  thy  beams! 

heath?  Comes  he,  with  his  host,  to  Balclutha,  10  Such  was  the  song  of  Fingal,  in  the  day  of 
since  Clessdmmor  is  so  bold?  My  soul,  I  re-  his  joy.  His  thousand  bards  leaned  forward 
plied,  O  warrior!  burns  in  a  light  of  its  own.  I  from  their  seats,  to  hear  the  voice  of  the  king, 
stand  without  fear  in  the  midst  of  thousands,  It  was  like  the  music  of  harps  on  the  gale  of 
though  the  valiant  are  distant  far.  Stranger!  the  spring.  Lovely  were  thy  thoughts,  O 
thy  words  are  mighty,  for  Clessamor  is  alone.  15  Fingal!  why  had  not  Ossian  the  strength  of 
But  my  sword  trembles  by  my  side,  and  longs  thy  soul?  But  thou  stand  est  alone,  my  father! 
to  glitter  in  my  hand.  Speak  no  more  of  who  can  equal  the  king  of  Selma?  .  .  . 
Comhal,  son  of  the  winding  Clutha.  Joy  rose  in  Carthon's  face;  he  lifted  his  heavy 

"The  strength  of  his  pride  arose.  We  eyes.  He  gave  his  sword  to  Fingal,  to  lie 
fought;  he  fell  beneath  my  sword.  The  banks  20  within  his  hall,  that  the  memory  of  Balclutha's 
of  Clutha  heard  his  fall;  a  thousand  spears  king  might  remain  in  Morven.  The  battle 
glittered  around,  I  fought;  the  strangers  ceased  along  the  field,  the  bard  had  sung  the 
prevailed:  I  plunged  into  the  stream  of  Clutha;  song  of  peace.  The  chiefs  gathered  round  the 
my  white  sails  rose  over  the  waves,  and  falling  Carthon;  they  heard  his  words  with 
bounded  on  the  dark-blue  sea.  Moina  came  25  sighs.  Silent  they  leaned  on  their  spears, 
to  the  shore,  and  rolled  the  red  eye  of  her  while  Balclutha's  hero  spoke.  His  hair  sighed 
tears:  her  loose  hair  flew  on  the  wind;  and  I  in  the  wind,  and  his  voice  was  sad  and  low. 
heard  her  mournful,  distant  cries.     Often  did  "King  of  Morven,"  Carthon  said,  "I  fall  in 

I  turn  my  ship;  but  the  winds  of  the  East  pre-  the  midst  of  my  course.  A  foreign  tomb  re- 
vailed.  Nor  Clutha  ever  since  have  I  seen,  30  ceives,  in  youth,  the  last  of  Reuthdmir's  race, 
nor  Moina  of  the  dark-brown  hair.  She  fell  Darkness  dwells  in  Balclutha:  the  shadows  of 
in  Balclutha,  for  I  have  seen  her  ghost.  I  grief  in  Crathmo.  But  raise  my  remembrance 
knew  her  as  she  came  through  the  dusky  night,  on  the  banks  of  Lora,  where  my  fathers  dwelt, 
along  the  murmur  of  Lora;  she  was  like  the  Perhaps  the  husband  of  Moina  will  mourn  over 
new  moon,  seen  through  the  gathered  mist:  35  his  fallen  Carthon."  His  words  reached  the 
when  the  sky  pours  down  its  flaky  snow,  and  heart  of  Clessdmmor:  he  fell,  in  silence  on  his 
the  world  is  silent  and  dark."  son.     The  host  stood  darkened  around;  no 

Raise,  ye  bards,  said  the  mighty  Fingal,  voice  is  on  the  plain.  Night  came,  the  moon, 
the  praise  of  unhappy  Moina.  Call  her  ghost,  from  the  east,  looked  on  the  mournful  field; 
with  your  songs,  to  our  hills;  that  she  may  40  but  still  they  stood,  like  a  silent  grove  that 
rest  with  the  fair  of  Morven,  the  sunbeams  of  lifts  its  head  on  Gormal,  when  the  loud  winds 
other  days,  the  delight  of  heroes  of  old.  I  are  laid,  and  dark  autumn  is  on  the  plain, 
have  seen  the  walls  of  Balclutha,  but  they  Three  days  they  mourned  above  Carthon; 

were  desolate.  The  fire  had  resounded  in  the  on  the  fourth  his  father  died.  In  the  narrow 
halls:  and  the  voice  of  the  people  is  heard  no  45  plain  of  the  rock  they  lie;  a  dim  ghost  defends 
more.  The  stream  of  Clutha  was  removed  their  tomb.  There  lovely  Moina  is  often  seen; 
from  its  place,  by  the  fall  of  the  walls.  The  when  the  sunbeam  darts  on  the  rock,  and  all 
thistle  shook,  there,  its  lonely  head:  the  moss  around  is  dark.  There  she  is  seen,  Malvina! 
whistled  to  the  wind.  The  fox  looked  out  from  but  not  like  the  daughters  of  the  hill.  Her  robes 
the  windows,  the  rank  grass  of  the  wall  waved  50  are  from  the  stranger's  land;  and  she  is  still 
round  its  head.     Desolate  is  the  dwelling  of      alone! 

Moina,  silence  is  in  the  house  of  her  fathers.  Fingal  was  sad  for  Carthon;  he  commanded 
Raise  the  song  of  mourning,  O  bards!  over  the  his  bards  to  mark  the  day;^  when  shadowy 
land  of  strangers.  They  have  but  fallen  before  autumn  returned ;  and  often  did  they  mark  the 
us:  for  one  day  we  must  fall.  Why  dost  thou  55  day,  and  sing  the  hero's  praise.  "Who  comes  so 
build  the  hall,  son  of  the  winged  days?  dark  from  ocean's  roar,  like  autumn's  shadowy 
Thou  lookest  from  thy  towers  today;  yet  a  cloud?  Death  is  trembling  in  his  hand!  his 
few  years,  and  the  blast  of  the  desert  comes;  it  eyes  are  flames  of  fire!  Who  roars  along 
howls  in  thy  empty  court,  and  whistles  round      dark  Lora's  heath?    Who  but  Carthon,  king  of 


446 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


swords!  The  people  fall!  see!  how  he  strides, 
like  the  sullen  ghost  of  Morven!  But  there  he 
lies,  a  goodly  oak,  which  sudden  blasts  over- 
turned! When  shalt  thou  rise,  Balclutha's  joy? 
When,  Carthon,shalt  thou  arise?  Who  comes  so  5 
dark  from  ocean's  roar,  like  autumn's  shadowy 
cloud?"  Such  were  the  words  of  the  bards, 
in  the  day  of  their  mourning:  Ossian  often 
joined  their  voice;  and  added  to  their  song. 
My  soul  has  been  mournful  for  Carthon;  he  10 
fell  in  the  days  of  his  youth:  and  thou,  O 
CIess4mmor!  where  is  thy  dwelling  in  the 
wind?  Has  the  youth  forgot  his  wound? 
Flies  he,  on  clouds,  with  thee?  I  feel  the  sun, 
O  Malvina!  leave  me  to  my  rest.  Perhaps  15 
they  may  come  to  my  dreams;  I  think  I  hear 
a  feeble  voice!  the  beam  of  heaven  delights  to 
shine  on  the  grave  of  Carthon:  I  feel  it  warm 
around! 

O  thou  that  roUest  above,   round  as  the  20 
shield  of  my  fathers!    Whence  are  thy  beams, 
O  sun!  thy  everlasting  light?     Thou  comest 
forth  in  thy  awful  beauty;  the  stars  hide  them- 
selves in  the  sky;  the  moon,  cold  and  pale, 
sinks  in  the  western  wave.     But  thou  thyseK  25 
mo  vest  alone:  who  can  be  a  companion  of  thy 
course!     The  oaks  of  the  mountains  fall:  the 
mountains  themselves  decay  with  years:  the 
ocean   shrinks   and   grows   again;   the   moon 
herself  is  lost  in  heaven;  but  thou  art  forever 30 
the  same;  rejoicing  in  the  brightness  of  thy 
course.    When  the  world  is  dark  with  tempests; 
when  thunder  rolls,  and  lightning  flies;  thou 
lookest  in  thy  beauty,  from  the  clouds,  and 
laughest  at  the  storm.     But  to  Ossian,  thou  35 
lookest  in  vain;  for  he  beholds  thy  beams  no 
more;  whether  thy  yellow  hair  flows  on  the 
eastern  clouds,  or  thou  tremblest  at  the  gates 
of  the  west.     But  thou  art  perhaps,  like  me, 
for  a  season,  thy  years  will  have  an  end.    Thou  40 
shalt  sleep  in  thy  clouds,  careless  of  the  voice 
of  the  morning.     Exult  thee,  O  sun!  in  the 
strength  of  thy  youth!    Age  is  dark  and  un- 
lovely; it  is  like  the  ghmmering  light  of  the 
moon,  when  it  shines  through  broken  clouds,  45 
and  the  mist  is  on  the  hills;  the  blast  of  north 
is  on  the  plain;  the  traveller  shrinks  in  the 
midst  of  his  journey. 

®t)oma0  Cljactmon 

1752-1770 

MINSTREL'S  ROUNDELAY 

(From  Mh,  1770) 

O  sing  unto  my  roundelay, 

O  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me, 

Dance  no  more  at  holy-day, 
Like  a  running  river  be. 


My  love  is  dead,  5 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night 

White  his  skin  as  the  summer  snow, 
Red  his  face  as  the  morning  light,  10 

Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  the  throstle's  note,  15 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  can  be. 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout, 
O  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree! 
My  love  is  dead. 

Gone  to  his  death-bed,  20 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Hark!  the  raven  flaps  his  wing 

In  the  briar'd  dell  below; 
Hark !  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 

To  the  nightmares  as  they  go.  25 

My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

See!  the  white  moon  shines  on  high; 

Whiter  is  my  true  love's  shroud;  30 

Whiter  than  the  morning  sky. 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree.  35 

Here  upon  my  true  love's  grave 

Shall  the  barren  flowers  be. laid: 
Not'  one  holy  Saint  to  save 
All  the  coldness  of  a  maid! 

My  love  is  dead,  40 

Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

With  my  hands  I'll  gird  the  briars 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  grow. 
Elfin  Faery,  hght  your  fires;  45 

Here  my  body  still  shall  bow. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Come,  with  acorn-cup  and  thorn,  50 

Drain  my  hearte's  blood  away; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 
Dance  by  night  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead. 

Gone  to  his  death-bed,  55 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 


THE  BALADE  OF  CHARITIE 

(From  Poems  collected  1777) 
In  Virgine^  the  sultry  Sun  'gan  sheene 

And  hot  upon  the  meads  did  cast  his  ray: 
The  apple  ruddied  from  its  paly  green. 

And  the  soft  pear  did  bend  the  leafy  spray; 

The  pied  chelandry^  sang  the  livelong  day :    5 

1  In  the  Zodiacal  aign  of  Virgo,  i.  e.,  in  September. 

2  Goldfinch.    (Chatterton). 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON 


447 


'Twas  now  the  pride,  the  manhood  of  the  year, 
And  eke  the  ground  was  dight  in  its  most  deft 
aumere.^ 

The  sun  was  gleaming  in  the  mid  of  day. 

Dead  still  the  air  and  eke  the  welkin  blue, 

When  from  the  sea  arist  in  drear  array  10 

A  heap  of  clouds  of  sable  sullen  hue, 
The  which  full  fast  unto  the  woodland  drew, 

Hiding  at  once  the  sunne's  festive  face; 

And  the  black  tempest  swelled  and  gathered  up 
apace. 

Ben eath  an  holm , ^  fast  by  a  pathway  side        15 
Which  did  unto  Saint  Godwyn's  convent  lead, 

A  hapless  pilgrim  moaning  did  abide. 
Poor  in  his  view,  ungentle  in  his  weed, 
Long  breast-full  of  the  miseries  of  need.         19 

Where  from  the  hailstorm  could  the  beggar  fly? 

He  had  no  housen  there,  nor  any  convent  nigh. 

Look  in  his  gloomed  face;  his  sprite  there  scan, 
How   woe-begone,    how   withered,    sapless, 
dead! 
Haste   to   thy   church-glebe-house, ^   accursed 
man. 
Haste  to  thy  coffin,  thy  sole  slumbering-bed ! 
Cold  as  the  clay  which  will  grow  on  thy 
head  26 

Are  Charity  and  Love  among  high  elves; 
The  Knights  and  Barons  live  for  pleasure  and 
themselves. 

The  gathered  storm  is  ripe;  the  big  drops  fall; 

The  sunburnt  meadows  smoke  and  drink  the 

rain;  30 

The  coming  ghastness*  dothe  the  cattle  appal, 

And  the  full  flocks  are  driving  o'er  the  plain; 

Dashed  from  the  clouds,  the  waters  gush 

again ; 

The  welkin^  opes,  the  yellow  levin^  flies. 

And  the  hot  fiery  steam  in  the  wide  flame- 

lowe  dies.  35 

List!  now  the  thunder's  rattUng  clamouring 
sound 
Moves  slowly  on,  and  then  upswollen  clangs, 
Shakes  the  high  spire,  and  lost,  dispended, 
drown'd. 
Still  on  the  affrighted  ear  of  terror  hangs; 
The  winds  are  up;  the  lofty  elm-tree  swangs;' 
Again  the  levin  and  the  thunder  pours,  4 1 

And  the  full  clouds  are  burst  at  once  in  stormy 
showers. 

Spurring  his  palfrey  o'er  the  watery  plain. 

The  Abbot  of  Saint  Godwyn's  convent  came; 

His   chapournette^o   was   drenched   with   the 

rain,  45 

His  painted  girdle  met  with  mickle  shame; 

He  backwards  told  his  bederolP^  at  the  same. 

The  storm  increased,  and  he  drew  aside, 

With  the  poor  alms-craver  near  to  the  holm  to 

bide. 

'  Here=  apparel,  mantle.       *  Holly-tree. 
*  i.  e.,  the  grave.  s  Terror.    (Othello,  V.  i.) 

7  The  heaven.  8  Lightning.       » Swings. 

10  "A  small  round  hat."    (Chatterton). 
"To  tell  one's  beads  backwards  was  "a  figurative 
expression  to  signify  cursing. ' '    (Chatterton) . 


His  copei2  ^ag  qH  ^f  Lincoln  cloth  so  fine,         50 

With  a  gold  button  fastened  near  his  chin, 

His  autremete^^  was  edged  with  golden  twine, 

And  his  peaked  shoe  a  lordhng's  might  have 

been; 
Full  well  it  showed  he  counted  cost  no  sin: 
The  trammels  of  the  palfrey  pleased  his  sight, 
For  the  horse-milliner**  his  head  with  rosea 
dight.  5() 

"An  alms.  Sir  Priest!"  the  drooping  pilgrim 
said, 
"O  let  me  wait  within  your  convent-door  , 

Till  the  sun  shineth  high  above  our  head 

And  the  loud  tempest  of  the  air  is  o'er.  60 

Helpless  and  old  am  I,  alas!  and  poor: 

No  house,  nor  friend,  no  money  in  my  pouch; 

All  that  I  call  my  own  is  this  my  silver  crouch."*^ 

"Varlet,"  replied  the  Abbot,  ''cease  your  din; 
This  is  no  season  alms  and  prayers  to  give;  65 
My  porter  never  lets  a  beggar  in ; 
None  touch  my  ring  who  not  in  honour 

live." 
And  now  the  sun  with  the  black  clouds  did 
strive, 
And  shot  upon  the  ground  his  glaring  ray: 
The  Abbot  spurred  his  steed,  and  eftsoons  rode 
away.  70 

Once  more  the  sky  was  black,  the  thunder 

roU'd: 
Fast  running  o'er  the  plain  a  priest  was 

seen. 
Not  dight  full  proud  nor  buttoned  up  in  gold; 
His  cope  and  jape*^  were  grey,  and  eke  were 

clean; 
A  Limitour^^  he  was,  of  order  seen ;  75 

And  from  the  pathway  side  then  turned  he, 
Where  the  poor  beggar  lay  beneath  the  holmen 

tree. 

"An  alms,  Sir  Priest,"  the  drooping  pilgrim 
said, 
"For  sweet  Saint  Mary  and  your  order's 
sake!" 
The  Limitour  then  loosened  his  pouch-thread  80 
And  did  thereout  a  groat  of  silver  take; 
The  needy  pilgrim  did  for  gladness  shake. 
"Here,  take  this  silver,  it  may  ease  thy  care; 
We  are  God's  stewards  all, — nought  of  our  own 
we  bear. 

"But  ah !  unhappy  pilgrim ,  learn  of  me,  85 

Scarce  any  give  a  ren troll  to  their  Lord: 
Here,  take  my  semicope,!^— thou'rt  bare,  I  see; 

"  Cloak,  mantle. 

1'  "  A  loose  white  robe  worn  by  priests. ' '    (Chatterton) . 

1*  One  who  supplies  trappings  for  horses.  Stevens 
says,  he  saw  "  Horse-milliner"  over  a  shop-door  in  Bristol, 
in  1776.  Outside  the  shop  stood  a  wooden  horse  adorned 
with  ribbons. 

IS  Cross,  crucifix. 

18  "A  short  surplice,  worn  by  friars  of  an  mfenor  class, 
and  secular  priests."    (Chatterton). 

1'  A  friar  licensed  to  beg  and  limited  to  a  certain  speci- 
fied district.    V.  p.  66,  n.  24,  supra. 

18  Short  cape. 


448 


DRYDEN   TO   THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


Tis  thine;  the  SaiDts  will  give  me  my  re- 
ward!" 
He  left  the  pilgrim  and  his  way  aborde.^' 
Virgin  and  holy  Saints  who  sit  in  gloure,^"        90 
Or  give  the  mighty  will,  or  give  the  good  man 
power. 


But  tell  thy  king,  for  mine  he's  not, 

I'd  sooner  die  today 
Than  live  his  slave,  as  many  are, 

Tho'  I  should  live  for  aye." 


40 


BRISTOWE  TRAGEDY;  OR,  THE  DEATH 
OF  SIR  CHARLES  BAWDIN 


The  feathered  songster  Chanticleer 
Has  wound  his  bugle  horn. 

And  told  the  early  villager 
The  coming  of  the  morn: 


King  Edward^  saw  the  ruddy  streaks 

Of  hght  eclipse  the  gray; 
And  heard  the  raven's  croaking  throat 

Proclaim  the  fated  day. 


Ill 


"Thou'rt  right,"  quoth  he,  "for,  by  the  God 
That  sits  enthroned  on  high!  10 

Charles  Bawdin,  and  his  fellows  twain, 
Today  shall  surely  die." 

IV 

Then  with  a  jug  of  nappy  ale^ 

His  knights  did  on  him  wait: 
"Go  tell  the  traitor,  that  today  15 

He  leaves  this  mortal  state." 


Sir  Canterlone  then  bended  low, 
With  heart  brimful  of  woe; 

He  journeyed  to  the  castle-gate. 
And  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 

VI 

But  when  he  came,  his  children  twain, 

And  eke  his  loving  wife, 
With  briny  tears  did  wet  the  floor, 

For  good  Sir  Charles's  Ufe. 


20 


VII 


25 


'O  good  Sir  Charles,"  said  Canterlone, 

"Bad  tidings  I  do  bring." 
Speak  boldly,  man,"  said  brave  Sir  Charles, 

"What  says  thy  traitor  king? " 


VIII 

"I  grieve  to  tell,  before  yon  sun 

Does  from  the  welkin  fly,  30 

He  hath  upon  his  honour  sworn, 

That  thou  shalt  surely  die." 

IX 

"We  all  must  die,"  quoth  brave  Sir  Charles, 

"Of  that  I'm  not  af eared; 
What  boots  to  live  a  little  space?  35 

Thank  Jesu,  I'm  prepared. 

19  Went  on,     (Chatterton)  20  Glory. 

1  King  Edward  IV,  1461-1483.  »  Strong  ale. 


45 


Then  Canterlone  he  did  go  out. 

To  tell  the  mayor  straight 
To  get  all  things  in  readiness 

For  good  Sir  Charles's  fate. 

XII 

Then  Master  Canynge^  sought  the  king. 

And  fell  down  on  his  knee; 
"I'm  come,"  quoth  he,  "unto  your  grace 

To  move  your  clemency." 

XIII 

Then  quoth  the  king,  "your  tale  speak  out, 
You  have  been  much  our  friend ;  50 

Whatever  your  request  may  be. 
We  will  to  it  attend." 


"My  noble  liege!  all  my  request 

Is  for  a  noble  knight, 
Who  tho'  mayhap  he  has  done  wrong, 

He  thought  it  still  was  right. 


55 


"He  has  a  spouse  and  children  twain, 

All  ruined  are  for  aye; 
If  that  you  are  resolved  to  let 

Charles  Bawdin  die  today." 


"Speak  not  of  such  a  traitor  vile," 

The  king  in  fur}'  said; 
"Before  the  evening  star  doth  shine, 

Bawdin  shall  lose  his  head. 

XVII 

"Justice  does  loudly  for  him  call. 

And  he  shall  have  his  mead: 
Speak,  Master  Canynge!  What  thing  else 

At  present  do  you  need?" 

XVIIT 

"My  noble  liege,"  good  Canynge  said, 

"Leave  justice  to  our  God, 
And  lay  the  iron  rule  aside; 

Be  thine  the  olive  rod. 


"Was  God  to  search  our  hearts  and  reins, 

The  best  were  sinners  great; 
Christ's  vicar  only  knows  no  sin. 

In  all  this  mortal  state. 


60 


65 


70 


75 


*  William  Canynge,  a  rich  merchant,  mayor  and  fore- 
most citizen,  in  the  reigns  of  Henry  VI  and  Edward  IV, 
of  Chatterton's  native  city  of  Bristol.  Canynge  ia 
represented  as  the  friend  and  literary  patron  of  one 
Thomas  Rowley,  the  "poet-priest."  Rowley  is  put 
forward  as  the  author  of  Chatterton's  imitations  of 
ancient  poetry,  which  he  pretended  to  have  transcribed 
from  old  manuscripts. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON 


449 


85 


90 


95 


''Let  mercy  rule  thine  infant  reign, 

'Twill  fast  thy  crown  full  sure; 
From  race  to  race  thy  family 

All  sovereigns  shall  endure: 

XXI 

"  But  if  with  blood  and  slaughter  thou 

Begin  thy  infant  reign, 
Thy  crown  upon  thy  children's  brows 

Will  never  long  remain." 

XXII 

"Canynge,  away!  this  traitor  vile 

Has  scorned  my  power  and  me: 
How  canst  thou  then  for  such  a  man 

Entreat  my  clemency?" 

XXIII 

"My  noble  liege!  the  truly  brave 

Will  valorous  actions  prize; 
Respect  a  brave  and  noble  mind 

Although  in  enemies." 

XXIV 

"Canynge,  away!    By  God  in  Heaven 

That  did  me  being  give, 
I  will  not  taste  a  bit  of  bread 

Whilst  this  Sir  Charles  doth  live. 

XXV 

"By  Mary,  and  all  Saints  in  Heaven, 

This  sun  shall  be  his  last;" 
Then  Canynge  dropped  a  briny  tear, 

And  from  the  presence  past. 

XXVI 

With  heart  brimful  of  gnawing  grief, 

He  to  Sir  Charles  did  go, 
And  sat  him  down  upon  a  stool. 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

XXVII 

"We  all  must  die,"  quoth  brave  Sir  Charles;  105 

"What  boots  it  how  or  when; 
Death  is  the  sure,  the  certain  fate 

Of  all  we  mortal  men. 

XXVIII 

"Say,  why,  my  friend,  thy  honest  soul 
Runs  over  at  thine  eye:  110 

Is  it  for  my  most  welcome  doom 
That  thou  dost  child-like  cry?" 

XXIX 

Quoth  godly  Canynge,  "I  do  weep, 

That  thou  so  soon  must  die, 
And  leave  thy  sons  and  helpless  wife;  115 

'Tis  this  that  wets  mine  eye." 

XXX 

"Then  dry  the  tears  that  out  thine  eye 

From  godly  fountains  spring; 
Death  I  despise,  and  all  the  power 

Of  Edward,  traitor  king.  120 


'  When  through  the  tyrant's  welcome  means 
I  shall  resign  my  life. 


100 


135 


The  God  I  serve  will  soon  provide 
For  both  my  sons  and  wife. 

XXXII 

"Before  I  saw  the  lightsome  sun,  125 

This  was  appointed  me; 
Shall  mortal  man  repine  or  grudge 

What  God  ordains  to  be? 

XXXIII 

"How  oft  in  battle  have  I  stood. 

When  thousands  died  around;  130 

When  smoking  streams  of  crimson  blood 

Imbrued  the  fattened  ground; 

XXXIV 

"  How  did  I  know  that  every  dart, 

That  cut  the  airy  way, 
Might  not  find  passage  to  my  heart, 

And  close  mine  eyes  for  aye? 


"And  shall  I  now,  for  fear  of  death, 
Look  wan  and  be  dismayed? 

Nay!  from  my  heart  fly  childish  fear, 
Be  all  the  man  displayed. 

XXXVI 

"Ah!  godhke  Henry!*  God  forfend. 
And  guard  thee  and  thy  son, 

If  'tis  his  will;  but  if  'tis  not. 
Why  then,  his  will  be  done. 

XXXVII 

"  My  honest  friend,  my  fault  has  been 
To  serve  God,  and  my  prince; 

And  that  I  no  time-server  am. 
My  death  will  soon  convince. 

XXXVIII 

"In  London  city  was  I  bom. 

Of  parents  of  great  note; 
My  father  did  a  noble  arms 

Emblazon  on  his  coat: 


140 


145 


150 


155 


160 


XXXIX 

"I  make  no  doubt  but  he  is  gone 

Where  soon  I  hope  to  go; 
Where  we  for  ever  shall  be  blest. 

From  out  the  reach  of  woe; 

XL 

"He  taught  me  justice  and  the  laws 

With  pity  to  unite; 
And  eke  he  taught  me  how  to  know 

The  wrong  cause  from  the  right: 

XLI 

"He  taught  me  with  a  prudent  hand 

To  feed  the  hungry  poor. 
Nor  let  my  servants  drive  away 

The  hungry  from  my  door: 

*  Henry  VI  (1422-1461).  Tyrwhitt  points  out  that 
Chatterton's  ballad  was  probably  suggested  by  the 
execution  at  Bristol  of  Sir  Balwin  Fulford,  a  Lancastrian 
Knight,  in  1461,  the  year  of  Edward  IV's  accession. 
Henry  VI's  son.  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  was  killed  in 
1471  at  the  battle  of  Tewkesbury,  or.  perhaps,  murdered 
after  the  fight;  Henry  VI  himself  died  in  the  Tower  in 
the  same  year;  he  was  probably  murdered  by  the  com- 
mands of  Edward  IV. 


450 


DllYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


"And  none  can  say  but  all  my  life 

I  have  his  wordes  kept; 
And  summed  the  actions  of  the  day 

Each  night  before  I  slept. 


165  "Now  death  as  welcome  to  me  comes, 

As  e'er  the  month  of  May; 
Nor  would  I  even  wish  to  live, 
With  my  dear  wife  to  stay." 


205 


XLni 
"  I  have  a  spouse,  go  ask  of  her, 

If  I  defiled  her  bed? 
I  have  a  king  and  none  can  lay 

Black  treason  on  my  head. 


LUI 


Quoth  Canynge,  "'Tis  a  goodly  thing 
170  To  be  prepared  to  die; 

And  from  this  world  of  pain  and  grief 
To  God  in  Heaven  to  fly." 


210 


"  In  Lent,  and  on  the  holy  eve. 

From  flesh  I  did  refrain; 
Why  should  I  then  appear  dismayed 

To  leave  this  world  of  pain? 


175 


And  now  the  bell  began  to  toll, 

And  clarions  to  sound; 
Sir  Charles  he  heard  the  horses'  feet 

A-prancing  on  the  ground: 


215 


XLV 

"No!  Hapless  Henry!  I  rejoice, 
I  shall  not  see  thy  death; 

Most  willingly  in  thy  just  cause 
Do  I  resign  my  breath. 


180 


And  just  before  the  officers 
His  loving  wife  came  in, 

Weeping  unfeigned  tears  of  woe, 
With  loud  and  dismal  din. 


220 


XLVI 


"Oh,  fickle  people!  ruined  land! 

Thou  wilt  know  peace  no  moe; 
While  Richard's  sons^  exalt  themselves, 

Thy  brooks  with  blood  will  flow. 


"Say,  were  ye  tired  of  godly  peace,  185 

And  godly  Henry's  reign, 
That  you  did  chop^  your  easy  days 

For  those  of  blood  and  pain? 


"What  tho'  I  on  a  sledge  be  drawn, 

And  mangled  by  a  hind,^  190 

I  do  defy  the  traitor's  power. 
He  cannot  harm  my  mind; 

XLIX 

"What  tho'  uphoisted  on  a  pole, 

My  Hmbs  shall  rot  in  air, 
And  no  rich  monument  of  brass  195 

Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear; 


"Yet  in  the  holy  book  above, 

Which  time  can't  eat  away. 
There  with  the  servants  of  the  Lord 

My  name  shall  live  for  aye.  200 

LI 

"  Then  welcome  death!  for  life  eteme 

I  leave  this  mortal  life: 
Farewell,  vain  world,  and  all  that's  dear. 

My  sons  and  loving  wife! 

»  Richard  Plantagenet,  Duke  of  York,     Hia  Sons  were 
Edward  IV.  George,  Duke  of  Clarence,  and  Richard  III. 
«  Interrupt,  cut  short. 
^  A  rustic,  a  man  of  the  lower  class. 


"Sweet  Florence!  now  I  pray  forbear. 

In  quiet  let  me  die; 
Pray  God  that  every  Christian  soul 

May  look  on  death  as  I. 


"Sweet  Florence!  why  these  briny  tears?  225 

They  wash  my  soul  away, 
And  almost  make  me  wish  for  life, 

With  thee,  sweet  dame,  to  stay. 


LVIII 

"  'Tis  but  a  journey  I  shall  go 

Unto  the  land  of  bliss; 
Now,  as  a  proof  of  husband's  love, 

Receive  this  holy  kiss." 


230 


LIX 


Then  Florence,  faltering  in  her  say, 
Trembling  these  wordes  spoke, 

"Ah,  cruel  Edward!  bloody  king! 
My  heart  is  well  nigh  broke: 


235 


"Ah,  sweet  Sir  Charles!  why  wilt  thou  go. 

Without  thy  loving  wife? 
The  cruel  axe  that  cuts  thy  neck. 

It  eke  shall  end  my  hfe." 


240 


And  now  the  officers  came  in 
To  bring  Sir  Charles  away, 

Who  turned  to  his  loving  wife, 
And  thus  to  her  did  say: 


LXII 


"I  go  to  life,  and  not  to  death; 

Trust  thou  in  God  above, 
And  teach  thy  sons  to  fear  the  Lord, 

And  in  their  hearts  him  love: 


245 


THOMAS   CHATTERTON 


451 


LXIII 

"Teach  them  to  run  the  noble  race 
That  I  their  father  run;  250 

Florence!  should  death  thee  take — adieu! 
Ye  oflacers,  lead  on." 


LXXIII 

Saint  James's  Friars  marched  next, 
Each  one  his  part  did  chant; 

Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came, 
Who  tuned  the  strung  bataunt: 


290 


LXIV 

Then  Florence  raved  as  any  mad, 

And  did  her  tresses  tear; 
"Oh!  stay,  my  husband!  lord!  and  life!" —  255 

Sir  Charles  then  dropped  a  tear. 


Till,  tired  out  with  raving  loud, 

She  fell  upon  the  floor; 
Sir  Charles  exerted  all  his  might. 

And  marched  from  out  the  door.  260 


Upon  a  sledge  he  mounted  then 
With  looks  full  brave  and  sweet; 

Looks,  that  displayed  no  more  concern 
Than  any  in  the  street. 


Before  him  went  the  council-men,  265 

In  scarlet  robes  and  gold, 
And  tassels  spangling  in  the  sun, 

Much  glorious  to  behold: 

LXVIII 

The  Friars  of  Saint  Augustine  next 

Appeared  to  the  sight,  270 

All  clad  in  homely  russet  weeds 
Of  godly  monkish  plight: 

LXIX 

In  different  parts  a  godly  psalm 

Most  sweetly  they  did  chant; 
Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came,      275 

Who  tuned  the  strung  bataunt.' 

LXX 

Then  five-and-twenty  archers  came; 

Each  one  the  bow  did  bend. 
From  rescue  of  King  Henry's  friends 

Sir  Charles  for  to  defend.  280 

LXXI 

Bold  as  a  lion  came  Sir  Charles, 

Drawn  on  a  cloth-laid  sledde. 
By  two  black  steeds  in  trappings  white, 

With  plumes  upon  their  head. 


Behind  him  five-and-twenty  more  285 

Of  archers  strong  and  stout, 
With  bended  bow  each  one  in  hand, 

Marched  in  goodly  rout: 

8  Evidently  intended  to  suggest  a  musical  instrument  of 
the  viol  class.  The  word  bataunt  seems  to  have  been 
invented  by  Chatterton;  perhaps  for  the  sake  of  the 
rhyme. 


Then  came  the  mayor  and  aldermen, 

In  cloth  of  scarlet  deck't; 
And  their  attending  men  each  one,  295 

Like  Eastern  princes  trick' t: 

LXXV 

And  after  them  a  multitude 

Of  citizens  did  throng; 
The  windows  were  all  full  of  heads, 

As  he  did  pass  along.  300 

LXXVI 

And  when  he  came  to  the  high  cross, 

Sir  Charles  did  turn  and  say, 
"O  thou  that  savest  man  from  sin, 

Wash  my  soul  clean  this  day!" 

LXXVII 

At  the  great  minster  window  sat  305 

The  king  in  mickle  state, 
To  see  Charles  Bawdin  go  along 

To  his  most  welcome  fate. 


Soon  as  the  sledge  drew  nigh  enough. 

That  Edward  he  might  hear,  310 

The  brave  Sir  Charles  he  did  stand  up 
And  thus  his  words  declare: 

LXXIX 

"Thou  seest  me,  Edward!  traitor  vile! 

Exposed  to  infamy; 
But  be  assured,  disloyal  man!  315 

I'm  greater  now  than  thee. 

LXXX 

"By  foul  proceedings,  murder,  blood. 

Thou  wearest  now  a  crown ; 
And  hast  appointed  me  to  die. 

By  power  not  thine  own.  32Q 

LXXXI 

"Thou  thinkest  I  shall  die  today; 

I  have  been  dead  till  now. 
And  soon  shall  live  to  wear  a  crown 

For  aye  upon  my  brow; 

LXXXII 

"  Whilst  thou,  perhaps,  for  some  few  years,  325 

Shalt  rule  this  fickle  land. 
To  let  them  know  how  wide  the  rule 

'Twixt  king  and  tyrant  hand: 


LXXXIII 


"Thy  power  unjust,  thou  traitor  slave! 

Shall  fall  on  thy  own  head—" 
From  out  of  hearing  of  the  king 

Departed  then  the  sledde. 


33C 


452 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


King  Edward's  soul  rushed  to  his  face, 

He  turned  his  head  away, 
And  to  his  brother  Gloucester'  335 

He  thus  did  speak  and  say: 


xcv 
The  bloody  axe  his  body  fair 

Into  four  parties  cut; 
And  every  part,  and  eke  his  head, 

Upon  a  pole  was  put. 


380 


"To  him  that  so-much-dreaded  death 

No  ghastly  terrors  bring, 
Behold  the  man!  he  spake  the  truth, 

He's  greater  than  a  king!"  340 

LXXXVI 

"So  let  him  die!"  Duke  Richard  said; 

"And  may  each  one  our  foes 
Bend  down  their  necks  to  bloody  axe, 

Aud  feed  the  carrion  crows." 


LXXXVII 


And  now  the  horses  gently  drew 
Sir  Charles  up  the  high  hill; 

The  axe  did  glister  in  the  sun. 
His  precious  blood  to  spill. 


345 


LXXXVIII 


Sir  Charles  did  up  the  scaffold  go, 

As  up  a  gilded  car 
Of  victory  by  valorous  chiefs 

Gained  in  the  bloody  war: 


350 


And  to  the  people  he  did  say, 

"Behold  you  see  me  die 
For  serving  loyally  my  king,  355 

My  king  most  rightfully. 

xc 
"As  long  as  Edward  rules  this  land. 
No  quiet  you  will  know; 
Your  sons  and  husbands  shall  be  slain, 
And  brooks  with  blood  shall  flow.      360 

xci 
"You  leave  your  good  and  lawful  king 
When  in  adversity; 
Like  me,  unto  the  true  cause  stick; 
And  for  the  true  cause  die." 

XCII 

Then  he,  with  priests,  upon  his  knees,     365 

A  prayer  to  God  did  make. 
Beseeching  him  unto  himself 

His  parting  soul  to  take. 

xciu 
Then,  kneeling  down  he  laid  his  head 

Most  seemly  on  the  block;  370 

Which  from  his  body  fair  at  once 

The  able  headsman  struck; 

xciv 
And  out  the  blood  began  to  flow, 
And  round  the  scaffold  twine; 
And  tears  enough  to  wash't  away,         375 
Did  flow  from  each  man's  eyne. 
•  Richard,  Duke  of  Gloucester,  afterwards  Richard  III. 


XCVI 

One  part  did  rot  on  Kynwulph  hill. 

One  on  the  minster  tower, 
And  one  from  off  the  castle  gate 

The  crowen  did  devour; 

XCVII 

The  other  on  Saint  Paul's  good  gate,     385 

A  dreary  spectacle; 
His  head  was  placed  on  the  high  cross, 

In  High-street  most  noble. 

XCVIII 

Thus  was  the  end  of  Bawdin's  fate: 

God  prosper  long  our  king,  390 

And  grant  he  may  with  Bawdin's  soul. 
In  heaven  God's  mercy  sing! 


€toxQt  Crabbe 

1754-1832 

THE  MODERN  PASTORAL 

(From  The  Village,  Bk.  I.  1783) 

The  Village  Life,  and  every  care  that  reigns 
O'er  youthful  peasants,  and  declining  swains; 
What  labour  yields,  and  what,  that  labour  past. 
Age,  in  its  hour  of  langour  finds  at  last; 
What  form  the  real  picture  of  the  poor,  5 

Demand  a  song — the  Muse  can  give  no  more. 

Fled  are  those  times,  when,  in  harmonious 
strains. 
The  rustic  poet  praised  his  native  plains: 
No  shepherds  now,  in  smooth  alternate  verse. 
Their    country's    beauty    or    their    nymphs' 
rehearse;  lo 

Yet  still  for  these  we  frame  the  tender  strain. 
Still  in  our  lays  fond  Corydons  complain. 
And  shepherds*  boys  their  amorous  pains  re- 
veal. 
The  only  pains,  alas!  they  never  feel. 

On   Mincio's  banks,  in  Caesar's  bounteous 
.reign,  15 

If  Tityrus  found  the  Golden  Age  again. 
Must  sleepy  bards  the  flattering  dream  prolong. 
Mechanic  echoes  of  the  Mantuan  song?i 
From  Truth  and  Nature  shall  we  widely  stray, 
Where  Virgil,  not  where  Fancy,  leads  the  way? 

Yes,  thus  the  Muses  sing  of  happy  swains,  21 
Because  the  Muses  never  knew  their  pains: 
They  boast  their  peasant's  pipes;  but  peasants 

now 
Resign  their  pipes,  and  plod  behind  the  plow; 

*  i.  e.,  the  pastoral  poems  of  Vergil,  who  was  born 
near  Mantua.    The  river  Mincio  (or  Mincius)  flows  near 
Vergil's  birthplace;  Tityrus  is  the  name  of  a  shepherd      ^ 
in  Vergil's  Eclogues. 


GEORGE  CRABBE 


453 


And  few,  amid  the  rural  tribe,  have  time  25 

To  number  syllables,  and  play  with  rhyme; 
Save  honest  Duck,^  what  son  of  verse  could 

share 
The  poet's  rapture,  and  the  peasant's  care? 
Or  the  great  labours  of  the  field  degrade, 
With  the  new  peril  of  a  poorer  trade?  30 

From   this   chief   cause   these   idle   praises 

spring. 
That  themes  so  easy,  few  forbear  to  sing; 
For  no  deep  thought  the  trifling  subjects  ask; 
To  sing  of  shepherds  is  an  easy  task : 
The  happy  youth  assumes  the  common  strain,35 
A  nymph  his  mistress,  and  himself  a  swain ; 
With  no  sad  scenes  he  clouds  his  tuneful  prayer, 
But  all,  to  look  like  her,  is  painted  fair. 

1  grant  indeed  that  fields  and  flocks  have 
charms 

For  him  that  grazes  or  for  him  that  farms ;  40 
But  when  amid  such  pleasing  scenes  I  trace 
The  poor  laborious  natives  of  the  place. 
And  see  the  mid-day  sun,  with  fervid  ray. 
On  their  bare  heads,  and  dewy  temples  play; 
While  some,  with  feebler  hands  and  fainter 
hearts,  ^  45 

Deplore  their  fortune,  yet  sustain  their  parts; 
Then  shall  I  dare  these  real  ills  to  hide 
In  tinsel  trappings  of  poetic  pride? 

No;  cast  by  Fortune  on  a  frowning  coast, 
Which  neither  groves  nor  happy  valleys  boast; 
Where  other  cares  than  those  the  Muse  re- 
lates, 51 
And  other  shepherds  dwell  with  other  mates; 
By  such  examples  taught,  I  paint  the  cot. 
As  Truth  will  paint  it,  and  as  bards  will  not: 
Nor  you,  ye  poor,  of  lettered  scorn  complain,  55 
To  you  the  smoothest  song  is  smooth  in  vain: 
O'ercome  by  labour,  and  bow'd  down  by  time, 
Feel  you  the  barren  flattery  of  a  rhyme? 
Can  poets  soothe  you,  when  you  pine  for  bread. 
By  winding  myrtles  round  your  ruin'd  shed?  60 
Can  their  light  tales  your  weighty  griefs  o'er- 

power, 
Or  glad  with  airy  mirth  the  toilsome  hour? 
Lo!  where  the  heath,  with  withering  brake 
grown  o'er. 
Lends  the  Hght  turf  that  warms  the  neigh- 
bouring poor; 
From  thence  a  length  of  burning  sand  appears, 
Where  the  thin   harvest  waves  its  wither'd 
ears;  66 

Rank  weeds,  that  every  art  and  care  defy, 
Reign  o'er  the  land,  and  rob  the  bhghted  rye: 
There  thistles  stretch  their  prickly  arms  afar 
I  And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war;  70 

There  poppies  nodding,  mock  the  hope  of  toil; 
There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  sterile  soil; 
Hardy  and  high,  above  the  slender  sheaf, 
The  sHmy  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf; 
O'er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws  a 
shade,  75 

And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  sickly  blade; 

2  Stephen  Duck,  d.  1756,  a  self-taught  and  obscure 
versiSer,  of  humble  origin,  who  gave  a  truthful  picture 
of  the  farmer's  life  in  a  poem  called  the  Thresher's  Labour, 
V.  Southey's  Lives  and  Works  of  our  Uneducated  Poets. 


With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound, 
And  a  sad  splendour  vainly  shines  around.  .  .  . 
Here  joyless  roam  a  wild  amphibious  race,  85 
With  sullen  woe  displayed  in  every  face; 
Who,  far  from  civil  arts  and  social  fly, 
And  scowl  at  strangers  with  suspicious  eye. 
Here  too  the  lawless  merchant  of  the  main 
Draws  from  his  plow  th'  intoxicated  swain;      90 
Want  only  claim'd  the  labour  of  the  day. 
But  vice  now  steals  his  nightly  rest  away. 
Where  are  the  swains,  who,  daily  labour 

done. 
With  rural  games   play'd  down   the  setting 

sun; 
Who  struck  with  matchless  force  the  bounding 

ball,  95 

Or  made  the  pond'rous  quoit  obliquely  fall; 
While  some  huge  Ajax,  terrible  and  strong, 
Engaged  some  artful  stripling  of  the  throng. 
And  fell  beneath  him,  foil'd,  while  far  around 
Hoarse  triumph  rose,  and  rocks  return 'd  the 

sound?  100 

Where  now  are  these? — Beneath  yon  cliff  they 

stand. 
To  show  the  freighted  pinnace  where  to  land; 
To  load  the  ready  steed  with  guilty  haste. 
To  fly  in  terror  o'er  the  pathless  waste. 
Or,  when  detected,  in  their  straggling  course,  105 
To  foil  their  foes  by  cunning  or  by  force; 
Or,  yielding  part  (which  equal  knaves  demand). 
To  gain  a  lawless  passport  through  the  land. 
Here,  wand'ring  long,  amid  these  frowning 

fields, 
I  sought  the  simple  life  that  Nature  fields ;     no 
Rapine    and   Wrong   and   Fear   usurp'd   her 

place, 
And  a  bold,  artful,  surly,  savage  race; 
Who,  only  skill'd  to  take  the  finny  tribe. 
The  yearly  dinner,  or  septennial  bribe, ^ 
Wait  on   the  shore,   and,  as  the  waves  run 

high. 
On  the  tost  vessel  bend  their  eager  eye.  1 16 

Which   to   their   coast   directs   its   vent'rous 

way; 
Theirs,  or  the  ocean's,  miserable  prey. 

As  on  their  neighbouring  beach  yon  swallows 

stand. 
And  wait  for  favouring  winds  to  leave  the 

land; 
While  still  for  flight  the  ready  wing  is  spread;  121 
So  waited  I  the  favouring  hour,  and  fled ; 
Fled  from  these  shores  where  guilt  and  famine 

reign. 
And  cried.  Ah!  hapless  they  who  still  remain; 
Who  still  remain  to  hear  the  ocean  roar,  125 

Whose   greedy   waves   devour   the   lessening 

Till   some   fierce  tide,  with  more  imperious 

sway. 
Sweeps  the  low  hut  and  all  it  holds  away; 
When  the  sad  tennant  weeps  from  door  to 

door, 
And  begs  a  poor  protection  from  the  poor.  .  .  . 

'  i.  e.,  the  bribe  given  for  their  votes  at  a  Parliamentary 
election.  By  the  Act  of  1716,  a  new  Parliament  had  t« 
be  elected  at  least  once  in  every  seven  years. 


454 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


PETER  GRIMES^ 

(From  The  Borough,  Letter  XXII,  1810) 

Alas!  for  Peter,  Dot  a  helping  hand,  65 

So  was  he  hated,  could  he  now  command; 
Alone  he  row'd  his  boat,  alone  he  cast 
His  nets  beside,  or  made  his  anchor  fast; 
To  hold  a  rope,  or  hear  a  curse  was  none, — 
He  toil'd,  and  rail'd;  he  groan 'd  and  swore 

alone.  70 

Thus  by  himself  compell'd  to  live  each  day, 

To  wait  for  certain  hours  the  tide's  delay; 

At  the  same  time  the  same  dull  views  to  see. 

The  bounding  marsh-bank  and  the  bhghted 

tree; 
The  water  only,  when  the  tides  were  high,        75 
When   low,  the   mud   half-cover'd   and  haK- 

dry: 
The  sun-burnt  tar,  that  blisters  on  the  planks, 
And  bank  side  stakes  in  their  uneven  ranks; 
Heaps  of  entangled  weeds  that  slowly  float, 
As  the  tide  rolls  by  the  impeded  boat.  80 

When  the  tides  were  neap,  and,  in  the  sultry 

day. 
Through  the  taU  bounding  mud-banks  made 

their  way. 
Which  on  each  side  rose  sweUing,  and  below 
The  dark  warm  flood  ran  silently  and  slow; 
There  anchoring,   Peter  chose  from  man  to 

hide,  85 

There  hang  his  head,  and  view  the  lazy  tide 
In  its  hot  shmy  channel  slowly  glide; 
Where  the  small  eels  that  left  the  deeper  way 
For  the  warm  shore,  within  the  shallows  play; 
Where  gaping  mussels,  left  upon  the  mud,  90 
Slope  their  slow  passage  to  the  fallen  flood; — 
Here  dull  and  hopeless  he'd  lie  down  and  trace 
How  sidelong  crabs  had  scrawl'd  their  crooked 

race; 
Or  sadly  listen  to  the  tuneless  cry 
Of  fishing  gull  or  clanging  golden  eye;^  95 

What  time  the  sea-birds  to  the  marsh  would 

come. 
And  the  loud  bittern,  from  the  bull-rush  home, 
Gave  from  the  salt-ditch  side  the  bellowing 

boom: 
He  nursed  the  feelings  these  dull  scenes  pro- 
duce 
And  loved  to  stop  beside  the  opening  sluice;  lOO 
Where  the  small  stream,  confined  in  narrowing 

bound. 
Ran  with  a  dull,  unvaried,  sadd'ning  sound; 
Where  all,  presented  to  the  eye  or  ear, 
Oppress'd  the  soul  with  misery,  grief  and  fear. 
Besides    these    objects,    there    were    places 

three,  105 

Which  Peter  seemed  with  certain  dread  to  see; 

'  Peter  Grimes  is  a  fisherman,  ignorant,  lawless,  avari- 
cious, and  cruel,  from  his  youth.  He  gets  from  London 
a  workhouse-boy  to  help  him  in  his  labors,  receiving  a 
small  sum  of  money  for  giving  the  boy  a  home.  The 
boy  dies  from  brutality  and  neglect,  and  Peter  procures 
another,  thus  gaining  a  second  fee.  This  boy  also  dies, 
and  after  that  a  third  boy,  in  a  way  that  arouses  the 
gravest  suspicion.  The  murder  is  not  proved,  but  Peter 
is  forbidden  to  employ  another  boy,  and  warned  that  if 
he  should  be  again  accused  he  will  find  no  mercy. 

2  A  sea-duck. 


When  he  drew  near  them  he  would  turn  from 

each, 
And  loudly  whistle  till  he  pass'd  the  reach, 
A  change  of  scene  to  him  brought  no  rehef; 
In   town,   t'was  plain,   men  took  him  for  0,, 

thief;  ^  lib 

The  sailors'  wives  would  stop  him  in  the  street, 
And  say,  "Now,  Peter,  thou'st  no  boy  to  beat: " 
Infants  at  play,  when  they  perceived  him,  ran, 
Warning    each    other — "That's    the    wicked 

man,"  ' 

He  growl'd  an  oath,  and  in  an  angry  tone  115 
Cursed  the  whole  place,  and  wished  to  be  alone. 


FARMER  MOSS'S  DAUGHTER 

(From  Tales  in  Verse,  1812) 

To  farmer  Moss,  in  Langar  Vale,  came  down 
His  only  daughter,  from  her  school  in  town ; 
A  tender,  timid  maid!  who  knew  not  how 
To  pass  a  pig-sty,  or  to  face  a  cow: 
Smiling  she  came,  with  petty  talents  graced,     5 
A  fair  complexion,  and  a  slender  waist. 

Used  to  spare  meals,  disposed  in  manner  pure. 
Her  father's  kitchen  she  could  ill  endure; 
Where  by  the  steaming  beef  he  hungry  sat, 
And  laid  at  once  a  pound  upon  his  plate ;  1 0 

Hot  from  the  field,  her  eager  brother  seized 
An  equal  part,  and  hunger's  rage  appeased; 
The   air,    surcharged   with   moisture,    flagg'd 

around. 
And  the  offended  damsel  sighed  and  frowned; 
The  swelling  fat  in  lumps  conglomerate  laid,    1 5 
And  fancy's  sickness  seized  the  loathing  maid: 
But  when  the  men  beside  their  station  took, 
The  maidens  with  them,  and  with  these  the 

cook; 
When  one  huge  wooden  bowl  before  them  stood, 
Fill'd  with  huge  balls  of  farinaceous  food ;  20 
With  bacon,  mass  saline,  where  never  lean 
Beneath  the  brown  and  bristly  rind  was  seen; 
When  from  a  single  horn  the  party  drew 
Their  copious  draughts  of  heavy  ale  and  new; 
When  the  coarse  cloth  she  saw,  with  many  a 

stain,  25 

Soil'd  by  rude  hinds^  who  cut  and  come  again — 
She  could  not  breathe,  but  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
Rein'd  the  fair  neck,  and  shut  th'  offended  eye; 
She  minced  the  sanguine  flesh  in  frustums^  fine, 
And  wonder'd  much  to  see  the  creatures  dine;30 
When  she  resolved  her  father's  heart  to  move, 
If  hearts  of  farmers  were  alive  to  love. 
She  now  entreated  by  herself  to  sit 
In  the  small  parlour,  if  papa  thought  fit, 
And  there  to  dine,  to  read,  to  work  alone :         35 
"No,"  said  the  farmer  in  an  angry  tone; 
"These    are    your    school- taught    airs;    your 

mother's  pride 
Would  send  you  there;  but  I  am  now  your 

guide. — 
Arise  betimes,  our  early  meal  prepare, 
And   this   despatch'd,    let   business   be   your 

care;  40 

'  Farm-laborers,  rustics. 

2  Pieces  (Lat.  frustum,   a  piece,  part.) 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 


455 


)ok  to  the  lasses,  let  there  not  be  one 
Who  lacks  attention,  till  her  tasks  be  done; 
In  every  household  work  your  portion  take, 
And  what  you  make  not,  see  that  others  make: 
At  leisure  times  attend  the  wheel,  and  see        45 
The  whit'ning  web  be  sprinkled  on  the  Lea, 
When  thus  employed,  should  our  young  neigh- 
bour view 
'  A  useful  lass,  you  may  have  more  to  do." 

William  Blate 

1757-1827 

TO  THE  MUSES 

(From  Poetical  Sketches,  1783) 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow, 
Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 
The  chambers  of  the  sun  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have  ceased; 

Whether  in  Heaven  ye  wander  fair,  5 

Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth. 

Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air. 

Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth; . 

Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove 
Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea,  10 

Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove; 
Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry; 

How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 
That  bards  of  old  en  joy 'd  in  you! 
The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move,     15 
The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few. 

TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 

(From  the  same) 

Thou  fair-haired  angel  of  the  evening. 

Now,  whilst  the  sun  rests  on  the  mountain, 

light 
Thy  brilliant  torch  of  love;  thy  radiant  crown 
Put  on,  and  smile  upon  our  evening  bed! 
Smile  on  our  loves;  and  whilst  thou  drawest 
round  5 

The  curtains  of  the  sky,  scatter  thy  dew 
On  every  flower  that  closes  its  sweet  eyes 
In  timely  sleep.     Let  thy  west  wind  sleep  on 
The  lake;  speak  silence  with  thy  glimmering 

eyes, 
And  wash  the  dusk  with  silver.     Soon,  full 
soon  10 

Dost  thou  withdraw;  then  the  wolf  rages  wide. 
And  then  the  lion  glares  through  the  dun  forest. 
The  fleeces  of  our  flocks  are  covered  with 
Thy  sacred  dew:  protect  them  with  thine  in- 
fluence. 

INTRODUCTION 

(From  Songs  of  Innocence,  1787) 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee. 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child. 
And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me: 


"Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb!" 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
** Piper,  pipe  that  song  again;" 
So  I  piped:  he  wept  to  hear. 

"Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe; 
Smg  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer!" 
So  I  sang  the  same  again. 
While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read." 
So  he  vanish'd  from  my  sight; 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 
And  I  stain'd  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

THE  LAMB 

(From  the  same) 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bade  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice? 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee; 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee: 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild. 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  callM  by  His  name. 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee! 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee! 

NIGHT 

(From  the  same) 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west. 
The  evening  star  does  shine. 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest, 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 

The  moon,  like  a  flower 

In  heaven's  high  bower, 

With  silent  delight, 

Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 


Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  grove. 
Where  flocks  have  ta'en  delight; 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  move 
The  feet  of  angels  bright;  _ 

Unseen,  they  pour  blessing. 

And  joy  without  ceasing, 

On  each  bud  and  blossom. 

And  each  sleeping  bosom. 


10 


13 


20 


10 


10 


20 


10 


15 


456 


DRYDEN   TO  THE  DEATH   OF  JOHNSON 


They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest, 

Where  birds  are  covered  warm; 

They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 

To  keep  them  all  from  harm.  20 

If  they  see  any  weeping 
That  should  have  been  sleeping, 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head. 
And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 

When  wolves  and  tigers  howl  for  prey    25 
They  pitying  stand  and  weep, 
Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away. 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 

But  if  they  rush  dreadful, 

The  angels,  most  heedful,  30 

Receive  each  mild  spirit. 

New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 

Shall  flow  with  tears  of  gold: 

And  pitying  the  tender  cries,  35 

And  walking  round  the  fold : 

Saying  "Wrath  by  His  meekness. 

And  by  His  health,  sickness. 

Are  driven  away 

From  our  immortal  day.  40 

"And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  lamb, 
I  can  lie  down  and  sleep, 
Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name. 
Graze  after  thee,  and  weep. 

For  wash'd  in  Ufe's  river,  45 

My  bright  mane  forever 

Shall  shine  like  the  gold, 

As  I  guard  o'er  the  fold." 


TO  THE  DIVINE  IMAGE 
(From  the  same) 

To  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 

All  pray  in  their  distress. 
And  to  these  virtues  of  delight 

Return  their  thankfulness. 

For  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love,  6 

Is  God  our  Father  dear; 
And  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 

Is  man.  His  child  and  care. 

For  Mercy  has  a  human  heart. 

Pity,  a  human  face;  lo 

And  Love,  the  human  form  divine; 
And  Peace,  the  human  dress. 

Then  every  man,  of  every  clime. 

That  prays  in  his  distress. 
Prays  to  the  human  form  divine;         15 

Love,  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace. 

And  all  must  love  the  human  form, 

In  heathen,  Turk,  or  Jew; 
Where  mercy,  love,  and  pity  dwell. 

There  God  is  dweUing  too.  20 


ON  ANOTHER'S  SORROW 

(From  the  same) 

Can  I  see  another's  woe, 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief, 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear,  6 

And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share? 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  fill'd? 

Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear, 

An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear?  lo 

No,  no!  never  can  it  be! 

Never,  never  can  it  be! 

And  can  He,  who  smiles  on  all, 
Hear  the  wren,  with  sorrow  small. 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care,        15 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear? 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 
Pouring  Pity  in  their  breast, 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near. 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear?  20 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day. 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away? 
Oh,  no!  never  can  it  be! 
Never,  never  can  it  be! 

He  doth  give  His  joy  to  all:  25 

He  becomes  an  infant  small. 
He  becomes  a  man  of  woe, 
He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh. 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  by:  so 

Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

Oh!  He  gives  to  us  His  joy. 

That  our  griefs  He  may  destroy. 

Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone  35 

He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 


THE  TIGER 

(From  The  Songs  of  Experience,  1794) 

Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forest  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Framed  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies  5 

Burned  that  fire  within  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dared  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dared  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art. 

Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart?       10 

When  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 

What  dread  hand  and  what  dread  feet?     ^ 


JANE  ELLIOT 


457 


WTiat  the  hammer,  what  the  chain, 
Knit  thy  strength  and  forged  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?    What  dread  grasp  15 

Dared  thy  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears. 

And  water'd  heaven  with  their  tears. 

Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 

Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee?         20 


AH!  SUNFLOWER 
(From  the  same) 

Ah!  Sunflower!  weary  of  time, 

Who  countest  the  steps  of  the  sun, 
Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  prime 

Where  the  traveller's  journey  is  done; 
Where  the  Youth  pined  away  with  desire, 

And  the  pale  virgin  shrouded  in  snow, 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 

Where  my  sunflower  wishes  to  go! 

SCOTCH  SONG  WRITERS 
3Iol)n  g>feinner 

1721-1807 
TULLOCHGORUMi 

Come  gie's  a  sang,  Montgomery  cried, 
And  lay  your  disputes  all  aside, 
What  signifies  't  for  folk  to  chide 

For  what's  been  done  before  them? 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree. 
Whig  and  Tory,  Whig  and  Tory, 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree. 

To  drop  their  Whig-mig-morum; 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree. 
To  spend  the  night  in  mirth  and  glee, 
And  cheerfu'  sing,  alang  wi'  me, 

The  reel  o'  Tullochgorum. 

O,  Tullochgorum's  my  dehght. 

It  gars  us  a'  in  ane  unite. 

And  any  sumph'^  that  keeps  up  spite, 

In  conscience  I  abhor  him. 
For  blythe  and  cheery  we's  be  a', 
Blythe  and  cheery,  blythe  and  cheery, 
Blythe  and  cheery  we's  be  a'. 
As  lang  as  we  hae  breth  to  draw, 
And  dance,  till  we  be  like  to  fa', 

The  reel  of  Tullochgorum. 

There  needs  na'  be  sae  great  a  phrase, 
Wi'  dringing  dull  Italian  lays, 
I  wadna  gi'e  our  ain  strathspeys' 

For  half  a  hundred  score  o'  'em. 
They're  doufi"*  and  dowie^  at  the  best, 
Douff  and  dowie,  douff  and  dowie, 

1  When  Skinner  wrote  this  poem,  Tullochgorum  was 
not  a  song  but  the  name  of  a  tune  to  a  Highland  reel. 
Burns  pronounced  Skinner's  Tullochgorum  "the  best 
Scotch  song  Scotland  ever  saw." 

*  Fool,  softy.      «  A  Scotch  dance  resembling  the  reel. 

*  Dull.  s  Daleful. 


10 


15 


20 


25 


They're  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best 
Wi'  a'  their  variorium.  30 

They're  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best, 

Their  Allegros  and  a'  the  rest, 

They  canna  please  a  Scottish  taste, 
Gompar'd  wi'  Tullochgorum. 

Let  warldly  minds  themselves  oppress    35 
Wi'  fears  of  want,  and  double  cess,^ 
And  sullen  sots  themselves  distress 

Wi'  keeping  up  decorum. 
Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit. 
Sour  and  sulky,  sour  and  sulky,  40 

Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit. 

Like  auld  Philosophorum? 
Shall  we  so  sour  and  sulky  sit, 
Wi'  neither  sense,  nor  mirth,  nor  wit, 
Nor  ever  rise  to  shake  a  fit  45 

To  the  reel  of  Tullochgorum? 

May  choicest  blessings  still  attend 
Each  honest  open-hearted  friend, 
And  calm  and  quiet  be  his  end. 

And  a'  that's  good  watch  o'er  him!      50 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 

And  dainties  a  great  store  o'  'em; 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot. 
Unstained  by  any  vicious  spot! 
And  may  be  never  want  a  groat  55 

That's  fond  of  Tullochgorum. 

But  for  the  dirty,  yawning  fool. 
Who  wants  to  be  oppression's  tool. 
May  envy  gnaw  his  rotten  soul. 

And  discontent  devour  him !  60 

May  dooF  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 
Dool  and  sorrow,  dool  and  sorrow, 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance. 

And  nane  say  wae's  me  for  'im! 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance,        65 
Wi'  a'  the  ills  that  come  frae  France, 
Whae'er  he  be,  that  winna  dance 

The  reel  of  Tullochgorum. 


31ane  Clliot 

1727-1805 

THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST 

I've  heard  them  lilting,  1  at  our  ewe-milking, 

Lasses  a-lilting,  before  the  dawn  of  day; 

But  now  they   are  moaning,   on   ilka  green 

loaning;^ 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede'  away. 

At  bughts*  in  the  morning  nae  blythe  lads  are 
scorning;  5 

The  lasses  are  lanely,  and  dowie,  and  wae; 

Nae  dafling,  nae  gabbing,  but  sighing  and 
sabbing. 

Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin,^  and  hies  her  away. 

«  Double  taxes.  (Cess  =  a  tax) ;  i.e.,  the  amount  of  tax 
cessed,  or  assessed,  by  the  Government. 
^  Dole,  grief. 

1  Singing  joyously, 

2  A  path  left  for  the  cattle  between  the  corn  fields. 

3  Withered,  faded. 

*  Sheep-pens.  ^  Milk-pail. 


458 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


In  hairst,^  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are 

jeering, 
The  bandsters'  are  lyart,*  and  runkled  and 

gray;  .10 

At   fair   or   at   preaching,   nae   wooing,    nae 

fleechiag* 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  e'en,  in  the  gloaming,  nae  swankies^"  are 

roaming 
'Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses  at  bogle"  to  play; 
But  ilk  ane  sits  eerie,  lamenting  her  dearie —  15 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order  sent  our  lads  to  the 

Border! 
The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  fought  aye  the 

foremost. 
The  prime  of  our  land,  lie  cauld  in  the  clay.      20 

We'll  hear  nae  more  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning, 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  awiay. 


While  waters  wimple^  to  the  sea,  ^  23 

While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  nie; 
Till  clay-cauld  death  shall  blin'  my  e*e. 
Ye  aye  shall  be  my  dearie. 


1750-1825 

AULD  ROBIN  GRAY 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when  the 

kye's^  come  hame, 
And  a'  the  weary  warld  to  rest  are  gane. 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  ma  ee, 
Unkent  by  my  guidman,  wha  sleeps  sound  by 

me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for 

his  bride,  5 

But  saving  ae  crown-piece  he  had  naething 

beside; 
To  make  the  crown  a  pound  my  Jamie  gaed  to 

sea, 
And  the  crown  and  the  pound — they  were  baith 

for  me. 


3l0abel  ]pagan 

1740-1821 

CA  THE  YOWES 

Ca'  the  yowes^  to  the  kn  ewes'* 
Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rows,^ 
My  bonnie  dearie. 


As  I  gaed  down  the  water  side, 
There  I  met  my  shepherd  lad. 
He  rowed  me  sweetly  in  his  plaid, 
And  he  ca'd  me  his  dearie. 

Will  ye  gang  down  the  water  side. 
And  see  the  waves  sae  sweetly  glide 
Beneath  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 
The  moon  it  shines  fu'  clearly. 

I  was  bred  up  at  nae  sic  school, 
My  shepherd  lad  to  play  the  fool; 
And  a'  the  day  to  sit  in  dool. 
And  naebody  to  see  me. 

Ye  shall  get  gowns  and  ribbons  meet, 
Cauf-leather  shoon  upon  your  feet. 
And  in  my  arms  ye'se  lie  and  sleep, 
And  ye  shall  be  my  dearie.  20 

If  ye'll  but  stand  to  what  ye've  said, 
I'se  gang  wi'  you  my  shepherd  lad; 
And  ye  may  row  me  in  your  plaid, 
And  I  shall  be  your  dearie. 


10 


15 


•  Harvest. 

8  Gray-haired. 

J**  Active  young  men 

'  Ewes.  2  Knolls. 


'  Men  who  bind  the  sheaves. 
»  Coaxing. 
"  Hide-and-seek. 

•  The  brook  rolls. 


He  hadna  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
When  my  father  brake  his  arm  and  the  cow 
was  stown^  away;  10 

My  mither  she  fell  sick — my  Jamie  was  at  sea. 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courting  me. 

My  father  couldna  wark — ^my  mother  couldna 

spin — 
I  toiled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna 

win; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and,  wi' 

tears  in  his  ee,  15 

Said:  "Jeanie,  O  for  their  sakes,  will  ye  no 

marry  me?" 

My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I  looked  for  Jamie 

back, 
But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a 

wrack. 
His  ship  was  a  wrack — why  didna  Jamie  die, 
Or  why  am  I  spared  to  cry  wae  is  me?  20 

My  father  urged  me  sair — my  mither  didna 

speak, 
But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like 

to  break; 
Thy  gied  him  my  hand — ^my  heart  was  in  the 

sea — 
And  so  auld  Robin  Gray  he  was  guidman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  his  wife  a  week  but  only  four,      25 
When,  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  my 

door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  ghaist,  for  I  couldna  think 

it  he, 
Till  he  said:  "I'm  come  hame,  love,  to  marry 
thee!" 
*  Ripple. 
^Cows.  'Stolen. 


CAROLINE  OLIPHANT   (LADY  NAIRN) 


459 


Oh,  sair  sair  did  we  greet,  and  miokle  say  of  a', 
I  gied  him  ae  kiss,  and  bade  him  gang  awa' —  30 
I  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  na  hke  to  die, 
For,  though  my  heart  is  broken,  I'm  but  young, 
waeisme! 

I  gang  Hke  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  much  to  spin, 
I  darena  think  o'  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin. 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be,  35 

For,  oh!  Robin  Gray,  he  is  kind  to  me. 


Caroline  (i^lip^ant  (ilati^  jl^atm) 

1766-1845 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  LEAL 

I'm  wearin'  awa',  John, 

Like  snaw-wreaths  in  thaw,  Johu, 

I'm  wearin'  awa', 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal.* 
There's  nae  sorrow  there,  John,  5 

There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  John, 
The  day  is  aye  Tair 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Our  bonnie  bairn's  there,  John, 

She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  John;         10 

And  O!  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
But  sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  John, 
And  joy's  a-coming  fast,  John, 
The  joy  that's  aye  to  last  15 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Sae  dear's  the  joy  was  bought,  John, 
Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  John, 
That  sinfu'  man  e'er  brought, 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal.  20 

O,  dry  your  glistening  e'e,  John  I 
My  saul  langs  to  be  free,  John, 
And  angels  beckon  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

O,  haud  ye  leal  and  true,  John!  25 

Your  day  it's  wearin'  through,  John, 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Now  fare-ye-weel,  my  ain  John, 
This  warld's  cares  are  vain,  John,  30 

We'll  meet,  and  we'll  be  fain. 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 


ANONYMOUS 

THE    WEE,    WEE    GERMAN    LAIRDIE 

Wha  the  deil  hae  we  got  for  a  king, 
But  a  wee,  wee  German  lairdieU 

An'  when  we  gaed  to  bring  him  hame, 
He  was  delving  in  his  kail-yardie:^ 

1  Loyal,  faithful,  true-hearted. 

li.  e.,  George  I  (1714-1727),  Elector  of  Hanover. 
Both  George  I  and  George  II  were  favorite  subjects 
for  ridicule  with  the  Jacobite  song-writers. 

*  Cabbage-garden. 


Sheughing  kail,^  and  laying  leeks,  5 

Without  the  hose  and  but  the  breeks;* 
And  up  his  beggar  duds  he  cleeks, 
The  wee,  wee  German  lairdie! 

And  he's  clappit  down  in  our  gudeman's  chair, 
The  wee,  wee  German  lairdie!  lo 

And  he's  brought  fouth^  o'  foreign  trash. 

And  dibbled^  them  in  his  yardie: 
He's  pu'd  the  rose  o'  English  loons. 
And  brake  the  harp  o'  Irish  clowns, 
But  our  Scot's  thistle  will  j ag  his  thumbs,        15 
The  wee,  wee  German  lairdie! 


Come  up  amang  the  Highland  hills. 

Thou  wee,  wee  German  lairdie, 
And  see  how  Charlie' s^  lang-kail  thrive. 

That  he  dibbled  in  his  yardie: 
And  if  a  stock  ye  daur  to  pu'. 
Or  haud  the  yoking  o'  a  pleugh, 
We'll  break  your  sceptre  o'er  your  mou'. 
Thou  wee  bit  German  lairdie! 


20 


25 


S 


3d 


40 


Our  hills  are  steep,  our  glens  are  deep, 

Nae  fitting  for  a  yardie; 
And  our  norlan'  thristles  winna  pu'. 

For  a  wee  bit  German  lairdie! 
And  we've  the  trenching  blades  o'  weir, 
Wad  glib^  ye  o'  your  German  gear, 
And  pass  ye  neath  the  claymore's  sheer 

Thou  feckless  German  lairdie! 

Auld  Scotland!  thou'rt  owre  cauld  a  hole 

For  nursing  siccan  vermin; 
But  the  very  dogs  o'  England's  court 

Can  bark  and  hcn^l  in  German! 
Then  keep  thy  diboie^  i'  thy  ain  hand. 

Thy  spade  but  and  thy  yardie; 
For  wha  the  deil  now  claims  your  land. 

But  a  wee,  wee  German  lairdie? 

CHARLIE  IS  MY  DARLING 

'Twas  on  a  Monday  morning. 

Right  early  in  the  year. 
That  Charlie!  came  to  our  town, 
The  young  Chevalier. 

And  Charlie  he's  my  darling. 

My  darling,  my  darling, 
And  Charlie  he's  my  darling, 
The  young  Chevalier. 

As  CharHe  he  came  up  the  gate, 
His  face  shone  like  the  day: 
I  grat  to  see  the  lad  come  back 
That  had  been  lang  away. 

And  Charlie  he's  my  darling,  etc. 

•  Ditching  cabbage. 

6  Plenty. 

f  Charles    Edward    Stuart, 
grandson  of  King  James  II. 

8  Dgprive. 

»  A  pointed  tool,  used  to  make  holes  for  planting  seeds, 
or  "dibbling." 

1  Charles  Stuart,  "the  young  Pretender."  as  his  father 
James  Edward  Stuart,  was  called  the  "Chevalier"  by 
his  friends,  Charles  gained  the  title  of  "the  young  Chev- 
alier." 


10 


4  Without  breeches. 
6  Planted, 
'the   young   Pretender,' 


460 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


And  ilka  bonnie  lassie  sang, 

As  to  the  door  she  ran,  15 

Our  king  shall  hae  his  ain  again, 

And  Charlie  is  the  man. 

And  iUharlie  he's  my  darling,  etc. 

Out-owre  yon  moory  mountain, 

•  And  down  yon  craigy  glen,  20 

Of  naething  else  our  lasses  sing 
^/But  Charlie  and  his  men. 

And  Charlie  he's  my  darling,  etc. 

^    Our  Highland  hearts  are  true  gtnd  leal. 

And  glow  without  a  stain;       *  25 

Our  Highland  swords  are  metal  keen, 
.  Aiid  Charlie  he's  our  ain.  -. 

*  And  Charlie  he'l5  fh3^  diarlingH 
My  darling,  my  darling, 
'  And  Charhe  he's  niy  darling,  30 

The  young  Chevalier. 

Robert  iFergu00on 

1750-1774 

THE  DAFT  DAYS 

Now  mirk  December's  dowie^  face 
Glow'rs  ow'r  the  rigs^  wi'  sour  grimace, 
While,  thro'  his  minimum  o'  space. 

The  bleer-ey'd  sun, 
Wi'  blinkin'  light,  and  stealin'  pace,  5 

His  race  doth  run. 

Frae  naked  groves  nae  birdie  sings, 
To  shepherd's  pipe  nae  hillock  rings, 
The  breeze  nae  od'rous  flavour  brings 

From  Borean  cave,  10 

An'  dwynin'3  Nature  droops  her  wings, 

Wi'  visage  grave. 

Mankind  but  scanty  pleasure  glean 

Frae  snawy  hill  or  barren  plain. 

Whan  Winter,  'midst  his  nipping  train,      15 

Wi'  frozen  spear, 
Sends  drift  ow'r  a'  his  bleak  domain. 

And  guides  the  weir.^ 

Auld  Reekie!^  thou'rt  the  canty  hole, 

A  bield^  for  mony  a  cauldrife^  soul,  20 

Wha  snugly  at  thine  ingle  loll, 

Baith  warm  and  couth  ;8 
While  round  they  gar  the  bicker',  roll. 

To  weet  their  mouth.  .  .  . 

Ye  browster  wives,  now  busk  ye  bra',         25 
An'  fling  your  sorrows  far  awa;' 
Then  come  and  gie's  the  tither  blaw 

O'  reaming  ale, 
Mair  precious  than  the  well  o'  Spa, 

Our  hearts  to  heal.  ...  30 

1  Gloomy. 

2  R'dges,  hUls. 

*  Pining,  wasting  away. 

*War. 

'-  Old  smoky,  i.  e.,  Edinburgh.     •  Shelter. 

^  Chilly.  8  Kind,  friendly. 

»  Wooden  drinking-cup,  or  bowl. 


Fiddlers,  your  pins  in  temper  fix. 
And  rozet  weel  your  fiddle-sticks, 
But  banish  vile  Italian  tricks 

Frae  out  your  quorum. 
Nor  fortes  wi'  pianos  mix, 

Gie's  Tullochgorum.  .  .  . 


35 


And  thou,  great  god  of  Aqua  Vitae! 

Wha  sways  the  empire  o'  this  city. 

When  fou  we're  sometimes  capernoity,       ' 

Be  thou  prepar'd  40 

To  hedge  us  from  that  black  banditti, 

fhf^City-Guard. 


(1759-1796) 

THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

(1785) 

"Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor." 

Gray. 

My  lov'd,  iny  honour'd,   much  respected 
friend!!  ay 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays;-w 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end,OL> 
My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and 

praise  iJ^-/  q 

To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays,"v~'    5 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene;  ^ 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless 
ways,  .J^ 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been;g^ 
Ah!  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there 
I  ween!  (V 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh;2io 

The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close; 

The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their 

repose: 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes. 
This  night  his  weekly  moil'  is  at  an  end,        15 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his 
hoes, 
Hoping  the  mom  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,   o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does 
hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Ben  eath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ;  20 

Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddhn',  stacher* 

through 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin'  noise  and 

glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin'  bonily, 

1  Robert  Aiken,  a  solicitor  in  Ayr,  who  was  a  patron 
of  Burns,  and  an  admirer  of  his  poetry. 

2  A  whistling,t  rushing  sound.     (Scotch  form  of  sough.) 
»  Drudgery.  *  Stagger. 


ROBERT  BURNS 


461 


His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's 

smile, 

The  lisping  infant,  prattling  on  his  knee,-  25 

Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh*  and  care  beguile, 

And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  and  his 

toil. 

Belyve,^  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 
At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun'; 
Some  ca'^  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  ten  tie 
rin  30 

A  cannie  errand^  to  a  neebor  town : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman- 
grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom, — ^love  sparkling  in  her 
e'e — 
Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw^  new 
gown, 
Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee,  ^°  35 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeign'd,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 
And    each    for    other's    weelfare    kindly 
spiers  :^^ 
The    social   hours,    swift-wing'd,    unnotic'd 
fleet: 
Each  tells  the  uncos^^  that  he  sees  or  hears; 
The   parents   partial   eye   their   hopeful 
years;  41 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view; 

The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  and  her  shears, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the 


The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 


45 


Their  master's  and  their  mistress's  command. 

The  younkers   a'   are   warned   to   obey; 

And  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent^'  hand. 

And  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk^^  or 

play; 

"  And  O !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway,  50 

And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  mom  and  night; 

Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 

They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 

aright." 

But,  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door;  55 
Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same. 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  came  o'er  the  moor. 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame.- 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek;  60 
Wi'  heart-struck  anxious  care  enquires  his 
name, 
While  Jenny  haflflins^^  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel-pleased  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild, 
worthless  rake. 

5  Worry,  labor.  e  By-and-bye,  presently. 

7  Drive.     As  in   "ca   canny,"   drive  slowly,   or  cau- 
tiously. 

8  Tentie  rin  a  cannie  errond=  careful  run  a  frugal  errand. 
»  Brave,  fipe,  gay.  i°  i.  e.,  hard-won  wages. 

11  Enquired. 

12  Strange  happenings,  little  incidents  out  of  the  com- 
mon. "  Diligent. 

'*  To  trifle,  or,  as  we  would  say,  to  fool,      i*  Half. 


Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ;i« 

A  strappin  youth,  he  takes  the  mother's 

eye;  65 

Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill-ta'en; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and 

kye.i^ 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi' 

joy, 

But  blate  an'  laithfu',!^  scarce  can  weel  behave; 

The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 70 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  and  sae 

grave, 

Weel-pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like 

the  lave.^^ 

Oh,  happy  lovel  where  love  Uke  this  is  found! 
Oh,  heart-felt  raptures!  bliss  beyond  com- 
pare! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round,  75 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare; 
"If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure 
spare — ■ 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 

In    other's    arms    breathe  out  the    tender 

tale,  80 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the 

evening  gale." 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 

A  wretch!  a  villain!  lost  to  love  and  truth! 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth? 

Curse  on   his  perjur'd  arts!  dissembhng 

smooth!  86 

Are  honour,  virtue,   conscience,   all  exil'd? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth. 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their 
child? 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd,  maid,  and  their  distrac- 
tion wild?  90 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple 

board. 

The  halesorae  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's 

food; 

The  soupe  their  only  hawkie^"  does  afford. 

That,  'yont  the  hallan^i  snugly  chows  her 

cood: 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  compUmental 
mood,  95 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck, 
fell;22 
And  aft  he's  prest,  and  aft  he  ca's  it  guid: 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 
How 't  was  a  towmond  auld,^^  sin'  lint  was  i'  the 
bell.24 

16  Inside,  into  the  inner  room.  In  two-roomed  houses 
the  outer  apartment  was  called  the  btd,  the  inner,  con- 
taining the  fire-place,  ben. 

"  Cows. 

^^  Blate  an'  laithfu' —shamefaced  and  reluctant.  The 
youth  is  hesitating  and  awkward  through  shyness  and 
modesty. 

19  The  rest,  the  others. 

20  Cow,  more  especially  a  black  and  white  cow.  Soupe, 
i.  e.,  milk. 

21  Partition.      22  Well-saved  cheese,  strong,  pungent. 
2*  Twelve-month  old.    24  Since  flax  was  in  the  flower. 


462 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face,ioo 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  with  patriarchal  grace, 
The  big  ha'-bible,^^  ance  his  father's  pride; 
His  bonnet28  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 
His  lyart  haffets^^  wearing  thin  and  bare;  105 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 

glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 
And  "Let  us  worship  God!"  he  says,  with 
solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple 
guise. 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 
aim;  iiO 

Perhaps  "Dundee's"^  wild-warbling  meas- 
ures rise, 
Or  plaintive  "Martyrs,"  worthy  of  the 

name; 
Or  noble  "Elgin"  beets^^  the  heaven-ward 
flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays: 

Compar'd  with  these,   Italian   trills  are 

tame;  115 

The  tickl'd  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise; 

Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage  120 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard^°  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  waiUng  cry; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire;  125 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was 
shed: 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second 
name. 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His 
head;  130 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land: 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom^^  pronounc'd 
by  Heaven's  command.  135 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  Eternal 

King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband 

prays: 
Hope    "springs    exulting    on    triumphant 

wing,"32 

«  Hall-bible,  i.  e.,  house-hold,  or  family,  Bible. 

*  In  Scotland  (as  in  Shakespeare)  bonnet  often  means 
a  cap,  or  head-covering,  worn  by  men  or  boys.  In  Scott's" 
well-known  song  the  "Blue  Bonnets" =the  Scotch. 
{v.  p.  501). 

"  Grey  temples,  i.  e.,  the  locks  of  gray  about  his  tem- 
ples. 

^Dundee,  Martyrs,  and  Elgin  are  among  the  most 
familiar  and  characteristic  of  the  Scottish  hymn-tunes. 

»  Rouses,  fans.  so  King  David. 

»»  Rev.  xviiL  «2  Pope,  Windsor  Forest,  1.  111. 


That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  futuw 

days. 
There,  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays,         140 
No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere;  144 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art; 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart! 
The   Power,   incens'd,   the  pageant   will 
desert. 
The  pompous  strain ,  the  sacerdotal  stole ;      1 50 
But  haply,   in   some   cottage  far  apart. 
May  hear,  well  pleas'd,  the  language  of  the 
soul; 
And  in  His  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  en- 
roll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral 

way; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest:       155 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 
And  profifer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  re- 
quest. 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous 
nest. 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the 
best,  160 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine 
preside. 

From  scenes  like  these,  old  Scotia's  grandeur 

springs, 

That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd 

abroad:  i64 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of 

God;"» 

And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind; 

What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous 

load,  169 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind. 

Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin'd! 

O  Scotia!  my  dear,  my  native  soil! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is 
sent. 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 
content!  175 

And  O!  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  pre- 
vent 
From  luxury's  contagion,   weak  and  vile! 
Then,   howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be 
rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  arouad  their  much- 
lov'd  isle.  180 

**  Pope,  Essay  on  Man,  Ep.  iv.  247, 


ROBERT  BURNS 


463 


O  Thou!  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide, 
That  stream'd  thro'  great  unhappy  Wal- 
lace' heart, 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part: 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art,  185 
His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian  and  reward!) 

Oh  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert; 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and 
guard! 


EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  LAPRAIK,  AN  OLD 
SCOTTISH   BARD 

April  1st,  1785 

While  briars  and  woodbines  budding  green, 
And  paitricks  serai  chin' ^  loud  at  e'en. 
And  morning  poussie  whidden^  seen, 

Inspire  my  Muse, 
This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien'  5 

I  pray  excuse. 

On  Fasten-e'en'  we  had  a  rockin',* 

To  ca'  the  crack^  and  weave  our  stockin'; 

And  there  was  muckle  fun  and  jokin', 

Ye  needna  doubt;  10 

At  length  we  had  a  hearty  yokin'' 

At  sang  about. 

There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 

Aboon  them  a'  it  pleased  me  best. 

That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest  15 

To  some  sweet  wife: 
It  thirl'd^  the  heart-strings  through  the  breast, 

A'  to  the  life. 

I've  scarce  heard  ought  described  sae  weel, 
What  generous  manly  bosoms  feel;  20 

Thought  I,  "Can  this  be  Pope,  or  Steele, 

Or  Beattie's  wark? 
They  tauld  me  'twas  an  odd  kind  chiel 

About  Muirkirk. 

It  pat  me  fidgin-f  ain^  to  hear't,  25 

And  sae  about  him  there  I  spiert;^ 
Then  a'  that  kenf  him  round  declared 

He  had  ingine;^" 
That  name  excell'd  it,  few  cam  near't, 

It  was  sae  fine.  30 

That,  set  him  to  a  pint  of  ale. 

And  either  douce^^  or  merry  tale. 

Or  rhymes  and  sangs  he'd  made  himsel, 

Or  witty  catches: 
'Tween  Inverness  and  Teviotdale  35 

He  had  few  matches. 

1  Partridges  crying.  ^  jjare  scampering. 

3  The  evening  before  the  fast  of  Lent,  or  before  Ash 
Wednesday. 

*  Evening  party.  ^  Drive  the  talk. 

•A  turn,  or  bout.    Hearty  yokin'  corresponds  to  "a 
good  spell." 

» Thrilled.  8  i.   e.  it  made  me  impatient. 

•  Inquired,      i"  Genius.  ^^  Serious,  sober. 


Then  up  I  gat,  and  swore  an  aith. 

Though  I  should  pawn  my  pleugh  and  graith,^* 

Or  die  a  cadger  pownie's^'  death. 

At  some  dike  back,  40 

A  pint  and  gill  I'd  gie  them  baith 

To  hear  your  crack. ^* 

But,  first  and  foremost,  I  should  tell, 

Amaist  as  soon  as  I  could  spell, 

I  to  the  crambo-jingle  fell,^^  45 

Though  rude  and  rough: 
Yet  croonin'  to  a  body's  sel 

Does  weel  enough. 

I  am  nae  poet,  in  a  sense. 

But  just  a  rhymer,  like  by  chance,  50 

And  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence. 

Yet  what  the  matter? 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic  folk  may  cock  their  nose,  65 

And  say,  "How  can  you  e'er  propose, 
You,  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose. 

To  make  a  sang?" 
But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 

Ye're  maybe  wrang.  60 

What's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools. 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  and  stools; 
If  honest  nature  made  you  fools, 

What  sairs^^  your  grammars? 
Ye'd  better  ta'en  up  spadds  and  shools,  65 

Or  knappin'-hammers." 

A  set  o'  dull  conceited  hashes,  ^^ 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes! 
They  gang  in  stirks,^^  and  come  out  asses. 

Plain  truth  to  speak;  70 

And  syne^"  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o'  Greek! 

Gie  me  a  spark  o'  Nature's  fire! 
That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire; 
Then,  though  I  drudge  through  dub^i  and  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart,       _  76 

My  Muse,  though  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart. 


80 


Oh  for  a  spunk22  o'  Allan's^'  glee. 
Or  Fergusson's  the  bauld  and  slee,^* 
Or  bright  Lapraik's,  my  friend  to  be. 

If  I  can  hit  it! 
That  would  be  lear^^  enough  for  me, 

If  I  could  get  it! 


Now,  sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow,  85 

Though  real  friends  I  b'lieve  are  few, 
Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fu', 

I'  se  no  insist. 
But  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that's  true, 

I'm  on  your  list.  90 

"  Tackle.  "  A  packman's,  or  carrier's  pony. 

"  Talk.  "  i.  e.  I  fell  to  making  doggerel  verses. 

"  Serves.  "  Stone-breakers'  hammers. 

18  Blockheads.  "  Young  cattle.     ^  Then.    21  Puddle. 
«  Spark.  23  Allan  Ramsay.   "  Sly.      ^^  Learning. 


464 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


I  winna  blaw  about  mysel; 

As  ill  I  like  my  faiits  to  tell; 

But  friends  and  folk  that  wish  me  well, 

They  sometimes  roose^  me; 
Though  I  maun  own,  as  mony  still  95 

As  far  abuse  me. 

There's  ae  wee  faut  they  whiles  lay  to  me, 

I  hke  the  lasses — Gude  forgie  me! 

For  mony  a  plack^^  they  wheedle  frae  me. 

At  dance  or  fair;  100 

Maybe  some  ither  thing  they  gie  me. 

They  weel  can  spare. 

But  Mauchline  race,  or  Mauchline  fair, 
I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there; 
We'se  gie  ae  night's  discharge  to  Care,      105 

If  we  forgather. 
And  hae  a  swap  o'  rhymin'  ware 

Wi'  ane  an  ither. 

The  four-gill  chap,  we'se  gar  him  clatter, 
And  kirsen^s  him  wi'  reekin'  water;  110 

Syne  we'll  sit  down  and  tak  our  whitter,^^ 

To  cheer  our  heart; 
And  faith,  we'se  be  acquainted  better 

Before  we  part. 

Awa'  ye  selfish  war'ly  race,  116 

Wha  think  that  havins,^°  sense  and  grace. 
E'en  love  and  friendship,  should  give  place 

To  catch- the-plack!^! 
I  dinna  like  to  see  your  face. 

Nor  hear  your  crack.'^         120 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms, 
Whose  hearts  the  tide  of  kindness  warms, 
Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms, 

"Each  aid  the  others," 
Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms,        125 

My  friends,  my  brothers. 

But,  to  conclude  my  long  epistle, 
*  As  my  auld  pen's  worn  to  the  grissle; 
Twa  lines  frae  you  would  gar  me  fissle,'' 

Who  am  most  fervent,  130 

While  I  can  either  sing  or  whistle, 

Your  friend  and  servant. 


TO  A  MOUSE,  ON  TURNING  HER  UP  IN 
HER  NEST,  WITH  THE  PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER,  1785 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle I^ 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee,         5 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle!^ 

"  Praise.  » Coin.         ^  Christen.         29  Draught. 

*>  Manners.     "  Money-making,  "chasing-the-dollar." 
»»  Talk.  83  Fidget,  i.  e.,  jump  for  joy. 

'  Hurrying  flight. 

*  The  stick  used  to  scrape  the  earth  from  the  plough- 
share. 


I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion, 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion. 

Which  maks  thee  startle        10* 
At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion. 

An'  fellow-mortal! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,'  but  thou  may  thieve; 
What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave^  15 

'S  a  sma'  request; 
I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave, 

And  never  miss't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 

It's  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin !  20 

An'  naething  now  to  big^  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage^  green! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snelP  an'  keen! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste,     25 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell — 
Till,  crash!  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell.  30 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble! 
Now  thou's  turned  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But^  house  or  hald,^ 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble,  35 

An'  cranreuch^"  cauld! 

But  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane. 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain ; 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 


Gang  aft  agley," 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain 
For  promis'd  joy! 


40 


Still,  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 

But,  och!  I  backward  cast  ray  e'e,  45 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear! 

TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY,  ON  TURNING 
ONE  DOWN  WITH  THE  PLOUGH  IN 
APRIL,  1786 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tippM  flow'r, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 
For  I  maun  crush  araang  the  stour^ 

Thy  slender  stem: 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r,         5 

Thou  bonie  gem. 
'  At  times,  occasionally. 

*  An  occasional  ear  in  twenty-four  sheaves.  A  thrave 
consisted  of  two  stooks  of  corn  of  twelve  sheaves  each. 

*  Build.  6  Grass  growing  among  the  grain.      '  Bitter. 
8  Without.        » Home.         'o  Hoar-frost.         "  Awry. 

1  In  Scotland  slour  usually  means  dust,  or  moving 
dust.  Here,  stour  involves  the  idea  of  the  earth  up-turned 
or  disturbed  by  the  plough. 


ROBERT  BURNS 


465 


Alas!  it's  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 
The  bonie  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  speckl'd  breast!  10 

When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 

Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth  15 

Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 

High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield;  20 

But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield'^ 

O'  clod  or  stane. 
Adorns  the  histie^  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad,  25 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  upturns  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies!  30 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd. 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd  is  laid,  35 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard. 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card* 

Of  prudent  lore,  40 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given. 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n,  45 

To  mis'ry's  brink; 
Till,  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n 

He,  ruin'd,  sink! 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn 'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date;  60 

Stern  Ruin's  plough-share  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom! 


Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song. 

Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 

That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

O,  pass  not  by! 
But,  with  a  f rater-feeling*  strong. 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 


10 


Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear 

Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 

Yet  runs,  himself,  life's  mad  career,  15 

Wild  as  the  wave, 
Here  pause — and,  thro'  the  starting  tear, 

Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know,        20 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain'd  his  name! 


Reader,  attend!  whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole. 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

In  low  pursuit: 
Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 


25 


30 


A  PRAYER  UNDER  THE  PRESSURE  OF 
VIOLENT  ANGUISH 

(1786) 

O  Thou  Great  Being!  what  Thou  art, 

Surpasses  me  to  know; 
Yet  sure  I  am,  that  known  to  Thee 

Are  all  thy  Works  below. 

Thy  creature  here  before  Thee  stands,         5 

All  wretched  and  distrest; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 

Obey  Thy  high  behest. 


Sure  Thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath! 
O,  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears. 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death! 

But  if  I  must  afflicted  be, 

To  suit  some  wise  design. 
Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves, 

To  bear  and  not  repine! 


15 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH 

(1786) 

Is  there  a  whim-inspir6d  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate^  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool,' 

Let  him  draw  near; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool,'  5 

And  drap  a  tear. 

2  Shelter.  '  Dry,  barren. 

*  Probably  here = compass.  The  card,  or  compass- 
card,  on  which  the  points  were  given,  was  often  used  for 
the  compass  itself. 

1  Bashful.  2  To  cringe.  »  A  lamentation. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE 
(1788) 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  never  brought  to  mind? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  auld  lang  syne! 

Chorus.  For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak'  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet. 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

«  Brotherly  feeling. 


466 


DRYDEN   TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


10 


15 


20 


And  surely  ye'U  be  your  pint  stowp!^ 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine! 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  &c. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes. 

And  pou'd  the  gowans^  fine; 
But  we've  wandered  mony  a  weary  fit, 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  &c. 

We  twa  hae  paidl'd  i'  the  burn,' 

Frae  morning  sun  till  dine;* 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  &c. 

And  there's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fere!^ 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine!  25 

And  we'll  tak  a  right  gude-willie  waught,^ 
For  auld,  &c. 


OF  A'  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND  CAN 
BLAW 

(1788) 

Of  a'  the  airts^  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonie  lassie  lives. 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best: 
There  wild-woods  grow,  and  rivers  row,    5 

And  mony  a  hill  between : 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair:  10 

I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air: 
There's  not  a  bonie  flower  that  springs. 

By  fountain,  shaw,^  or  green; 
There's  not  a  bonie  bird  that  sings,         15 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

MY  BONIE  MARY 

(1788) 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine. 

And  fill4<rin  a  silver  tassie;^ 
That  I^ay  drink  before  I  go, 

A  ^vice  to  my  bonie  lassie. 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith;  5 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  Ferry; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly. 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranV:ed  ready:  lo 

The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 
The  battle  closes  deep  and  bloody; 


t 


It's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore. 
Wad  mak  me  langer  wish  to  tarry! 

Nor  shouts  o'  war  that's  heard  afar —     15 
It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonie  Mary! 

THE  WOUNDED  HARE 

(1789) 

Inhuman  man!  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art. 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye. 
May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh. 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart! 

Go  live,  poor  wand'rer  of  the  wood  and  field !     5 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains : 
No  more  the  thickening  brakes  and  verdant 
plains 

To  thee  a  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted 
rest, 
No  more  of  rest,  but  now  the  dying  bed !       lo 
The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er  thy  head. 

The  cold  earth  with  tKy  bloody  bosom  prest. 

Perhaps  a  mother's  anguish  adds  its  woe; 

The  playful  pair  crowd  fondly  by  thy  side; 

Ah!  helpless  nurslings,  who  will  now  provide 
That  life  a  mother  only  can  bestow  i  16 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 
I'll  miss  thee  sporting  o'er  the  dewy  lawn. 

And  curse  the  ruflSan's  arm,  and  mourn  thy 
hapless  fate.  20 

AE  FOND  KISS,  AND  THEN  WE  SEVER 

(1791) 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 
Ae  farewell,  and  then  for  ever! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee. 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him,      5 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,  nae  cheerful  twinkle  lights  me; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 


I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy: 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her; 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly. 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly. 
Never  met — or  never  parted. 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 


10 


15 


1  Stand  for  a  pint  cup. 
*  Paddled  in  the  brook. 
'  Companion. 
1  Direction. 
1 A  goblet. 


*  Daisies. 

*  Dinner  time. 

*  A  hearty  draught. 

*  Grove  or  wood. 


Fare-thee-weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 

Fare-thee-weel,  thou  best  and  dearest! 

Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 

Peace,  Enjoyment,  Love  and  Pleasure!       2C 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever! 

Ae  farewell,  alas,  for  ever! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee. 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 


ROBERT  BURNS 


467 


TAM  O'SHANTER 

(First  published  1791) 

"Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  Buke." 
Gawin  Douglas. 

When  chapman  billies^  leave  the  street, 

And  drouthy^  neibors,  neibors  meet; 

As  market  days  are  wearing  late, 

And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate,^ 

While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy,*  5 

An'  getting  fou^  and  unco  happy, 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles,^ 

The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,''  and  stiles, 

That  lie  between  us  and  bur  hame. 

Where  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame,  10 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 

Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter: 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses,       15 
For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses). 

O  Tam!  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise. 

As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  wast  a  skellum;^ 

A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum;'     20 

That  frae  November  till  October, 

Ae  market-day  thou  wasna  sober; 

That  ilka  melderio  wi'  the  Miller, 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 

That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd^^  a  shoe  on  25 

The  Smith  and  thee  gat  roarin  fou  on; 

That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 

Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean^^  till  Monday; 

She  prophesied  that  late  or  soon, 

Thou  wad  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon,  30 

Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks^^  i'  the  mirk,^* 

By  AUoway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames!  it  gars  me  greet,^^ 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 
How  mony  lengthen'd  sage  advices. 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises! 

But  to  our  tale: — Ae  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right. 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  ^^  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter"  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony: 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  very  brither; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 

1  Pedlar  fellows,  pedlars.  ^  Thirsty. 

3  Road.  *  Ale,  especially  strong  ale.      «  Full. 

«  The  Scotch  mile  was  several  hundred  yards  longer 
than  the  English  mile. 

'  Gaps  in  a  hedge  or  fence.  *  Scoundrel. 

9  Blatherskite,  noisy  talker. 

1°  i.  e. ,  Every  time  he  took  meal  to  be  ground.  Melder= 
the  amount  of  meal  ground  at  one  time.  , 

Hi.  e.,  every  horse  that  was  shod.  Co'd=driven;  to 
ca  a  shoe=to  drive,  or  nail  on,  a  shoe. 

'2  i.  e.,  Jean  Kennedy,  who  kept  a  public  house  at  the 
village  of  Kirkoawald,  on  the  road  from  Portpatrick  to 
Glasgow.  At  Kirkoswold,  Douglas  Graham  and  John 
Davidson  are  buried,  the  first  is  thought  to  have  been 
the  original  of  Tam  O'  Shanter,  the  second  of  SoiUer 
Johnie.  .  ,     .      j     ., 

"  Here,  monsters,  creatures  in  league  with  the  devil. 

1*  Dark.  ^^  Makes  me  weep. 

M  Fire,  or  fire-place,  "  Cobbler. 


35 


40 


The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  an'  clatter; 
And  aye  the  ale  was  growing  better: 
The  Landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favours  secret,  sweet,  and  precious: 
The  Souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 
The  Landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus: 
The  storm  without  might  rair^^  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 


45 


50 


Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy. 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy. 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades^^  o'  treasure,        53 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure: 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  hfe  victorious! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread. 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed;  60 

Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  forever; 
Or  like  the  Borealis  race. 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 
Or  like  the  Rainbow's  lovely  form,  63 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. — 
Nae  man  can  tether  Time  or  Tide; 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride: 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ;         70 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in. 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd;  73 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow'd: 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand. 
The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel-mounted  on  his  gray  mare  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg,  80 

Tam  skelpit^o  on  thro'  dub^i  and  mire. 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  gude  blue  bonnet. 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whiles  glow'rin  round  wi'  prudent  cares,  85 

Lest  bogles22  catch  him  unawares; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh. 
Where  ghaists  and  houlets^^  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Where  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd;^*  90 
And  past  the  birks^^  and  meikle  stane. 
Where  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane; 
And  thro'  the  whins, ^a  and  by  the  cairn, ^7 
Where  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well,  95 

Where  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel'. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods, 
The  Hghtnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole. 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll,  100 

When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze. 
Thro'  ilka  borers  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

18  Roar.  "  Loads.  ^  Dashed,  hurried. 

21  Puddle.  "  Ghosts,  hobgoblins.        23  Owls. 

2<  Was  smothered.  "  Birches. 

26  Furze.        27  a  heap  of  stones.        ®  Hole,  opening. 


468 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn!^  105 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn! 
Wi'  tippenny,'°  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquebae,'^  we'll  face  the  devil! 
The  swats  sae  ream'd^^  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle,^^  lio 

But  Maggie  stood,  right  sair  astonish'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd. 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  wow!  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance:  115 

Nae  cotillion,  brent  new^^  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels. 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunker^*  in  the  east. 
There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast;         120 
A  towzie  tyke,^^  black,  grim,  and  large. 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge; 
He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl," 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.^s 
Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses,  125 

That  shaw'd  the  Dead  in  their  last  dresses; 
And  (by  some  devilish  cantraipj^  sleight) 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light. 
By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table,  130 

A  murderer's  banes,  in  gibbet-aims; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristened  bairns; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab^  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red-rusted;  135 

Five  scimitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 
A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled: 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  of  life  bereft, 
The  gray-hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft;  140 

Wi'  mair  of  horrible  and  awfu'. 
Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd  amaz'd,  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious; 
The  Piper  loud  and  louder  blew,  145 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They    reel'd,    they    set,    they    cross'd,    they 

cleekit,*^ 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 
And  coost  her  duddies*^  to  the  wark, 
And  Unket*'  at  it  in  her  sark !  **  150 

Now  Tam,  O  Tam!  had  thae  been  queans," 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens! 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flainen,^ 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen-hunder  linen! — ^^ 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair,  155 

That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  off  my  hurdles,^' 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdies!*' 

^•The  personification  of  barley,  or  malt,  liquor.     Cf. 
Burns*  poem  John  Barleycorn. 

«>  Twopenny  ale.  »>  Whiskey.  **  Ale  so  frothed. 
•*  A  small  Scotch  coin.  »*  Bright,  new,  =  bran-new. 
"  Window-ledge,  or  seat.  »  Shaggy  cur. 

"  Made  them  scream,  or  sound  shrilly. 
«  Rattle,  tremble.  »  Magic.  «  Mouth. 

<»  Joined  hands.  <2  Cast  off  her  old  clothes. 

"  Tripped.         "  Shirt.      «  Young  girls. 
«  Greasy  flannel.  *^  i.  e.,  fine  linen. 

« Hips.  « 


But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie^"  hags  wad  spean*^  a  foal,  16« 

Louping  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock,^^ 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kennt  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie; 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  waulie,^' 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core,  165 

Lang  after  ken'd  on  Carrick  shore; 
(For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonie  boat. 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear,^* 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear) ;  170 

Her  cutty  sark,"  o'  Paisley  harn,^ 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie." 
Ah!  little  ken'd  thy  reverend  grannie,  175 

That  sark  she  cof t^^  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  grac'd  a  dance  o'  witches! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cour, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power;  180 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  Strang), 
And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd: 
Even  Satan  glowr'd  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain,         185 
And  hotch'd^^  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main: 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne^"  anither, 
Tam  tint"  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark:  190 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke,"' 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke;" 
As  open  pussie's^*  mortal  foes,  195 

When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When  "Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  skreich**^  and  hollow.  200 

Ah,  Tam!  ah,  Tam!  thou'U  get  thy  fairin!«« 
In  hell  they  '11  roast  thee  like  a  herrin! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy-utmost,  Meg,  205 

And  win  the  key-stane"  o'  the  brig; 
There,  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  darena  cross! 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  taii^^  she  had  to  shake!  210 

For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest. 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 

*"  Perhaps=  wrinkled,  withered.  *'  Wean. 

»«  Staff,  a  witch's  stick.  »»  Strapping. 

"  Barley.  "  Short  shirt. 

»«  Paisley  yarn,  i.  e.,  a  kind  of  coarse  linen.  Paisley 
is  noted  for  its  manufacture  of  linen,  shawls,  etc. 

"  Proud  of  it.  »  Bought.  »»  Hitched. 

«0Then.  "Lost. 

««  Fuss,  restlessness.  *»  Hive. 

«*  Pussy  =,  here,  hare,  or  rabbit. 

•»  Ghastly,  or  unearthly,  screech.  «•  Deserts. 

*'  i.  e.,  the  middle  of  the  bridge.  This  was  the  point  of 
safety,  since  the  pursuing  spirits  could  not  pass  beyond 
the  middle  of  the  running  stream  beneath. 

•«  i. «.,  " The  devil  a  bit  of  a  tail."    (Fient=fierui,  devil). 


ROBERT  BURNS 


469 


And  flew  at  Tarn  wi'  furious  ettle;^^ 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle! 

Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale,      215 

But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail: 

The  carling  claught^"  her  by  the  rump, 

And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read. 
Ilk  man,  and  mother's  son,  take  heed:      220 
Whene'er  to  Drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  Cutty-sarks  rin  in  your  mind. 
Think  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear; 
Remember  Tarn  o'  Shanter's  mare. 


AFTON  WATER 

(1791) 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 

braes,  ^ 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream — 
Flow   gently,   sweet   Afton,   disturb   not  her 

dream. 

Thou  stock-dove,  whose  echo  resounds  through 
the  glen,  5 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 

Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  for- 
bear— 

I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills. 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear  winding 
rills;  10 

There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys 

below. 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses 

blow; 
There,  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea,  15 
The  sweet-scented  birk^  shades  my  Mary  and 

me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flowerets  she  stems  thy 
clear  wave.  20 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 

braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays: 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream — 
Flow   gently,  sweet   Afton,  disturb   not   her 

dream! 

HIGHLAND  MARY 

(1792) 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery! 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumUe:^ 

«9  Intent.  "  Clutched. 

» Banks.  •  Birch. 

1  Muddy. 


There  Simmer  first  unfald  her  robes,  5 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  Farewell 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay,  green  birk,« 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom,  lo 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade, 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom! 
The  golden  Hours  on  angel  wings. 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  Dearie; 
For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life,  15 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow,  and  lock'd  embrace. 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder;  20 

But  oh!  fell  Death's  untimely  frost. 

That  nipt  my  Flower  sae  early! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips,  25 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly! 
And  clos'd  for  aye,  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust, 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly!  30 

But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


BRUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY  AT 
BANNOCKBURN 

(1793) 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  often  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  Victorie! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour;         5 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Chains  and  Slaverie! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 

Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave?  10 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee! 

Wha,  for  Scotland's  King  and  Law, 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa',  15 

Let  him  on  wi'  me! 

By  Oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  Sons  in  servile  chains! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 

But  they  shall  be  free!       20 

Lay  the  proud  Usurpers  low! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow!— - 

Let  us  Do  or  Die! 
«  Birch. 


470 


DRYDEN  TO  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHNSON 


A  RED,  RED  ROSE 

(1793) 

O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose, 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June: 

0  my  Luve's  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonie  lass,  5 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I; 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear. 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun:       10 

1  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare-thee-weel,  my  only  Luve! 

And  fare-thee-weel  awhile! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve,         15 

Though  it  were  ten  thousand  mile! 


CONTENTED  WI'  LITTLE  AND  CANTIE 
WI'   MAIR 

(1794) 
Contented  wi'  little,  and  cantie^  wi'  mair. 
Whene'er  I  forgather  wi'  Sorrow  and  Care, 
I  gie  them  a  skelp^  as  they're  creeping  alang, 
Wi'  a  cog  o'  gude  swats'  and  an  auld  Scottish 
sang. 

Chorus — Contented  wi'  little,  &c. 

I  whiles  claw  the  elbow  o'  troublesome  thought; 
But  Man  is  a  soger,^  and  Life  is  a  faught;^  7 

My  mirth  and  gude  humour  are  coin  in  my 

pouch, 
And  my  Freedom's  my  Lairdship  nae  monarch 

dare  touch. 

Contented  wi'  little,  &c.  lo 

A  towmond^  o'  trouble,  should  that  be  my  fa',^ 
A  night  o'  gude  fellowship  sowthers^  it  a' : 
When  at  the  blythe  end  o'  our  journey  at  last, 
Wha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o'  the  road  he  has 
past? 

Contented  wi'  little,  &c.  15 

Blind  Chance,  let  her  snapper  and  stoyte^  on 

her  way; 
Be  't  to  me,  be  't  frae  me,  e'en  let  the  jade  gae: 
Come  Ease,  or  come  Travail,  come  Pleasure  or 

Pain, 
My  warst  word  is:  "Welcome,  and  welcome 


Contented  wi'  little,  &c.  20 

IS  THERE,  FOR  HONEST  POVERTY 

(1795) 
(Tune— "For  a'  that") 
Is  there  for  honest  Poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  an'  a'  that; 
The  coward  slave — we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 

»  Merry,  cheerful.     2  Slap.       »  Bowl  of  good  ale. 

*  Soldier.  6  Fight.     «  A  twelvemonth. 

'  Fate.  8  Solders.  »  Stagger  and  stumble. 


For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that,  5 

Our  toils  obscure  an'  a'  that. 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp. 

The  Man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hodden  grey,^  an'  a'  that;  lo 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  that: 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor,  15 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  you  birkie^  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares  an'  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  coof'  for  a'  that:  20 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  ribband,  star,  an'  a'  that: 
The  man  o'  indepeodent  mind, 

He  looks  an'  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight,  25 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith,  he  maunna  fa'*  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a  that. 

Their  dignities  an'  a'  that;  30 

The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth. 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

(As  come  it  will  for  a'  that), 
That  Sense  and  Worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth,   35 

May  bear  the  gree,  an'  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet  for  a'  that, 
That  Man  to  Man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that.  40 


O,  WERT  THOU  IN  THE  CAULD  BLAST 
(1796) 

O  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee; 
Or  did  Misfortune's  bitter  storms  6 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 
Thy  bield^  should  be  my  bosom. 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  bleak  and  bare*  sae  bleak  and  bare,  lo 
The  desert  were  a  Paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there; 
Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  Crown  15 

Wad  be  my  Queen,  wad  be  my  Queen. 

^  Hodden  grey,    a    coarse   woolen    stuff,    which  (being 
undyed)  retained  the  natural  gray  color  of  the  wool. 

2  A  conceited,  self-assertive  man;  a  "young  sport." 

3  Lout,  fool.  *  Try. 
1  Shelter. 


VII.  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


c.  1784-c.  1837 


William  ^orOsftDort^ 

1770-1850 
LINES 

COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY/ 
ON    REVISITING    THE    BANKS    OF    THE    WYE 

DURING  A  TOUR  (July  13,  1798) 

Five  years  have  past;  five  summers,  with  the 

length 
Of  five  long  winters!  and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,   rolling  from   their  mountain- 
springs 
With  a  soft  inland  murmur. — Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs,  5 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion;  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view        lo 
These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard- 
tufts, 
Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits. 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
'Mid  groves  and  copses.   Once  again  I  see 
These  hedge-rows,   hardly   hedge-rows,   little 
lines  15 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild;  these  pastoral  farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees! 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods,  20 
Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 
The  hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms. 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man[s  eye:  25 

But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them. 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet. 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind,  30 

With  tranquil  restoration: — feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure:  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered,  acts        35 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.    Nor  less,  I  trust. 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift. 
Of  aspect  more  sublime;  that  blessed  mood, 

1  This  poem  was  composed  during  a  short  excursion 
in  the  valley  of  the  Wye,  which  Wordsworth  made  with 
his  sister.  He  visited  the  ruins  of  Tintern  Abbey,  but  the 
poem,  we  are  told,  was  composed  some  miles  from  the 
historic  ruin,  and  deals  entirely  with  the  beauties  of  the 
Wye  valley,  and  apparently  with  some  scenes  especially 
associated  with  memories  of  the  past. 


In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 

In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight     40 

Of  all  this  unintelligible  world. 

Is  lightened: — that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 

In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 

Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 

And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood      45 

Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 

In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul; 

While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 

Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things.  50 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh!  how  oft — 
In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world,       55 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  1  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan   Wye!     Thou   wanderer  thro'   the 

woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished 
thought,  60 

With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint. 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again: 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food        66 
For  future  years.    And  so  I  dare  to  hope. 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was 
when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills;  when  like  a  roe 

I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides      70 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams. 
Wherever  nature  led :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.    For  Nature 

then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days,        75 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.    The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion:  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite ;  a  feeling  and  a  love,  82 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supphed,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrowed    from    the    eye. — That    time    is 

past,  85 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more. 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.    Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other  gifts 
Have  followed;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 


471 


472 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


I  Abundant  recompense.   For  I  have  learned     90 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.    And  I  have  felt  95 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused,  . 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air,  100 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man: 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.    Therefore  am  I 

still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods,  105 

And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye,  and  ear, — both  what  they  half  create, 
And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense,  110 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more  115 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay: 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river;  thou,  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read    120 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.    Oh !  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister!  and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray  125 

The  heart  that  loved  her;  'tis  her  privilege 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed  130 

With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues. 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  hfe. 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb  135 

Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.   Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee :  and,  in  after  years,        140 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure;  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms. 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies;  oh!  then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief,  148 

Should  be   thy   portion,   with   what  healing 

thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me. 
And  these  my  exhortations!    Nor,  perchance — 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear  150 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these 

gleams 
Of  past  existence — wilt  thou  then  forget 


That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 
We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came  155 

Unwearied  in  that  service:  rather  say 
With  warmer  love — oh!  with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.    Nor  will  thou  then  forget, 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs. 
Arid  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy 
sake!  162 


EXPOSTULATION  AND  REPLY 

(1798) 

"Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day, 
Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away? 

"  Where  are  your  books? — ^that  light  bequeathed 
To  Beings  else  forlorn  and  blind!  6 

Up!  up!  and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 
From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

"You  look  round  on  your  Mother  Earth, 
As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you;  jo 

As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth. 
And  none  had  lived  before  you!" 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake, 
When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why. 
To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake,  15 

And  thus  I  made  reply: 

"The  eye — it  cannot  choose  but  see; 

We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still; 

Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 

Against  or  with  our  will.  20 

"  Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum  25 

Of  things  forever  speaking. 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come. 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking? 

" — Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone. 
Conversing  as  I  may,  30 

I  sit  upon  this  old  gray  stone, 
And  dream  my  time  away." 


THE  TABLES  TURNED 

AN  EVENING  SCENE   ON   THE   SAME   SUBJECT 

(1798) 

Up!  up!  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books; 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double: 
Up!  up!  my  Friend,  and  clear  your  looks; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble? 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


473 


The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head,  5* 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 
Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 
His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books!  'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife: 

Come,  hear  the  woodland  Hnnet,  10 

How  sweet  his  music!  on  my  life, 

There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark!  how  bhthe  the  throstle  sings! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher: 
Come  forth  into  the  Ught  of  things,  15 

Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health. 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness.  20 


n^ 


One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man. 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can.  .^ 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings;  25 

Our  meddling  intellect 
Mis-shapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things: — 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art; 
Close  up  those  barren  leaves;  30 

Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 


THREE  YEARS  SHE  GREW 

(1799) 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 

Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown; 

This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take; 

She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make  5 

A  Lady  of  my  own. 

"  MyseK  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse:  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower,  10 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 

That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs;  ^       15 

And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 

And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend;  20 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm, 
Grace  that  shall  mold  the  Maiden's  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 


"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear  25 

To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round. 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face.  30 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height. 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 

While  she  and  I  together  live  35 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 

How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene;      40 

The  memory  of  what  has  been. 

And  never  more  will  be. 


SHE  DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTRODDEN 
WAYS 

(1799) 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love: 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone  fl 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucy  ceased  to  be;  10 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh. 
The  difference  to  me! 

MICHAEL 

A   PASTORAL  POEM 
(1800) 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps 

Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll,* 

You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 

Your  feet  must  struggle;  in  such  bold  ascent 

The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face  to  face. 5 

But,  courage!  for  around  that  boisterous  brook 

The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  themselves, 

And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 

No  habitation  can  be  seen;  but  they 

Who  journey  thither  find  themselves  alone       10 

With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones,  and 

kites 
That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 
It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude; 
Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this  Dell 
But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass  by,    15 
Might  see  and  notice  not.     Beside  the  brook 
Appears  a  straggling  heap  of  unhewn  stones  • 
And  to  that  simple  object  appertains 
*  Narrow  valley  or  ravine. 


474 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND   SCOTT 


A  story  unenriclied  with  strange  events, 

Yet  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside,  20 

Or  for  the  summer  shade.    It  was  the  first 

Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 

Of  Shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 

Whom  I  already  loved : — not  verily 

For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 

Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode.  26 

And  hence  this  Tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  Boy 

Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 

Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 

Of  natural  objects,  led  me  on  to  feel  30 

For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and  think 

(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 

On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life. 

Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 

Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same  35 

For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts; 

And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 

Of  youthful  Poets,  who  among  these  hills 

WiU  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 

Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale^  40 
There  dwelt  a  Shepherd,  Michael  was  his  name; 
An  old  man,  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of  limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength:  his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  afi"airs,  45 

And  Id  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all  winds. 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone;  and,  oftentimes, 
When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  South    50 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 
The  Shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would  say, 
' '  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  f or  me ! "    55 
And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm,  that  drives 
The  traveller  to  a  shelter,  summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains:  he  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists, 
That  came  to  him,  and  left  him,  on  the  heights. 
So  hved  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past.        6 1 
And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should  suppose 
That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams  and 

rocks, 
Were    things   indifferent    to    the    Shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Fields,   where  with   cheerful   spirits  he  had 

breathed  65 

The  common  air;  hills,  which  with  vigorous 

step 
He  had  so  often  climbed;  which  had  impressed 
So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 
Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear; 
Which,  like  a  book,  preserved  the  memory       70 
Of  the  dumb  animals  whom  he  had  saved. 
Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts 
The  certainty  of  honourable  gain. 
Those  fields,  those  hills — what  could  they  less? 

had  laid 
Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him        75 
A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love, 

2  The  valley  in  which  lie  the  lake  and  village  of  Graa- 
jnere  where  Wordsworth  lived  for  eight  years. 


The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself . 
His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  singleness. 
His  Helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old — 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty  years. 
She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life,  81 

Whose  heart  was  in  her  house:  two  wheels  she 

had 
Of  antique  form;  this  large,  for  spinning  wool; 
That  small,  for  flax;  and  if  one  wheel  had  rest. 
It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work.  85 

The  Pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house. 
An  only  Child,  who  had  been  born  to  them 
When  Michael,  telhng  o'er  his  years,  began 
To    deem    that   he   was    old, — in    shepherd's 

phrase, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave.   This  only  Son,      90 
With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a 

storm. 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth. 
Made  all  their  household.    I  may  truly  say 
That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 
For  endless  industry.    When  day  was  gone>     95 
And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 
The  Son  and  Father  were  come  home,  even 

then, 
Their  labor  did  not  cease;  unless  when  all 
Turned  to  the  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there, 
Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed  milk. 
Sat  round  the  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes,  loi 
And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.    Yet  when 

the  meal 
Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  Son  was  named) 
And  his  old  Father  both  betook  themselves 
To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ     105 
Their  hands  by  the  fire-side;  perhaps  to  card 
Wool  for  the  Housewife's  spindle,  or  repair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe. 
Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 

Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chimney's 
edge,  110 

That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 
With  huge  and  black  projection  overbrowed 
Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 
Of  day  grew  dim  the  Housewife  hung  a  lamp; 
An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed  115 

Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 
Early  at  evening  did  it  burn — and  late. 
Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours. 
Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had  found, 
And  left  the  couple  neither  gay  perhaps  120 

Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with  hopes. 
Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 
And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his  eight- 
eenth year, 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sate, 
Fathe^and  Son,  while  far  into  the  night  125 

The  Housewife  plied  her  own  pecuhar  work. 
Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 
Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 
This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighborhood, 
And  was  a  pubUc  symbol  of  the  life  130 

That  thrifty  Pair  had  lived.    For,  as  it  chanced, 
Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 
Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  north  and 
south. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


475 


High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmail-Raise, 

And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  lake;      135 

And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 

And  so  far  seen,  the  House  itself,  by  all 

Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale, 

Both  old  and  young,  was  named  The  Evening 

Star. 
Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of 

years,  140 

The  Shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must  needs 
Have  loved  his  Helpmate;  but  to  Michael's 

heart 
This  son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear — 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Fond  spirit  that  blindly  works  in  the  blood  of 

all —  145 

Than  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 
That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man, 
Brings    hope    with    it,    and    forward-looking 

thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail.         150 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him. 
His  heart  and  his  heart's  joy!    For  oftentimes 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms, 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use  155 

Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle,  as  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  boy 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love,  160 
Albeit  of  a  stern  unbending  mind, 
To  have  the  Young  one  in  his  sight,  when  he 
Wrought  in  the  field,  or  on  his  shepherd's  stool 
Sate  with  a  fettered  sheep  before  him  stretched 
Under  the  large  old  oak,  that  near  his  door  165 
Stood  single,  and,  from  matchless  depth  of 

shade 
Chosen  for  the  Shearer's  covert  from  the  sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  Clipping  Tree,  a  name  which  yet  it  bears. 
There   while   they   two   were   sitting   in   the 

shade,  170 

With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe, 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  Child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts  175 
Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath  the 

shears. 

And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the  boy 
grew  up 
A  healthy  Lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old; 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut         180 
With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he  hooped 
With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due  requisites  a  perfect  shepherd's  staff. 
And  gave  it  to  the  Boy;  wherewith  equipt 
He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed        185 
At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock; 
And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called, 
There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine. 
Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help; 


And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe,         190 

Receiving  from  his  Father  hire  of  praise; 

Though  naught  was  left  undone  which  staff,  or 
voice, 

Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures,  could  per- 
form. 

But  soon,  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could 

stand 
Against  the  mountain  blasts,  and  to  the  heights. 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways,      196 
He  with  his  Father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That  objects  which  the  Shepherd  loved  before 
Were  dearer  now?  that  from  the  Boy  there 

came  200 

Feelings  and  emanations — things  which  were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind: 
And  that  the  old  Man's  heart  seemed  born 

again? 

Thus  in  his  Father's  sight  the  Boy  grew  up; 
And  now,  when  he  had  reached  his  eighteenth 
year,  _  205 

He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household  lived 
From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there  came 
Distressful  tidings.    Long  before  the  time 
Of  which  I  speak,  the  Shepherd  had  been  bound 
In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man  211 

Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means; 
But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 
Had  prest  upon  him ;  and  old  Michael  now 
Was  summoned  to  d  ischarge  the  forfeiture,    2 1 5 
A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 
Than  half  his  substance.     This  unlooked-for 

claim, 
At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 
More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost.  220 

As  soon  as  he  had  armed  himself  with  strength 
To  look  his  trouble  in  the  face,  it  seemed 
The  Shepherd's  sole  resource  to  sell  at  once 
A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such  was  his  first  resolve;  he  thought  again,   225 
And  his  heart  failed  him.     "Isabel,"  said  he. 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 
"I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years. 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 
Have  we  all  lived ;  yet  if  these  fields  of  ours     230 
Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot;  the  sun  himself 
Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I; 
And  I  have  hved  to  be  a  fool  at  last  235 

To  my  own  family.    An  evil  man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us;  and  if  he  were  not  false, 
There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 
Had  been  no  sorrow.    I  forgive  him ; — ^but      240 
'Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 

"When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel;  the  land 


476 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free ;        245 
He  shall  possess  it  free  as  is  the  wind 
That  passes  over  it.    We  have,  thou  know'st, 
Another  kinsman — he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.    He  is  a  prosperous  man, 
Thriving  in  trade — and  Luke  to  him  shall  go,250 
And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
He  may  return  to  us.    If  here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done?    Where  everyone  is  poor, 
What  can  be  gained?  "  255 

At  this  the  old  Man  paused, 
And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 
There's   Richard    Bateman,    thought   she   to 

herself. 
He  was  a  parish-boy — at  the  church-door      260 
They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  shiUings,  pence 
And  half  pennies,    wherewith  the  neighbors 

bought 
A  basket,  which  they  filled  with  peddler's  wares; 
And,  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  master  there,     265 
Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  boy 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas;  where  he  grew  wondrous  rich, 
And  left  estates  and  moneys  to  the  poor, 
And,  at  his  birth-place,  built  a  chapel,  floored 
With    marble,    which   he   sent   from   foreign 

lands.  271 

These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like  sort, 
Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 
And  her  face  Brightened.  The  old  Man  was  glad. 
And  thus  resumed: — "Well,  Isabel!  this  scheme 
These  two  days,  has  been  meat  and  drink  to 

me.  276 

Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
— We  have  enough — I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger; — but  this  hope  is  a  good  hope. 
— Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the 

best  280 

Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him  forth 
To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night: 
If  he  could  go,  the  boy  should  go  to-night." 
Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went 

forth 
With  a  light  heart.    The  Housewife  for  five 

days  285 

Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day  long 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  prepare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work :  for,  when  she  lay      290 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  last  two 

nights 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep: 
.And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.    That  day  at  noon 
She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  themselves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "Thou  must  not  go: 
We  have  no  other  Child  but  thee  to  lose,         297 
None  to  remember — do  not  go  away ; 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  Father,  he  will  die." 
The  youth  made  answer  with  a  jocund  voice ;300 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears, 
Recovered  heart.    That  evening  her  best  fare 


Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work ;     305 
And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  appeared 
As  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  Spring:  at  length 
The  expected  letter  from  their  kinsman  came. 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  Boy ;  3 1  o 

To  which,  requests  were  added,  that  forthwith 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.  Ten  times  or  more 
The  letter  was  read  over;  Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbors  round; 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land  3 1 5 
A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.  When  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  old  Man  said, 
"He  shall  depart  to-morrow."  To  this  word 
The    Housewife   answered,    talking    much   of 

things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go,    320 
Would  surely  be  forgotten .    But  at  length 
She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at  ease. 
Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head 

Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a  Sheep-fold ;  and,  before  he  heard    325 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss. 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones  which  by  the  streamlet's  edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walked: 
And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he 

stopped,  331 

And  thus  the  old  Man  spake  to  him:  "My  Son, 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me:  with  full  heart 
I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 
That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth,         335 
And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 
I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 
Of  our  two  histories;  'twill  do  thee  good 
When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should  touch 
On   things  thou   canst  not  know   of. — After 

thou  340 

First  camest  into  the  world — as  oft  befalls 
To  new-bom  infants — thou  didst  sleep  away 
Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  Father's 

tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee.    Day  by  day  passed  on. 
And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love.      345 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fire-side 
First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tune; 
While  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 
Sing  at  thy  mother's  breast.    Month  followed 

month,  350 

And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 
And  on  the  mountains;  else  I  think  that  thou 
Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  Father's 

knees. 
But  we  were  playmates,  Luke:  among  these 

hills, 
As  well  thou  knowest,  in  us  the  old  and  young 
Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 
Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know."  357 
Luke  had  a  manly  heart;  but  at  these  words 
He  sobbed  aloud.    The  old  Man  grasped  his 

hand. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


477 


And  said,  "  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so — I  see        360 
That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak. 
— Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 
A  kind  and  a  good  Father.    And  herein 
I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 
Received  at  others'  hands;  for,  though  now  old 
Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still  366 

Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 
Both  of  them  sleep  together:  here  they  lived, 
As  all  their  Forefathers  had  done;  and  when 
At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not 

loth  370 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 
I  wished  that  thou  shouldst  live  the  life  they 

lived : 
But,  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  Son, 
And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  years. 
These  fields  were  burthened  when  they  came 

to  me;  375 

Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 
Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 
I  toiled  and  toiled;  God  blessed  me  in  my  work, 
And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was 

free. 
— It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure  380 

Another  Master.     Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 
If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 
That  thou  should'st  go." 

At  this  the  old  man  paused. 
Then,  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which  they 

stood,  385 

Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed: 
''This  was  a  work  for  us;  and  now,  my  Son, 
It  is  a  work  for  me.    But,  lay  one  stone — 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own  hands. 
Nay,  Boy,  be  of  good  hope; — we  both  may  live 
Tosee  a  better  day.    At  eighty-four  391 

I  am  strong  and  hale; — Do  thou  thy  part; 
I  will  do  mine. — I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resigned  to  thee: 
Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms,  395 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 
All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone. 
Before  I  knew  thy  face. — Heaven  bless  thee. 

Boy! 
Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating 

fast 
With  many  hopes;  it  should  be  so — yes — yes — ■ 
I  knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a  wish    401 
To  leave  me,  Luke:  thou  hast  been  bound  to  me 
Only  by  links  of  love:  When  thou  art  gone, 
What  will  be  left  to  us!— But,  I  forget 
My  purposes.    Lay  now  the  corner-stone,      405 
As  1  requested ;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 
Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  Son, 
And  of  this  moment:  hither  turn  thy  thoughts. 
And  God  will  strengthen  thee:  amid  all  fear  410 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 
Mayst  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  Fathers  lived, 
Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.     Now,  fare  thee 

well — 
When  thou  return'st,  thou  in  this  place  wilt 

see  *15 

A  work  which  is  not  here:  a  covenant 


'Twill  be  between  us;  but,  whatever  fate 
Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last. 
And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave." 

The  Shepherd  ended  here;  and  Luke  stooped 

down,  420 

And,  as  his  Father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  Sheep-fold.    At  the  sight 
The  old  Man's  grief  broke  from  him;  to  his 

heart 
He  pressed  his  Son,  he  kissed  him  and  wept; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned.       425 
— Hushed  was  that  House  in  peace,  or  seeming 

peace. 
Ere  the  night  fell: — with  morrow's  dawn  the 

Boy 
Began  his  journey,  and  when  he  had  reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face; 
And  all  the  neighbors,  as  he  passed  their  doors, 
Came  forth  with  wishes  and   with   farewell 

prayers,  431 

That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A  good  report  did  from  their  Kinsman  come, 
Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing:  and  the  Boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news,  435 
Which,   as   the   Housewife   phrased   it,   were 

throughout 
"The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen.". 
Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 
So,  many  months  passed  on;  and  once  again 
The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work        440 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts;  and  now 
Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour 
He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought  at  the  Sheep-fold.     Meantime  Luke 

began 
To  slacken  in  his  duty ;  and,  at  length,  445 

He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses:  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love,  450 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the  heart: 
I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 
Remember  the  old  Man,  and  what  he  was 
Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news.      455 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength.    Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  to  sun  and  cloud. 
And  listened  to  the  wind;  and,  as  before, 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labor  for  his  sheep,      460 
And  for  the  land,  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  Fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need.    'Tis  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart  465 

For  the  old  Man— and  'tis  believed  by  all 
That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither  went. 
And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 
There,  by  the  Sheep-fold,  sometimes  was  he 

seen. 
Sitting  alone,  or  with  his  faithful  Dog,  470 

Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time  to 

time, 


478 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


He  at  the  building  of  this  Sheep-fold  wrought, 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 
Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel  475 

Survive  her  husband:  at  her  death  the  estate 
Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  stranger's  hand. 
The  Cottage  which  was  named  the  Evening 

Star 
Is  gone — the  plowshare  has  been  through  the 

ground 
On  which  it  stood;  great  changes  have  been 

wrought  480 

In  all  the  neighborhood: — yet  the  oak  is  left 
That  grew  beside  their  door;  and  the  remains 
Of  the  unfinished  Sheep-fold  may  be  seen 
Beside   the  boisterous  brook   of   Green-head 

Ghyll, 

MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP 
(From  Poems,  1807) 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old,  6 

Or  let  me  die! 
The  Ohild  is  father  of  the  Man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be  ^ 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 

(From  Poems,  1807) 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field. 

Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 

Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 

Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 

Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain,  5 

And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 

O,  listen !  for  the  Vale  profound 

Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 

More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands       10 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt. 

Among  Arabian  sands: 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 

In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird. 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas  15 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings! — 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things. 
And  battles  long  ago:  20 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whatever  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang    25 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work. 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 


I  listened,  motionless  and  still; 

And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill,  30 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


ODE 

INTIMATIONS  OP  IMMORTALITY  FROM  RECOLLEC- 
TIONS  OF  EARLY   CHILDHOOD 


(1803-1806) 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and 

stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream.  5 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore; — • 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may. 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no 
more. 


The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes,      lo 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare. 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair;  15 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the 
earth. 

ni 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song. 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound  20 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief. 

And  I  again  am  strong: 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the 

steep;  25 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 

I   hear  the   Echoes   through   the  mountains 

throng. 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep,  ^ 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday; — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou 
happy  Shepherd-boy!  35 


IV 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 

1  The  poet  seems  to  mean  simply  the  quiet,  peaceful 
fields  of  the  more  remote  country  districts. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


479 


My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal,  40 

The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 

0  evil  day!  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  Children  are  culling  45 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide. 
Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm: — 

1  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear!  50 
— But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 

A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 

Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat :  55 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
I  The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting,  60 

And  Cometh  from  afar: 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
I  And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 

I  But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
:  From  God,  who  is  our  home:  65 

I  Heaven  hes  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 
He  sees  it  in  his  joy ;  70 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away,  75 

And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day.      / 


VI 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasun|s  of  her  own; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  o^p  natural  kind. 

And,  even  with  something  of  pMother's  mind. 
And  no  unworthy  aim, V  A  80 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  afrshe  can 

To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 

And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  c^e. 

VII  / 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-bor^bhsses,  85 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size !  / 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses. 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  ^art,  90 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life. 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival,    | 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral;,' 

And  this  hath  now  hi^  heart,  95 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 


To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside,  lOO 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
FiUing  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage "^ 
W^ith  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage;      105 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 


vm 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity; 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep      no 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet!  Seer  blest! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest,  115 

Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by;  120 

Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height. 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife?    125 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight. 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight. 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 


IX 

O  joy!  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live,  130 

That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest;      135 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his 
breast: — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise;  140 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things. 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings;^ 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized,  145 

High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised: 

2  The  stage  on  which  men  and  women  are  exhibited  in 
various  moods  and  whims.  The  quotation  is  from 
Daniel's  Musophilus.  ,  ,         ,. 

3  Wordsworth  tells  us  that  at  times  the  external  world 
became  vague  and  unreal  to  him,  and  adds:  "Many- 
times  while  going  to  school  have  I  grasped  at  a  wall  or 
tree  to  recall  myself  from  this  abyss  of  idealism  to  tne 
reality."  This  questioning  of  the  reality  of  the  world, 
this  occasional  feeling  that  things  of  the  senses  are  falling 
from  us,  vanishing,  suggests  to  Wordsworth  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul;  and  it  is  for  these  experiences  that  he 
is  chiefly  thankful. 


480 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may,  160 

Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to 
make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence :  truths  that  wake,         155 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  I  160 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither,  165 

And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 
And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound!  170 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng. 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play. 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
-    Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so 
bright  ^  175 

Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight. 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind;      180 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death  185 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,   Meadows,  Hills  and 

Groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight  190 

To  Hve  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway, 
I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels 

fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-bom  Day 
Is  lovely  yet;  195 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are 
^^-  won. 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  hve,  200 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  he  too  deep  for  tears. 


10 


I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD'' 

(From  Foems,  1807) 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees,  5 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way. 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay,  15 

In  such  a  jocund  company: 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought: 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood,  20 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude: 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


"SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT" 

(From  Foems,  1807) 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 

Her  eyes  are  stars  of  Twilight  fair;  5 

Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn; 

A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay. 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay.  10 

I  saw  her  upofeaearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too! 

Her  househoBj^otions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of^rgin-liberty; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet  15 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 
prCreature  not  too  bright  or  good 
/  For  human  nature's  daily  food; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles,  1 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles.  J20 

And  now  I  see  with  eyes  serene 

"The  very  pulse  of  the  machine;^ 

A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  between  life  and  death; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will,  25 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 

1  i.  e..  the  vital  impulse  of  the  whole  organism.    Ham- 
let speaks  of  the  body  as  a  machine  (Act  II.  ii.  124),  and 
to  associate  the  word  too  exclusively  with  a  mechanical 
contrivance  (as  we/are  apt  to  do),  epoHa  the  poetry  ofV 
the  ■""'"'"""  \ 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


481 


A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 

And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  an  angel  light.  30 


ODE  TO  DUTY 

(From  Poems,  1807) 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  I 

0  Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law  5 

When  empty  terrors  overawe; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them;  who,  in  love  and  truth,  10 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth: 
Glad  Hearts!  without  reproach  or  blot; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not. 
Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last!  15 

But  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them  to 
stand  fast! 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security.  20 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support  according  to  their 
need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried;  25 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide. 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred  30 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I 
may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul. 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

1  supplicate  for  thy  control;  35 
But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires: 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same.  40 

Stern  Lawgiver!  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face: 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds         45 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee, 
are  fresh  and  strong. 


To  humbler  functions,  awful  Powerl 
I  call  thee:  I  myself  commend  53 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  seK-sacrifice; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give;  55 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me 
live! 


RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE 

(From  Poems,  1807) 
I 
There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night; 
The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods; 
But  now  the  sun  is  rising  calm  and  bright; 
The  birds  are  singing  in  the  distant  woods; 
Over   his   own   sweet   voice   the   Stock-dove 

broods;  5 

The  Jay  makes  answer  as  the  Magpie  chatters; 
And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  pleasant  noise  of 

waters. 

II 

All  things  that  love  the  sun  are  out  of  doors; 
The  sky  rejoices  in  the  morning's  birth; 
The  grass  is  bright  with  rain-drops; — on  the 
moors  10 

The  hare  is  running  races  in  her  mirth; 
And  with  her  feet  she  from  the  plashy  earth 
Raises  a  mist,  that,  glittering  in  the  sun. 
Runs  with  her  all  the  way,  wherever  she  doth 


III 


15 


I  was  a  Traveller  then  upon  the  moor; 
I  saw  the  hare  that  raced  about  with  joy; 
I  heard  the  woods  and  distant  waters  roar; 
Or  heard  them  not,  as  happy  as  a  boy: 
The  pleasant  season  did  my  heart  employ: 
My  old  remembrances  went  from  me  wholly;  20 
And  all  the  ways  of  men,  so  vain  and  mel- 
ancholy. 

IV 

But,  as  it  sometimes  chanceth,  from  the  might 
Of  joy  in  minds  that  can  no  further  go. 
As  high  as  we  have  mounted  in  delight 
In  our  dejection  do  we  sink  as  low;  25 

To  me  that  morning  did  it  happen  so; 
And  fears  and  fancies  thick  upon  me  came; 
Dim  sadness — and  bhnd  thoughts,  I  knew  not, 
nor  could  name. 


30 


I  heard  the  sky-lark  warbling  in  the  sky; 
And  I  bethought  me  of  the  playful  hare: 
Even  such  a  happy  Child  of  earth  am  I; 
Even  as  these  blissful  creatures  do  I  fare; 
Far  from  the  world  I  walk,  and  from  all  care; 
But  there  may  come  another  day  to  me — 
Solitude,  pain  of  heart,  distress,  and  poverty.  35 


d82 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


VI 

My  whole  life  I  have  lived  in  pleasant  thought, 
As  if  life's  business  were  a  summer  mood; 
As  if  all  needful  things  would  come  unsought 
To  genial  faith,  still  rich  in  genial  good; 
But  how  can  He  expect  that  others  should       40 
Build  for  him,  sow  for  him,  and  at  his  call 
Love  him,  who  for  himself  will  take  no  heed  at 
all? 

VII 

I  thought  of  Chatterton,!  the  marvellous  Boy, 
The  sleepless  Soul  that  perished  in  his  pride; 
Of  Him 2  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy  45 

Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain-side: 
By  our  own  spirits  are  we  deified: 
We  Poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness; 
But  thereof  come  in  the  end  despondency  and 
madness. 


VIII 


50 


Now,  whether  it  were  by  peculiar  grace, 
A  leading  from  above,  a  something  given, 
Yet  it  befell,  that,  in  this  lonely  place, 
When  I  with  these  untoward  thoughts  had 

striven. 
Beside  a  pool  bare  to  the  eye  of  heaven 
I  saw  a  Man  before  me  unawares :  55 

The  oldest  man  he  seemed  that  ever  wore  grey 

hairs. 

IX 

As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence; 
Wonder  to  ail  who  do  the  same  espy. 
By  what  ineans  it  could  thither  come,  and 
whence;     *  60 

So  that  it  seems  a  thing  endued  with  sense: 
Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  that  on  a  shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  itself; 


Such  seemed  this  Man,  not  all  alive  nor  dead, 
Nor  all  asleep — in  his  extrem  e  old  age :  65 

His  body  was  bent  double,  feet  and  head 
Coming  together  in  life's  pilgrimage; 
As  if  some  dire  constraint  of  pain,  or  rage 
Of  sickness  felt  by  him  in  times  long  past, 
A  more  than  human  weight  upon  his  frame  had 
cast.  70 

XI 

Himself  he  propped,  limbs,  body,  and  pale  face, 
Upon  a  long  grey  staff  of  shaven  wood : 
And,  still  as  1  drew  near  with  gentle  pace. 
Upon  the  margin  of  that  moorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  Man  stood,         75 
That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call; 
And  moveth  all  together,  if  it  move  at  all. 

XII 

At  length,  himself  unsettling,  he  the  pond 
Stirred  with  his  staff,  and  fixedly  did  look 
Upon  the  muddy  water,  which  he  conned,     80 
As  if  he  had  been  reading  in  a  book: 

^  Thomas  Chatterton,  the  poet,  who  committed  suicide 
at  the  age  of  18  (1770)  to  escape  a  slower  death  by  starv- 
ation.    V.  p.  446,  supra.  s  Burns. 


And  now  a  stranger's  privilege  I  took; 
And,  drawing  to  his  side,  to  him  did  say, 
"This  morning  gives  us  promise  of  a  glorious 
day." 

XIII 

A  gentle  answer  did  the  old  Man  make,         85 
In  courteous  speech  which  forth  he  slowly  drew: 
And  him  with  further  words  I  thus  bespake, 
"  WTiat  occupation  do  you  there  pursue? 
This  is  a  lonesome  place  for  one  like  you." 
Ere  he  replied,  a  flash  of  mild  surprise  90 

Broke  from  the  sable  orbs  of  his  yet-vivid  eyes. 

XIV 

His  words  came  feebly,  from  a  feeble  chest, 
But  each  in  solemn  order  followed  each. 
With  something  of  a  lofty  utterance  drest — 
Choice  word  and  measured  phrase,  above  the 

reach  95 

Of  ordinary  men;  a  stately  speech; 
Such  as  grave  Livers  do  in  Scotland  use. 
Religious  men,  who  give  to  God  and  man  their 

dues. 

XV 

He  told,  that  to  these  waters  he  had  come 

To  gather  leeches,  being  old  and  poor:  lOO 

Employment  hazardous  and  wearisome! 

And  he  had  many  hardships  to  endure: 

From  pond  to  pond  he  roamed,  from  moor  to 

moor; 
Housing,  with  God's  good  help,  by  choice  or 

chance; 
And  in  this  way  he  gained  an  honest  main- 
tenance. 105 

XVI 

The  old  Man  still  stood  talking  by  my  side; 
But  now  his  voice  to  me  was  like  a  stream 
Scarce  heard;  nor  word  from  word  could  I 

divide; 
And  the  whole  body  of  the  man  did  seem 
Like  one  whom  I  had  met  with  in  a  dream; no 
Or  like  a  man  from  some  far  region  sent, 
To  give  me  human  strength,  by  apt  admonish- 
ment. 

XVII 

My  former  thoughts  returned:  the  fear  that 

kills; 
And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  be  fed ;  , 

Cold,  pain,  and  labour,  and  all  fleshly  ills;       115 
And  mighty  Poets  in  their  misery  dead. 
— Perplexed,  and  longing  to  be  comforted. 
My  question  eagerly  did  I  renew, 
"How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it  you 

do?" 


He  with  a  smile  did  then  his  words  repeat :  120 
And  said,  that,  gathering  leeches,  far  and  wide 
He  travelled;  stirring  thus  about  his  feet 
The  waters  of  the  pools  where  they  abide. 
"Once  I  could  meet  with  them  on  every  side; 
But  they  have  dwindled  long  by  slow  decay;  125 
Yet  stiU  I  persevere,  and  find  them  where  I 
may."  \ 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


483 


XIX 

While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely  place, 
The  old  Man's  shape,  and  speech — all  troubled 

me: 
In  my  mind's  eye  I  seemed  to  see  him  pace 
About  the  weary  moors  continually,  130 

Wandering  about  alone  and  silently. 
While  I  these  thoughts  within  myself  pursued, 
He,  having  made  a  pause,  the  same  discourse 

renewed. 


XX 

And  soon  with  this  he  other  matter  blended. 
Cheerfully  uttered,  with  demeanour  kind,  135 
But  stately  in  the  main;  and  when  he  ended, 
I  could  have  laughed  myself  to  scorn  to  find 
In  that  decrepit  Man  so  firm  a  mind. 
''God,"  said  I,  "be  my  help  and  stay  secure; 
I'll  think  of  the  Leech-gatherer  on  the  lonely 
moor!"  140 


SONNETS 

WRITTEN   IN   LONDON,   SEPTEMBER, 
1802 

O  Friend!  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 

For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest, 

To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 

For  show;   mean  handy-work   of   craftsman, 

cook. 
Or  groom! — ^We  must  run  ghttering  Hke  a 

brook  5 

In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest: 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best: 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Delights  us.    Rapine,  avarice,  expense. 
This  is  idolatry:  and  these  we  adore:  10 

Plain  hving  and  high  thinking  are  no  more: 
The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 
Is  gone;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 


LONDON,   1802 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee:  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,  sword,  and  pen. 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower        5 
Of  inward  happiness.   We  are  selfish  men ; 
Oh!  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart: 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  Hke  the 
sea:  ^  10 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free. 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowhest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


"WHEN  I  HAVE  BORNE  IN  MEMORY" 

(1802) 
When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Great  Nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  de- 
part 
When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,   and 

desert 
The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  un- 
named 
I  had,  my  Country ! — am  I  to  be  blamed?  5 

Now,  when  I  think  of  Thee,  and  what  Thou  art, 
Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed, 
For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee;  we  who  find 
In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men;  lo 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled: 
What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then. 
Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 
Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child! 

COMPOSED    UPON    WESTMINSTER 
BRIDGE, 

September  3,  1802 
Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare,  5 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendour  valley,  rockj  or  hill;      10 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  cahn  so  deep! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 

COMPOSED  UPON  THE  BEACH  NEAR 
CALAIS 

August,  1802 
It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free:  V=> 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun  "5& 
Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad  sun  B 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity;  ^ 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea.  f%5 
Listen !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake,  B 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make  o 
A  sound  like  thunder— everlastingly.^ 
Dear  Child!  dear  Girl!  that  walkest  with  me 

here,  t  , 

If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought,  lo  ^ 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: ^ 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year;  ^ 
And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine,'^- 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not.  -^ 

"THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US" 

(1806) 
The  world  is  too  much  with  us:  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
"The  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ;        5 


484 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  hke  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn ;  10 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathM  horn. 


Samuel  tETa^lor  ColertUge 

1772-1834 
THE  EIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

IN   SEVEN   PARTS 

(From  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  1798) 

Argument 
How  a  Ship  having  passed  the  Line  was 
driven  by  storms  to  the  cold  Country  towards 
the  South  Pole;  and  how  from  thence  she  made 
her  course  to  the  tropical  Latitude  of  the  Great 
Pacific  Ocean;  and  of  the  strange  things  that 
befell;  and  in  what  manner  the  Ancyent 
Marinere  came  back  to  his  own  Country. 

Part  I 
It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 
And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three, 
"By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  ghttering  eye, 
Now  wherefore  sto^'st  thou  me? 

The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide,        5 
And  I  am  next  of  kin; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set: 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
"There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he.  10 

"Hold  off!  unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon!" 
Eftsoons^  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still. 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child:  15 

The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone: 

He  cannot  choose  but  hear; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner.  20 

"The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbour  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  hghthouse  top. 

1-12.  An  ancient  Mariner  meeteth  three  GaUarUs  hidden 
to  a  wedding -feast,  and  detaineth  one. 

13-20.   The  Wedding-Guest  is  spell-bound  by  the  eye  of 
the  old  seafaring  man,  and  constrained  to  hear  his  tale. 

21-30.  The  Mariner  tells  how  the  ship  sailed  southward 
with  a  good  wind  and  fair  weather,  till  it  reached  the  line, 
1  Soon  after. 


"The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — " 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast. 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

"And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong: 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along.  * 


25 


30 


35 


40 


45 


With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow. 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled.  50 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold: 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts  55 

Did  send  a  dismal  sheen : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there. 
The  ice  was  all  around :  60 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 
Like  noises  in  a  swound!^ 

At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross,^ 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul,  65 

We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat. 

And  round  and  round  it  flew. 

The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through!  70 

31-40.  The  Wedding-Guest  heareth  the  bridal  music, 
but  the  Mariner  continueth  his  tale. 

41-50.   The  ship  driven  by  a  storm  toward  the  souih  pole. 

51-62.  The  land  of  ice,  and  of  fearful  sounds  where  no 
living  thing  was  to  be  seen. 

63-70.  Till  a  great  seabird,  called  the  Albatross,  came 
through  the  snow-fog,  and  was  received  with  great  joy  and 
hospitality. 

2  Swoon. 

3  The  albatrosa  was  considered  bj'  sailors  to  be  a  bird  of 
good  omen;  which  makes  the  Mariner's  crime  all  the 
blacker. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


485 


And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind; 
The  Albatross  did  follow, 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud,  75 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine; 
Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 
Glimmered  the  white  moon-shine." 

"God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus ! —        80 
Why  look'st  thou  so?" — With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 

Part  II 
The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right;* 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 

Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left  85 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind. 

But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow. 

Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo!  90 


And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe: 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch!  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow! 


Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist: 

Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 


95 


100 


105 


.  Into  that  silent  sea. 


Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 

'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be; 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 

The  silence  of  the  sea!  110 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

71-78.  And  lo!  the  Albatross  proveth  a  bird  of  good  omen, 
and  followeih  the  ship  as  it  returned  northward  through  fog 
and  floating  ice. 

79-82.  The  ancient  Mariner  inhospitably  killeth  the 
pious  bird  of  good  omen. 

83-96.  His  shipmates  cry  out  against  the  ancient  Mar- 
iner, for  killing  the  bird  of  good  luck. 

97-102.  But  when  the  fog  cleared  off,  they  justify  the 
same,  and  thus  makg  themselves  accomplices  in  the  crime. 

103-106.  The  fair  breeze  continues;  the  ship  enters  the 
Pacific  Ocean,  and  sails  northward,  even  till  it  reaches  the 
line. 

107-118.  The  ship  hath  been  suddenly  becalmed. 

*The  ahip  having  rounded  the  Horn,  is  now  sailing 
North. 


Day  after  day,  day  after  day,  115 

We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  everywhere, 

And  all  the  boards  did  shrink;  120 

Water,  water,  everywhere, 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot:  0  Christ! 

That  ever  this  should  be! 

Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs        125 

Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 

The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 

The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils. 

Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white.  130 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the,  Spirit^  that  plagued  us  so; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought,  135 
Was  withered  at  thB  root; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 


Ah!  well-a-day!  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


140 


Part  III 
There  passed  a  weary  time.    Each  throat 
Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 
A  weary  time!  a  weary  time!  145 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye, 
When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist;  150 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist! 

And  still  it  neared  and  neared: 

As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite,  155 

It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

119-130.  And  the  Albatross  begins  to  be  avenged. 

131-138.  A  spirit  had  followed  them,;  one  of  the  invisible 
inhabitants  of  this  planet,  neither  departed  souls  nor  angeh: 
concerning  whom  the  learned  Jew,  Josephus,  and  the  Pin- 
tonic  ConstantinopoUtan  Michael  Psellus,  may  be  con- 
sulted. They  are  very  numerous,  and  there  is  no  climate  or 
elemen   without  one  or  more. 

139-142.  The  shipmates,  in  their  sore  distress  would 
fain  throw  the  whole  guilt  on  the  ancient  Mariner;  in  sign 
whereof  they  hang  the  dead  sea-bird  round  his  neck. 

143-156.  The  ancient  Mariner  beholdeth  a  sign  in  the 
element  afar  off. 

5  The  spirit  of  the  South  Polar  region,  who  loved  the 
Albatross. 


486 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail; 

Through  utter  drought  ail  dumb  we  stood! 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood,  160 

And  cried,  A  sail!  a  sail! 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

Agape  they  heard  me  call: 

Gramercy!  they  for  joy  did  grin. 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in,  165 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 


See!  see!  (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more! 
Hither  to  work  us  weal; 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide. 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel! 


The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame. 

The  day  was  well-nigh  done! 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 


170 


175 


And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace!) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face.  180 

Alas!  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres? 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  sun     185 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew? 
Is  that  a  Death?  and  are  there  two? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free,  190 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold: 

Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 

The  Night-mare  Life-in-Death  was  she. 

Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came,  195 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice; 
"The  game  is  done!  I've  won!  I've  won!" 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  Sun's  rim  dips;  the  stars  rush  out; 

At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ;  200 

With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea. 

Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

157-163.  At  its  nearer  approach,  it  seemeth  him  to  be  a 
ship;  and  at  a  dear  ransom  he  freeth  his  speech  from  the 
bonds  of  thirst. 

164-166.  A  flash  of  joy. 

167-176.  And  horror  follows;  for  can  it  be  a  ship  that 
comes  onward  without  wind  or  tide? 

177-186.  It  seemeth  him  but  the  skeleton  of  a  ship.  And 
its  ribs  are  seen  as  bars  on  the  face  of  the  setting  Sun. 

187-194.  The  Spectre-Woman  and  her  death-mate,  and 
no  other  on  board  the  skeleton  ship.    Like  vessel,  like  crew! 

195-198.  Death  and  Life-in-Death  have  diced  for  the 
ship's  crew,  and  she  (the  latter)  winneth  the  ancient  Mariner. 

199-202.  No  twilight  within  the  courts  of  the  Sun. 


We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup. 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip!  205 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night. 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed 

white; 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  homM  Moon,  with  one  bright  star  210 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 

Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 

Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang. 

And  cursed  me  with  his  eye.  215 

Four  times  fifty  Uving  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, —  220 

They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe! 

And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by, 

Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow! 

Part  IV 
"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner! 
I  fear  thy  skinny  hand!  225 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 
As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 

And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown." — 

Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest!      230 

This  body  dropt  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 

Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea! 

And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 

My  soul  in  agony.  235 

The  many  men,  so  beautiful! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie: 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on;  and  so  did  I. 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea,  240 

And  drew  my  eyes  away; 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 

But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht,  243 

A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 

My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  hds,  and  kept  them  close, 
And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat; 
For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the 
sky  250 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weanr  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

203-223.  At  the  rising  of  the  Moon,  one  after  another; 
his  shipmates  drop  down  dead.  But  Life-in-Death  begins 
her  work  on  the  ancient  Mariner. 

224-235.  The  Wedding-Guest  feareth  that  a  spirit  is  talk- 
ing to  him;  but  the  ancient  Mariner  assureth  him  of  his 
bodily  life,  and  proceedeth  to  relate  his  horrible  penance.         \ 

236-252,  He  despiseth  the  creatures  of  the  calm,  and  \, 
envieth  that  they  should  live,  and  so  many  lie  dead. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


487 


The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they: 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me       255 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high; 

But  oh !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye!  260 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
j  And  nowhere  did  abide: 
Softly  she  was  going  up,  265 

And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread: 

But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay. 

The  charmM  water  burnt  alway  270 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes: 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light  275 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire: 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 


280 


O  happy  hving  things!  no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare: 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware:  285 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray; 

And  from  my  neck  so  free 

The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank  290 

Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

Part  V 
Oh  sleep!  it  is  a  gentle  thing. 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven,  295 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 

253-262.  Btd  the  curse  Kvah  for  him  in  the  eye  of  the 
dead  men. 

263-271.  In  his  loneliness  and  fixedness  he  yearneth  to- 
wards the  journeying  Moon,  and  the  stars  that  still  sojourn, 
yet  still  move  onward;  and  everywhere  the  blue  sky  belongs  to 
them,  and  is  their  appointed  rest,  and  their  native  country 
and  their  own  natural  homes,  which  they  enter  unannounced, 
cts  lords  that  are  certainly  expected  and  yet  there  is  a  silent 
joy  at  their  arrival. 

272-281.  By  the  light  of  the  Moon  he  beholdeth  God's 
creatures  of  the  great  calm. 

282-283.  Their  beauty  and  their  happiness. 

284-287.  He  blesseth  them  in  his  heart. 

288-291.  The  spell  begins  to  break. 

292-308.  By  grace  of  the  holy  Mother,  the  ancient 
Mariner  is  refreshed  with  rain. 


The  silly  buckets^  on  the  deck. 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained.  300 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams. 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs:         305 

I  was  so  light — almost 

I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep. 

And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind: 

It  did  not  come  anear;  310 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 

That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about!  SIS 

And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out — 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 
And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud. 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge; 
And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black 
cloud;  320 

The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 

The  Moon  was  at  its  side: 

Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 

The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag,  325 

A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on! 

Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan.  330 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on; 
Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew;  33b 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do; 
They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools— 
We  were  a  ghastly  crew.  340 

The  body  of  my  brother^s  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee: 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope 
But  he  said  nought  to  me. 

309-326.  He  heareth  sounds  and  seeth  strange  sights 
and  commotions  in  the  sky  and  the  elem.ent 

327-376.  The  bodies  of  the  ship's  crew  are  inspired,  and 
the  ship  moves  on;  but  not  by  the  souls  of  the  men,  nor  by 
daemons  of  earth  or  middle  air,  but  by  a  blessed  troop  of 
angelic  spirits,  sent  down  by  the  invocation  of  the  guardian 
saint. 

« Possibly  foolish,  or  ridiculous,  because  they  "had  so 
long  remained"  useless. 


488 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner!"  345 

Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest: 

For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their  arms, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast;  351 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths. 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun;  355 

Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again. 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 

I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing; 

Sometimes  all  Uttle  birds  that  are,  360 

How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 

With  their  sweet  jargoning! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 

Now  like  a  lonely  flute; 

And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song,  365 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June,  370 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on. 

Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe: 

Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship,  375 

Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

The  spirit  slid:  and  it  was  he 

That  made  the  ship  to  go.  380 

The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 

And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 

Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean: 

But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir,  385 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 

Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 

She  made  a  sudden  bound:  390 

It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head. 

And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound.' 

377-392.  The  lonesome  Spirit  from  the  south-poU  carries 
on  the  ship  as  far  as  the  line,  in  obedience  to  the  angelic 
troop,  but  still  requireth  vengeance. 

393^09.  The  Polar  Spirit's  feUow-daemons,  the  invisible 
inhabitants  of  the  element,  take  part  in  his  wrong;  and  two 
of  them  relate  one  to  the  other,  that  penance  long  and  heavy 
for  the  ancient  Mariner  hath  been  accorded  to  the  Polar 
Spirit,  who  returneth  southward.     ^^ 

'  Swoon,  '^j*' 


How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discerned, 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

"Is  it  he?"  quoth  one,  "Is  this  the  man? 
By  Him  who  died  on  cross. 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  Albatross. 

"The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow." 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice. 

As  soft  as  honey-dew: 

Quoth  he,  "The  man  hath  penance  done. 

And  penance  more  will  do." 

Part  VI 
First  Voice 
"But  tell  me,  tell  me!  speak  again. 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing?" 

Second  Voice 
"Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord. 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see!  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him." 

First  Voice 
"But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind?" 

Second  Voice 
"The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly!  more  high,  more  high! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated: 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated." 


40C 


405 


410 


415 


420 


425 


430 


"  I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather: 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon  was  high. 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck. 

For  a  chamel-dungeon  fitter:  435 

All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 

That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

410-429.  The  Mariner  hath  been  cast  into  a  trance;  for 
the  angelic  power  causeth  the  vessel  to  drive  northward  faster 
than  humnn  life  could  endure. 

430-441,  The  supernatural  motion  is  retarded;  the  Mar\ 
iner  awakes,  arid  his  penance  begins  anew.  > 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


489 


The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  passed  away : 

I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs,  440 

Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt:  once  more 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green. 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen —  445 


Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 


490 


This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand: 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight! 

They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 

Each  one  a  lovely  light;  495 


Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread. 

And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head; 

Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend  450 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me. 

Nor  sound  nor  motion  made: 

Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea. 

In  ripple  or  in  shade.  455 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship,  460 

Yet  she  sailed  softly  too: 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh!  dream  of  joy!  is  this  indeed 

The  hghthouse  top  I  see?  465 

Is  this  the  hill?  is  this  the  kirk? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree? 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 

0  let  me  be  awake,  my  God!  470 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass. 

So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  1 

And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 

And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon.  475 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock: 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light       480 

Till  rising  from  the  same. 

Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 

In  crimson  colours  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

Those  crimson  shadows  were:  485 

1  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
Oh  Christ!  what  saw  I  there! 

442-463.  The  curse  is  finally  expiated. 

464-479.  And  the  ancient  Mariner  beholdeth  his  native 
country. 

480-499.  The  angelic  spirits  leave  the  dead  bodies,  and 
appear  in  their  own  forms  of  light. 


This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice;  but  oh!  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 

I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer; 

My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 

And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 

I  heard  them  coming  fast: 

Dear  Lord  in  Heaven!  it  was  a  joy 

The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice: 

It  is  the  Hermit  good! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 

Part  VII 
This  Hermit  good  Hves  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve-^ 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump : 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  neared:  I  heard  them  talk, 
"Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair. 
That  signal  made  but  now?" 


500 


505 


510 


513 


520 


525 


"Strange,  by  my  faith!"  the  Hermit  said— 

"And  they  answered  not  our  cheer! 

The  planks  look  warped!  and  see  those  sails. 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere!  530 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 


Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along; 
When  the  ivy-tod^  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young." 


635 


514-545.  The  Hermit  of  the  wood  approacheth  the  ship 
with  wonder. 

•  Ivy  bush. 


490 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


"Dear  Lord!  it  hath  a  fiendish  look — 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
I  am  a-f eared" — "Push  on,  push  on!" 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread; 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay; 
The  ship  went  down  Uke  lead. 


510 


545 


550 


Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound. 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat.  555 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shrieked  660 

And  fell  down  in  a  fit; 

The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes, 

And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars:  the  Pilot's  boy. 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go,  665 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

"Ha!  ha!"  quoth  he,  "full  plain  I  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row." 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree,  670 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land! 
The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

"O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man!" 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow.  575 

"Say  quick,"  quoth  he,  "I  bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou?" 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 
With  a  woful  agony. 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale;  580 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

That  agony  returns: 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 

This  heart  within  me  bums.  685 

546-649.  The  ship  suddenly  sinketh. 

550-573.  The  ancient  Mariner  is  saved  in  the  Pilot's 
boat. 

674-581.  The  arwient  Mariner  earnestly  entreateth  the 

K^^  'o  shrieve  him;  and  the  penance  of  life  falls  on  him. 

682-625.  And  ever  and  anon  throughout  his  future  life 
an  agony  constraineth  him  to  travel  from  land  to  land,  and 
to  teach,  by  his  own  example,  love  and  reverence  to  all  things 
that  God  made  and  loveth. 


I  pass,  Hke  night,  from  land  to  land; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me: 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 


690 


What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there: 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 

And  bride-maids  singing  are: 

And  hark  the  httle  vesper  bell,  695 

Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer! 

O  Wedding-Guest!  this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea: 

So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seemed  there  to  be.  600 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me. 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company! — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk,  605 

And  all  together  pray. 
While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends. 
Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends 
And  youths  and  maidens  gay! 

•     Farewell,  farewell!  but  this  I  tell  610 

To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well  \ 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast.        ' 

,    He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
l    All  things  both  great  and  small;  615 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us,    ; 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar. 
Is  gone:  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest       620 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  Hke  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn : 

A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man. 

He  rose  the  morrow  morn.  625 


FRANCE:  AN  ODE 
(1798) 
I 
Ye  Clouds!  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause. 
Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  con- 
trol! 
Ye  Ocean- Waves!  that,  whereso'er  ye  roll. 
Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws! 
Ye   Woods!   that   listen   to   the   night-birds' 
singing,  5 

Midway    the    smooth    and    perilous    slope 
recUned, 
Save    when    your    own    imperious    branches 
swinging, 
Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind! 


\v* 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


491 


Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 

Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod,io 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy, 
My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering   weeds   I 
wound, 
Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly. 
By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable 

sound! 
O  ye  loud  waves !  and  O  ye  Forests  high !  1 5 

And  O  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soared  I 
Thou  rising  Sun!  thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky! 
Yea,  everything  that  is  and  will  be  free! 
Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be. 
With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored  20 
The  spirit  of  divinest  liberty. 


When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs  up- 
reared. 
And  with  that  oath,  which  emote  air,  earth, 

and  sea. 
Stamped  her  strong  foot  and  said  she  would 
be  free. 
Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  and  feared!  25 
With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 

Unawed  I  sang,  amid  a  slavish  band: 
And  when  to  whelm  the  disenchanted  nation, 
Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard's  wand. 
The  monarchs  marched  in  evil  day,         30 
And  Britain  joined  the  dire  array; 
Though  dear  her  shores  and  circUng  ocean. 
Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves 

Had  swoU'n  the  patriot  emotion 
And  flung  a  magic  light  o'er  all  her  hills  and 
groves;  35 

Yet  still  my  voice,  unaltered,  sang  defeat 

To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling  lance, 
And  shame  too  long  delayed  and  vain  retreat! 
For  ne'er,  O  Liberty !  with  partial  aim 
I  dimmed  thy  Hght  or  damped  thy  holy  flame;  40 
But  blessed  the  paeans  of  delivered  France, 
And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain's  name. 

Ill 
"And  what,"   I  said,   "though  Blasphemy's 
loud  scream 
With  that  sweet  music  of  deliverance  strove! 
Though  all  the  fierce  and  drunken  passions 
wove  45 

A  dance  more  wild  than  e'er  was  maniac's 
dream! 
Ye  storms,   that  round  the  dawning  east 
assembled, 
The  Sun  was  rising,  though  ye  hid  his  light!" 
And  when,  to  soothe  my  soul,  that  hoped  and 
trembled. 
The  dissonance  ceased,  and  all  seemed  calm  and 
bright;  50 

When  France  her  front  deep-scarr'd  and  gory 
Concealed  with  clustering  wreaths  of  glory; 

When,  insupportably  advancing. 
Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  warrior's 
tramp; 
While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing,  55 

Domestic  treason  crushed  beneath  her  fatal 
stamp, 


Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his  gore; 
Then  I  reproached  my  fears  that  would  not 
flee; 
"And  soon,"  I  said,  "shall  Wisdom  teach  her 

lore 
In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and  groan!     60 
And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone, 

Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be  free. 
Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call  the 
Earth  their  own." 

IV 

Forgive  me.  Freedom!  O  forgive  those  dreams! 
I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament,      65 
From  bleak  Helvetia's  icy  caverns  sent — 
I   hear   thy   groans   upon   her   blood-stained 
streams! 
Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country  per- 
ished. 
And  ye  that,  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain-snows 
With  bleeding  wounds;  forgive  me,  that  I 
cherished  70 

One  thought  that  ever  blessed  your  cruel  foes! 
To  scatter  rage  and  traitorous  guilt 
Where  Peace  her  jealous  home  had  built; 
A  patriot-race  to  disinherit 
Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so  dear;     75 

And  with  inexpiable  spirit 
To  taint  the  bloodless  freedom  of  the  moun- 
taineer— 
O  France,   that  mockst  Heaven,  adulterous, 
bhnd. 
And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils,  79 

Are  these  thy  boasts.  Champion  of  human  kind? 
To  mix  with  Kings  in  the  low  lust  of  sway, 
Yell  in  the  hunt,  and  share  the  murderous  prey: 
To  insult  the  shrine  of  Liberty  with  spoils 
From  freemen  torn;  to  tempt  and  to  betray? 


The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain,  85 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion!  In  mad 
game 
They  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the  name 
Of  Freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain! 
O  Liberty!  with  profitless  endeavor 
Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour;        90 
But  thou  nor  swell'st  the  victor's  strain,  nor 
ever 
Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human 
power. 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee, 
(Nor  prayer,  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee) 
Alike  from  Priestcraft's  harpy  minions,    95 
And  factious  Blasphemy's  obscener  slaves. 
Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions. 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmate  of 

the  waves! 

And  there  I  felt  thee!— on  that  sea-clifif's  verge. 

Whose  pines,  scarce  travelled  by  the  breeze 

above,  loo 

Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant  surge! 

Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples  bare. 

And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea  and  air, 

Possessing  all  things  with  intensest  love, 

O  Liberty!  my  spirit  felt  thee  there.         106 


492 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


DEJECTION:  AN  ODE 

(1802) 

Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  Moon, 
With  the  old  moon  in  her  arms; 
And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  master  dearl 
We  shall  have  a  deadly  storm. 

Ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence. 


Well!  If  the  Bard  was  weather-wise,  who  made 

The  grand  old  ballad  of  Sir  Patrich  Spence, ^  6 

This  night,  so  tranquil  now,  will  not  go  hence 

Unroused  by  winds,  that  ply  a  busier  trade 

Than  those  which  mould  yon  cloud  in  lazy 

flakes. 
Or  the  dull  sobbing  draft,  that  moans  and 
rakes  10 

Upon  the  strings  of  this  iEolian  lute, 
Which  better  far  were  mute. 
For  lo!  the  new-Moon  winter-bright! 
And  overspread  with  phantom  light, 
(With  swimming  phantom  light  o'erspread  15 
But  rimmed  and  circled  by  a  silver  thread) 
I  see  the  old  Moon  in  her  lap,  foretelling 

The  coming  on  of  rain  and  squally  blast. 
And  oh!  that  even  now  the  gust  were  swelling, 
And  the  slant  night-shower  driving  loud  and 
fast!  20 

Those  sounds  which  oft  have  raised  me,  whilst 
they  awed. 
And  sent  my  soul  abroad. 
Might  now  perhaps  their  wonted  impulse  give, 
Might  startle  this  dull  pain,  and  make  it  move 
and  live!  24 


A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear, 
A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassioned  grief. 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief. 
In  word  or  sigh  or  tear — 

0  Lady!  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood, 

To  other  thoughts  by  yonder  throstle  woo'd,    30 

AU  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene. 
Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  western  sky, 
And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green : 
.And  still  I  gaze — and  with  how  blank  an  eye!  34 
And  those  thin  clouds  above,  in  flakes  and  bars. 
That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars; 
Those  stars  that  glide  behind  them  or  between. 
Now  sparkling,  now  bedimmed,  but  always 

seen: 
Yon  crescent  Moon  as  fixed  as  if  it  grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue:        4o 

1  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 

I  see,  not  feel  how  beautiful  they  are! 

Ill 

My  genial  spirits  fail; 
And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off  my 
breast?  45 

It  were  a  vain  endeavour, 
Though  I  should  gaze  forever 

>  V.  p.  93,  supra. 


On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west: 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion  and  the  hfe  whose  fountains  are 
within.  50 

IV 

O  Lady,  we  receive  but  what  we  give. 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live: 
Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud! 

And  would  we  aught  behold  of  higher  worth, 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed  55 

To  the  poor  loveless  ever-anxious  crowd, 

Ah!  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth, 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  Earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent       60 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth. 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element! 


O  pure  of  heart;  thou  need'st  not  ask  of  me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  be! 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist,  65 

This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous  mist, 
This  beautiful  and  beauty-making  power. 

Joy,  virtuous  Lady!     Joy  that  ne'er  was 
given. 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour, 
Life,  and  Life's  effluence,  cloud  at  once  and 
shower,  70 

Joy,  Lady!  is  the  spirit  and  the  power 
Which  wedding  Nature  to  us  gives  in  dower, 

A  new  Earth  and  new  Heaven, 
Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the  proud —  74 
Joy   is   the   sweet   voice,   Joy  the   luminous 
cloud — 
We  in  ourselves  rejoice! 
And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear  or  sight, 

AU  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice, 
AU  colours  a  suffusion  from  that  Ught. 

VI 

There  was  a  time  when,  though  my  path  was 
^  rough,  80 

This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  distress. 
And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the  stuff 
Whence  Fancy  made  me  dreams  of  happi- 


Folt  hope  grew  round  me  like  the  twining 

vine. 
And  fruits  and  fohage,  not  my  own,  seemed 
mine.  85 

But  now  afflictions  bow  me  down  to  earth: 
Nor  care  I  that  they  rob  me  of  my  mirth. 

But  oh!  each  visitation 
Suspends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my  birth, 

My  shaping  spirit  of  Imagination.  90 

For  not  to  think  of  what  I  needs  must  feel, 

But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I  can; 
And  haply  by  abstruse  research  to  steal 

From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  man — 
This  was  my  sole  resource,  my  only  plan :       95 
Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infects  the  whole. 
And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit  of  m^ 

80UL 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


493 


VII 

Hence,  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around  my 
mind, 
Reality's  dark  dream ! 
I  turn  from  you  and  listen  to  the  wind,  loo 

Which  long  has  raved  unnoticed.    What  a 
scream 
Of  agony  by  torture  lengthened  out 
That  lute  sent  forth!    Thou  Wind  that  ravest 
without, 
Bare  craig,  or  mountain-tairn,   or  blasted 
tree,  104 

Or  pine-grove  whither  woodman  never  clomb. 
Or  lonely  house,  long  held  the  witches'  home, 
Methinks  were  fitter  instruments  for  thee. 
Mad  Lutanist!  who  in  this  month  of  showers, 
Of  dark  brown  gardens,  and  of  peeping  flowers, 
Mak'st  Devils'  yule  with  worse  than  wintry 
song,  110 

The    blossoms,    buds,    and    timorous    leaves 
among. 
Thou  Actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  sounds! 
Thou  mighty  Poet,  e'en  to  frenzy  bold! 
What  tcll's  thou  now  about? 
'Tis  of  the  rushing  of  a  host  in  rout,         115 
With  groans  of  trampled  men,  with  smarting 
wounds — 
At  once  they  groan  with  pain,  and  shudder 

with  the  cold! 
But  hush!  there  is  a  pause  of  deepest  silence! 

And  all  the  noise,  as  of  a  rushing  crowd. 
With  groans  and  tremulous  shudderings — all  is 
over —  120 

It  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds  less  deep 
and  loud! 
A  tale  of  less  affright, 
And  tempered  with  delight. 
As  Otway's  self  had  framed  the  tender  lay, 

'Tis  of  a  httle  child,  125 

Upon  a  lonesome  wild, 
Not  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her 

way: 
And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and  fear. 
And  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make  her 
mother  hear. 

VIII 

'Tis  midnight,  but  small  thoughts  have  I  of 
sleep;  130 

Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils  keep! 
Visit  her,  gentle  Sleep!  with  wings  of  healing, 
And  may  this  storm  be  but  a  mountain- 
birth, 
May  all  the  stars  hang  bright  above  her  dwell- 
ing, 
Silent  as  though  they  watched  the  sleeping 
Earth!  135 

With  light  heart  may  she  rise, 
Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, 
Joy  lift  her  spirit,  joy  attune  her  voice; 
To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul !  140 

O  simple  spirit  guided  from  above, 
Dear  Lady!  friend  devoutest  of  my  choice. 
Thus  mayest  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice. 


THE  GOOD  GREAT  MAN 

(1802) 

COMPLAINT 

"How  seldom,  friend!  a  good  great  man  inherits 
Honour  or  wealth  with  all  his  worth  and  pains! 
It  sounds  like  stories  from  the  land  of  spirits 
If  any  man  obtain  that  which  he  merits 
Or  any  merit  that  which  he  obtains."  5 

REPLY 

For  shame,  dear  friend,  renounce  this  canting 
strain ! 

What  would'st  thou  have  a  good  great  man  ob- 
tain? 

Place?  titles?  salary?  a  gilded  chain? 

Or  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword  had  slain? 

Greatness  and  goodness  are  not  means,  but 
ends!  lo 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends. 

The  good  great  man?  three  treasures,  love  and 

LIGHT, 

And  CALM  THOUGHTS,  regular  as  infants'  breath: 
And  three  firm  friends,  more  sure  than  day  and 

night — 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death!  13 

TO  THE  RIVER  OTTER 

Dear  native  brook!  wild  streamlet  of  the  West! 
How  many  various-fated  years  have  past. 
What  happy,  and  what  mournful  hours,  since 
last 
I  skimmed  the  smooth  thin  stone  along  thy 

breast. 
Numbering  its  light  leaps!  yet  so  deep  imprest 
Sink  the  sweet  scenes  of  childhood,  that  mine 
eyes  6 

I  never  shut  amid  the  sunny  ray, 
But  straight  with  all  their  tints  thy  waters  rise, 
Thy  crossing  plank,  thy  marge  with  willows 
gray. 
And  bedded  sand  that,  veined  with  various 
dyes,  10 

Gleamed  through  thy  bright  transparence!   On 
my  way, 
Visions  of  childhood!  oft  have  ye  beguiled 
Lone  manhood's  cares,  yet  waking  fondest  sighs. 
Ah !  that  once  more  I  were  a  careless  child! 

KUBLA    KHAN:   OR    A    VISION    IN    A 
DREAM 

(1816) 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea.  5 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where   blossomed   many   an    incense-bearing 

tree: 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills,         10 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 


d94 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


But   oh!   that   deep   romantic   chasm   which 

slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 
A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted    15 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil 

seething, 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breath- 
ing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced: 
Amid  whose  swift  half  -intermitted  burst  20 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail. 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail; 
And  mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion     25 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean : 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war !  30 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device,  35 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw; 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played,  40 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song. 

To  such  a  deep  deUght  'twould  win  me. 
That  with  music  loud  and  long,  45 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 
That  sunny  dome!  those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware!  Beware! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair!  60 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honeyndew  hath  f^. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE 

(1822-1832) 

Verse,  a  breeze  mid  blossoms  straying. 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine!    Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
When  I  was  young!  5 

When  I  was  young? — Ah,  woful  When! 
Ah!  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  Then! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong. 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands,  lo 

How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along:— 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore. 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar. 


That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide!  is 

Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather 
When  Youth  and  I  Uved  in't  together. 


Flowers  are  lovely;  Love  is  flower-like; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree; 
O!  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like. 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 
Ere  I  was  old. 


20 


Ere  I  was  old?    Ah  woful  Ere, 

Which  tells  me.  Youth's  no  longer  here! 

0  Youth!  for  years  so  many  and  sweet,  25 
'Tis  known,  that  Thou  and  I  were  one,  ^ 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be  that  Thou  art  gone! 

Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toU'd: — 

And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold!  30 

What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on. 

To  make  believe,  that  Thou  art  gone? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips. 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size: 

But  Spring-tide  blossoms  on  thy  lips  35 

And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes! 
Life  is  but  thought:  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning. 

But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve!  40 

Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 

That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

Wnen  we  are  old: 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave,  45 

Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest. 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist; 
Yet  hath  outstay'd  his  welcome  while. 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 


WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE  I 

(February  21st,  1827) 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.    Slugs  leave  their     \ 

lair —  j 

The  bees  are  stirring — ^birds  are  on  the  wing — 
And  Winter  slumbering  in  the  open  air. 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring! 
And  I  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing,  5 

Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 
Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  amaranths 

blow. 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar 

flow. 
Bloom,  O  ye  amaranths!  bloom  for  whom  ye 

may. 
For  me  ye  bloom  not!     Glide,  rich  streams, 

away!  lo 

With  lips  unbrightened,   wreathless  brow,   I 

stroll: 
And  would  you  leam  the  spells  that  drowse  my 

soul? 
Work  without  Hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve,  1 

And  Hope  without  an  object  cannot  live.  i 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY 


4:95 


1774-1843 

THS  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM^ 

(Written  at  Westbury,  1798) 


It  was  a  summer  evening, 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 

And  he  before  his  cottage  door 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun, 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 

His  Httle  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 


She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round, 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 

In  playing  there  had  found;  10 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found. 
That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

ni 
Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head,  15 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

IV 

"I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there's  many  hereabout;  20 

And  often  when  1  go  to  plough. 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out! 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 


"Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about,"  25 

Young  Peterkin,  he  cries; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes; 
"Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for."  30 


"It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 

"Who  put  the  French  to  rout; 
But  what  they  fought  each  other  for, 

I  could  not  weU  make  out; 
But  every  body  said,"  quoth  he,  35 

"That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

VII 

"My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground. 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly;  40 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled. 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

1  The  Duke  of  Marlborough,  Commander-in-Chief  of 
the  English  and  Dutch  forces,  assisted  by  Prince  Eu- 
gene of  Savoy,  won  a  celebrated  victory  over  the  French 
and  Bavarians  at  Blenheim,  Aug.  13,  1704.  The  war 
arose  over  the  disputed  succession  to  the  throne  of  Spain. 


VIII 

"With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide. 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then  45 

And  new-bom  baby  died: 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

IX 

"They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won;  59 

For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun; 
But  things  Hke  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 


"Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlboro'  won,    55 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 
"Why  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing!" 

Said  httle  Wilhelmine. 
"Nay  .  .  nay  .  .  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 
"It  was  a  famous  victory.  60 

XI 

"And  every  body  praised  the  Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?" 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he,  65 

"But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 


THE  WELL  OF  ST.  KEYNE 

1798 

A  Well  there  is  in  the  west  country. 
And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen; 

There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 
But  has  heard  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne. 

An  oak  and  an  elm-tree  stand  beside,  5 

And  behind  doth  an  ash-tree  grow. 

And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 
Droops  to  the  water  below. 

A  traveller  came  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne; 

Joyfully  he  drew  nigh,  10 

For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  traveUing, 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear. 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he; 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank,  15 

Under  the  willow-tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  house  hard  by. 

At  the  Well  to  fill  his  pail; 
On  the  Well-side  he  rested  it. 

And  he  bade  the  Stranger  hail.  20 

"Now  art  thou  a  bachelor,  Stranger?"  quoth 
he; 
"For,  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife, 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this 
day 
That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 


496 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


"Or  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast,  25 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been? 
For,  an  if  she  have,  I'll  venture  my  Hfe, 

She  has  drank  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne." 

"I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was 
here," 
The  Stranger  he  made  reply;  30 

"But  that  my  draught  should  be  the  better 
for  that, 
I  pray  you  answer  me  why." 

"St.  Keyne,"  quoth  the  Cornish-man,  "many 
a  time 

Drank  of  this  crystal  Well; 
And,  before  the  Angel  summon'd  her,  35 

She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

"If  the  Husband,  of  this  gifted  Well 

Shall  drink  before  his  Wife, 
A  happy  man  thenceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  be  Master  for  hfe.  40 

"But  if  the  Wife  should  drink  of  it  first, 

God  help  the  Husband  then!" — 
The  Stranger  stoop'd  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne, 

And  drank  of  the  water  again. 

"You  drank  of  the  Well,  I  warrant,  betimes?" 
He  to  the  Cornish-man  said:  46 

But  the  Cornish-man  smiled  as  the  Stranger 
spake, 
And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

"I  hasten'd  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done. 
And  left  my  Wife  in  the  porch;  50, 

But  i'  faith  she  had  been  wiser  than  me. 
For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church." 


MY    DAYS    AMONG   THE    DEAD    ARE 
PAST 

(Written  at  Keswick,  1818) 


My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past; 

Around  me  I  behold. 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast. 

The  mighty  minds  of  old; 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 


With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal. 

And  seek  relief  in  woe; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe,  10 

My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew'd 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 


My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years; 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn,    15 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears. 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 


My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead;  anon 
My  place  with  them  will  be,  20 

And  I  with  them  shall  travel  o?* 
Through  all  Futurity: 

Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust. 

That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 


g)ir  Salter  g>cott 

1771-1832 

B[AROLD'S  SONG  TO  ROSABELLE 

(From  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  1805) 

Canto  VI 

XXIII 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay. 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

"Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew!        A 

And,  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay! 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Raven  sheuch. 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

"The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white; 

To  inch^  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly;  10 

The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 

Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

"Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  ladye  gay; 

Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch:  15 

Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day?" — 

"'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 
To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 


But  that  my  ladye-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

"'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well. 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide. 
If  'tis  not  fill'd  by  Rosabelle. —  " 

O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night, 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam ; 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light. 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock. 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse-wood  glen; 

'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  cavern'd  Hawthornden. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud, 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffin'd  lie. 

Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud. 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

1  Island. 


2S 


25 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


497 


40 


45 


Seem'd  all  on  fire  within,  around, 

Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale; 
Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 

And  glimmer'd  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Bla,zed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  St.  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle! 

And  each  St.  Clair  was  buried  there. 

With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell;     50 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds 
sung, 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

HUNTING  SONG 

(1808) 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day; 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here 

With  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hunting-spear; 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling,  5 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

Merrjly,  merrily,  mingle  they, 

"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 
The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray,  10 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming. 
Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming; 
And  foresters  have  busy  been 
To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green; 
Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay,  15 

"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  green- wood  haste  away; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size;  20 

We  can  show  the  marks  he  made, 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 
"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay,  25 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay! 
Tell  them  youth,  and  mirth,  and  glee, 
Run  a  course  as  well  as  we; 
Time,  stern  huntsman !  who  can  baulk, 
Stanch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk;  30 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 
Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

LOCHINVAR 

(From  Marmion^  1808) 

Canto  V 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the 
best; 


And  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapons  had 
none, 

He  rode  all  unarm'd,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 

So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war,        5 

There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochin- 
var.   ' 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopp'd  not  for 

stone, 
He  swam  the  Esk  river  where  ford  there  was 

none; 
But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came 

late:  lo 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  enter'd  the  Netherby  Hall, 
Among  bride's-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers, 

and  all: 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his 
sword  15 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a 

word), 
"  O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war. 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochin- 
var?"— 

"I  long  woo'd  your  daughter,  my  suit  you 

denied; — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its 

tide —  20 

And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by 

far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young 

Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kiss'd  the  goblet:  the  knight  took  it 

up,  25 

He  quaff'd  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the 

cup. 
She  look'd  down  to  blush,  and  she  look'd  up  to 

sigh. 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could 

bar, — 
"Now    tread   we   a   measure!'*    said    young 

Lochinvar.  30 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face. 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did 

fume. 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet 

and  plume; 
And   the   bride-maidens  whisper'd,   "'Twere 

better  by  far,  35 

To  have  match'd  our  fair  cousin  with  young 

Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear. 
When   they   reach'd   the   hall-door,   and   the 

charger  stood  near; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung !      40 


498 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


"She  is  wonl  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and 

scaur; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth 

young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the 
Netherby  clan; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode 
and  they  ran: 

There  was  racing  and  chasing,  on  Cannobie 
Lee,  45 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they 
see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochin- 
var? 


BALLAD 

ALICE   BRAND 

(From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  1810) 
Canto  IV 

XII 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood. 
When  the  mavis  and  merle^  are  singing, 

When  the  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the  hounds  are 
in  cry, 
And  the  hunter's  horn  is  ringing. 

' '  O  Alice  Brand,  my  native  land  5 

Is  lost  for  love  of  you; 
And  we  must  hold  by  wood  and  wold, 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 

"O  Alice,  'twas  all  for  thy  locks  so  bright, 
And  'twas  all  for  thine  eyes  so  blue,  10 

That  on  the  night  of  our  luckless  flight. 
Thy  brother  bold  I  slew. 

"Now  must  I  teach  to  hew  the  beech 

The  hand  that  held  the  glaive,^ 
For  leaves  to  spread  om*  lowly  bed,  16 

And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 

"And  for  vest  of  pall,'  thy  fingers  small. 

That  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 
A  cloak  must  shear  from  the  slaughter'd  deer, 

To  keep  the  cold  away." —  20 

"O  Richard!  if  my  brother  died, 

'Twas  but  a  fatal  chance; 
For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried, 

And  fortune  sped  the  lance. 

"If  pall  and  vair*  no  more  I  wear,  26 

Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen, 
As  warm,  we'll  say,  is  the  russet  gray, 

As  gay  the  forest  green. 

"And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard, 

And  lost  thy  native  land,  30 

Still  AHce  has  her  own  Richard, 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand." 

1  Thrush  and  blackbird.  *  Sword. 

*  A  kind  of  fine  cloth  -worn  by  the  upper 

*  A  kind  of  fur. 


XIII 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood. 

So  blithe  Lady  Alice  is  singing; 
On  the  beech's  pride,  and  oak's  brown  side,  36 

Lord  Richard's  axe  is  ringing. 

Up  spoke  the  moody  Elfin  King, 

Who  won'd^  within  the  hill,— 
Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruin'd  church. 

His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill.  40 

"Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beech  and  oak. 

Our  moonlight  circle's  screen? 
Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer. 

Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen? 
Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear  45 

The  fairies'  fatal  green? 

"Up,  Urgan,  up!  to  yon  mortal  hie, 

For  thou  wert  christen'd  man; 
For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly, 

For  mutter'd  word  or  ban. 


50 


"Lay  on  him  the  curse  of  the  wither'd  heart, 

The  curse  of  the  sleepless  eye; 
Till  he  wish  and  pray  that  his  life  would  part, 

Nor  yet  find  leave  to  die." 

XIV 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood,       55 
Though  the  birds  have  still'd  their  singing; 

The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise. 
And  Richard  is  fagots  bringing. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf, 

Before  Lord  Richard  stands,  60 

And,  as  he  cross'd  and  bless'd  himself, 
"I  fear  not  sign,"  quoth  the  grisly  elf. 
^'That  is  made  with  bloody  hands.'' 

But  out  then  spoke  she,  Alice  Brand, 
That  woman  void  of  fear, —  65 

"And  if  there's  blood  upon  his  hand, 
'Tis  but  the  blood  of  deer."— 

"Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of  mood! 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand, 
The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood,  70 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand." 

Then  forward  stepp'd  she,  Alice  Brand, 

And  made  the  holy  sign, — 
"And  if  there's  blood  on  Richard's  hand, 

A  spotless  hand  is  mine.  75 

"And  I  conjure  thee,  Demon  elf. 

By  Him  whom  Demons  fear. 
To  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself, 

And  what  thine  errand  here?" — 


XV 

"'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  Fairy-land,  80 

When  fairy  birds  are  singing. 
When  the  court  doth  ride  by  their  monarch's 
side. 

With  bit  and  bridle  ringing: 

6  Dwelt.  ^ 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


499 


"And  gaily  shines  the  Fairy-land— 
But  all  is  glistening  show,  85 

Like  the  idle  gleam  that  December's  beam 
Can  dart  on  ice  and  snow. 

"And  fading,  like  that  varied  gleam, 

Is  our  inconstant  shape, 
Who  now  like  knight  and  lady  seem,  90 

And  now  like  dwarf  and  ape. 

"It  was  between  the  night  and  day. 

When  the  Fairy  King  has  power. 
That  I  sunk  down  in  a  sinful  fray. 
And,  'twixt  life  and  death,  was  snatch'd  away. 

To  the  joyless  Elfin  bower.  .  96 

"But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold, 

Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 
I  might  regain  my  mortal  mold. 

As  fair  a  form  as  thine."  100 

She  cross'd  him  once — she  cross'd  him  twice^ 

That  lady  was  so  brave; 
The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue. 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  cross'd  him  thrice,  that  lady  bold;         105 

He  rose  beneath  her  hand 
The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mold,^ 

Her  brother,  Ethert  Brand! 

Merry  it  is  in  good  greenwood, 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing,     no 
But  merrier  were  they  in  Dunfermline  gray 

When  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 

EDMUND'S  SONG 

(From  Bokeby,  1812) 

Canto  III 

XVI 

O,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods^  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton-hall,  5 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  Maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily, — 

Chorus 
"O,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  green;  10 

I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there,  * 

Than  reign  our  English  queen." — 

"If,  maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me, 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we,     15 

That  dwell,  by  dale  and  down? 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read. 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed. 

As  bhthe  as  Queen  of  May." —  20 

«  Soil,  ground. 

1  On  the  Greta  river  in  Yorkshire;  the  estate  of  Rokeby 
was  situated  at  the  junction  of  this  river  with  the  Tees. 


Chorus 
Yet  sung  she,  "Brignall  banks  are  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there. 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

"I  read  you,  by  your  bugle-horn,  25 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  Ranger  sworn. 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood. — - 
"A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light;  30 

His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  mom, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night." — 

Chai-us 
Yet  sung  she,  "Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay; 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there,  35 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May! 

"With  burnish'd  brand  and  musketoon,* 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  dragoon. 

That  hsts  the  tuck^  of  drum." —   .  40 

"I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum. 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 

Chorus 
"And,  O!  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair,    45 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare. 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May! 

"Maiden!  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die;  50 

The  fiend,  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead, 
Were  better  mate  than  I! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget,  55 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 

Chorus 
"Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green. 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen." —  60 


SONG 

A   WEARY   LOT  IS  THINE 

(From  the  same.  Canto  III,  xxvin) 

"A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid. 

And  press  the  rue  for  winel^ 

2  A  short  musket.  '  Beat. 

» Instead  of  the  wine  of  life  she  has  only  rue,  the  plant 
associated  with  repentance  and  sorrow. 


500 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien,  5 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green, — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew, 
My  love! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew.  10 

"This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 

The  rose  is  budding  fain; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow, 

Ere  we  two  meet  again." 
He  turn'd  his  charger  as  he  spake,  15 

Upon  the  river  shore, 
He  gave  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

Said,  "Adieu  forever  more. 
My  love! 
And  adieu  forever  more." —  20 

SONG 

ALLAN-A-DALE 

(From  the  same.  Canto  III,  xxx) 
Allan-a-Dale  has  no  faggots  for  burning, 
AlIan-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allan-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spinning, 
Yet  Allan-a-Dale  has  red  gold  for  the  winning. 
Come,  read  me  my  riddle!  come,  harken  my 
tale!  5 

And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allan-a-Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  prances  in  pride, 
And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkindale  side. 
The  mere  for  his  net,  and  the  land  for  his  game. 
The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park  for  the 
tame;  lO 

Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake,  and  the  deer  of  the  vale, 
Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allan-a-Dale! 

Allan-a-Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight. 
Though  his  spur  be  as  sharp,  and  his  blade  be 
as  bright;  15 

Allan-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord. 
Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at  his  word; 
And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bonnet  will  vail,^ 
Who  at  Rere-cross  on  Stanmore  meets  Allan-a- 
Dale. 

Allan-a-Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come; 

The  mother,  she  ask'd  of  his  household  and 
home:  20 

"Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand  fair  on 
the  hiU, 

My  hall,"  quoth  bold  Allan,  "shows  gallanter 
still; 

'Tis  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with  its  crescent 
so  pale. 

And  with  all  its  bright  spangles!'*  said  Allan-a- 
Dale. 

The  father  was  steel,  and  the  mother  was  stone; 
They  lifted  the  latch  and  they  bade  him  begone; 
But  loud,  on  the  morrow,  their  wail  and  their 

cry :  27 

He  has  laugh'd  on  the  lass  with  his  bonny  black 

eye, 
And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love-tale,    29 
And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Allan-a-Dale! 

^  Doff  in  token  of  submission. 


SONG 

THE   CAVALIER 

(From  the  same.  Canto  V,  xx) 

While  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and 

gray. 
My  true  love  has  mounted  his  steed  and  away. 
Over  hill,  over  valley,  o'er  dale,  and  o'er  down; 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  Gallant  that  fights  for 

the  Crown! 

He  has  doff'd  the  silk  doublet  the  breast-plate 

to  bear,  5 

He  has  placed  the  steel-cap  o'er  his  long  flowing 

hair, 
From  his  belt  to  his  stirrup  his  broadsword 

hangs  down, — 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  Gallant  that  fights  for 

the  Crown! 

For  the  rights  of  fair  England  that  broadsword 

he  draws; 
Her  King  is  his  leader,  her  Church  is  his  cause; 
His  watchword  is  honour,  his  pay  is  renown, — 
God  strike  with  the  Gallant  that  strikes  for  the 

Crown!  12 

They  may  boast  of  their  Fairfax,  their  Waller, 

and  all 
The  round-headed  rebels  of  Westminster  Hall; 
But  tell  those  bold  traitors  of  London's  proud 

town,  15 

That  the  spears  of  the  North  have  encircled  the 

Crown. 

There's  Derby  and  Cavendish,  dread  of  their 

foes; 
There's  Erin's  high  Ormond,  and  Scotland's 

Montrose! 
Would  you  match  the  base  Skippon,  and  Mas- 

sey,  and  Brown, 
With  the  Barons  of  England,  that  fight  for  the 

Crown?  20 

Now  joy  to  the  crest  of  the  brave  Cavalier! 

Be  his  banner  unconquer'd,  resistless  his  spear, 

Till  in  peace  and  in  triumph  his  toils  he  may 

drown, 
In  a  pledge  to  fair  England,  her  Church,  and 

her  Crown. 


JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN 
(1816) 


"Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride : 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen  " — 
But  aye  she  loot^  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

iLet. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


501 


"Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale;  10 

Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen" — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa'  15 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


"A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk. 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair;  20 

And  you,  the  foremost  of  them  a*, 

Shall  ride  our  forest-queen" — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa* 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


IV 


25 


The  kirk  was  deck'd  at  morning-tide, 

The  tapers  glimmered  fair; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride. 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there: 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha' ! 

The  ladie  was  not  seen!  30 

She's  o'er  the  border  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 


HARLAW 

(From  The  Antiquary,  1816) 

Now  hand  your  tongue,  baith  wife  and  carle,' 

And  listen,  great  and  sma'. 
And  I  will  sing  of  Glenallan's  Earl 

That  fought  on  the  red  Harlaw. 

"The  cronach's^  cried  on  Bennachie,  5 

And  doun  the  Don  and  a', 
And  hieland  and  lawland  may  mournfu'  be 

For  the  sair  field  of  Harlaw. — 

"They  saddled  a  hundred  milk-white  steeds. 
They  hae  bridled  a  hundred  black,  10 

With  a  chafron^  of  steel  on  each  horse's  head, 
And  a  good  knight  upon  his  back." — 


"The  great  Earl  in  his  stirrups  stood 

That  Highland  host  to  see: 
Now  here  a  knight  that's  stout  and  good 

May  prove  a  jeopardie: 

"'What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  squire  so  gay,  25 

That  rides  beside  my  reyne, 
Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl  the  day, 

And  I  were  Roland  Cheyne? 

"'To  turn  the  rein  were  sin  and  shame. 
To  fight  were  wondrous  peril,  30 

What  would  ye  do  now,  Roland  Cheyne, 
Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl?' 

"'Were  I  Glenallan's  Earl  this  tide,^ 

And  ye  were  Roland  Cheyne, 
The  spur  should  be  in  my  horse's  side,  35 

And  the  bridle  upon  his  mane. 

"'If  they  hae  twenty  thousand  blades, 

And  we  twice  ten  times  ten, 
Yet  they  hae  but  their  tartan  plaids, 

And  we  are  mail-clad  men.  40 

"'My  horse  shall  ride  through  ranks  sae  rude, 

As  through  the  moorland  fern, 
Then  ne'er  let  the  gentle  Norman  blude 

Grow  cauld  for  Highland  kerne.'  "^ 

MADGE  WILDFIRE'S  SONG 
(From  The  Heart  of  Midlothian,  1818) 

"Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood. 

Walking  so  early; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

"'Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird,  5 

When  shall  I  marry  me?' 
*When  six  braw^  gentlemen 

Kirkward  shall  carry  ye.  .  .  .* 

"'Wlio  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly?' —  10 

'The  grey-headed  sexton. 

That  delves^  the  grave  duly.  .  .  . 

"The  glow-worm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  hght  thee  steady; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing,  15 

'Welcome,  proud  lady.'" 


"They  hadna  ridden  a  mile,  a  mile, 

A  mile,  but  barely  ten. 
When  Donald  came  branking*  down  the  brae  15 

Wi'  twenty  thousand  men. 

"Their  tartans  they  were  waving  wide. 
Their  glaives^  were  glancing  clear. 

Their  pibrochs^  rung  frae  side  to  side 

Would  deafen  ye  to  hear.  20 

1  Carle.    Here  =husband.     *  i.  e.,  coronach,  or  dirge. 

3  The  front  part  of  the  head  piece  of  a  war-horse's 
armor. 

*  Prancing.  "  Swords. 

6  Martial  music  played  on  the  bag  pipes  by  the  High- 
landers. 


BORDER  BALLAD 

(From  The  Monastery,  1820) 

I 
March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 
Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march  forward  m 
order? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the 
Border. 
Many  a  banner  spread,  5 

Flutters  above  your  head, 
7  Time.  »  A  soldier  of  the  lowest  rank;  or  a  boor. 

1  Brave.  "  Digs. 


502 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story; 
Mount  and  make  ready  then, 
Sons  of  the  mountain  glen, 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  the  old  Scottish 
glory!  10 

n 
Come  from  the  hills  where  the  hirsels^  are  graz- 
ing, 
Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the 
bow. 
Trumpets  are  sounding,  15 

War-steeds  are  bounding. 
Stand  to  your  arms  then,  and  march  in  good 
order; 
England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray,  19 

When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border  I 


I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call; — if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 
She  did  inherit. 


15 


Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool, 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school, 

Nature  had  blest  her.  20 


A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind. 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 


My  sprightly  neighbour,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore. 
Some  summer  morning. 


25 


COUNTY  GUY 

(From  Quentin  Durward,  1823) 

"Ah!  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh. 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange-flower  perfumes  the  bower. 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  thrill'd  all  day,  5 

Sits  hush'd  his  partner  nigh; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower,  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy? 

"The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear;  lo 

To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high. 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above. 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky; 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know —         15 

But  where  is  County  Guy?" 


diaries  ilamb 

1775-1834 

TO  HESTER 

(1805) 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die. 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try. 
With  vain  endeavour. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed, 
And  her  together. 


A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
That  flushed  her  spirit. 

*  A  flock  of  sheep  or  a  herd  of  cattle. 


10 


When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  fore-warning? 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school- 
days: 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  f amihar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing. 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom 
cronies;  5 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  Love  once,  fairest  among  women; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man; 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 


10 


Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my 

childhood. 
Earth  seem'd  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse. 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  f amihar  faces.  15 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother. 
Why  wert  not  thou  bom  in  my  father's  dwell- 
ing? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces, — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have 

left  me. 
And  some  are  taken  from  me;  all  are  departed;    \ 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces.  21     : 


JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE 


503 


falter  ^abage  ilannor 

1775-1864 

MILD   IS   THE   PARTING   YEAR,   AND 
SWEET 

(Collected  Works,  1846) 

Mild  is  the  parting  year,  and  sweet 

The  odour  of  the  falling  spray; 
Life  passes  on  more  rudely  fleet. 

And  balmless  is  its  closing  day. 
I  wait  its  close,  I  court  its  gloom,  5 

But  mourn  that  never  must  there  fall 
Or  on  my  breast  or  on  my  tomb 

The  tear  that  would  have  sooth'd  it  all. 


AH   WHAT   AVAILS   THE   SCEPTERED 
RACE 

(From  the  same) 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptered  race, 

Ah  what  the  form  divine! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes    5 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


YES;  I  WRITE  VERSES 

(From  the  same) 

Yes;  I  write  verses  now  and  then. 
But  blunt  and  flaccid  is  my  pen. 
No  longer  talkt  of  by  young  men 

As  rather  clever: 
In  the  last  quarter  are  my  eyes. 
You  see  it  by  their  form  and  size; 
Is  it  not  time  then  to  be  wise? 

Or  now  or  never. 
Fairest  that  ever  sprang  from  Eve! 
While  Time  allows  the  short  reprieve. 
Just  look  at  me!  would  you  believe 

'Twas  once  a  lover  f 
I  cannot  clear  the  five-bar  gate 
But,  trying  first  its  timber's  state,      ^ 
Climb  stifily  up,  take  breath,  and  wait       15 

To  trundle  over. 
Thro'  gallopade^  I  cannot  swing 
The  entangling  blooms  of  Beauty's  spnng: 
I  cannot  say  the  tender  thing, 

Be't  true  or  false. 
And  am  beginning  to  opine 
Those  girls  are  only  half-divine 
Whose  waists  yon  wicked  boys  entwine 
In  giddy  waltz. 
I  fear  that  arm  above  that  shoulder, 
I  wish  them  wiser,  graver,  older, 
Sedater,  and  no  harm  if  colder 

And  panting  less 


10 


20 


25 


1  A  kind  of  dance. 


Ah!  people  were  not  haK  so  wild 

In  former  days,  when  starchly  mild,  30 

Upon  her  high-heel'd  Essex  smiled 

The  Brave  Queen  Bess. 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

(From  the  same) 

There  is  dehght  in  singing,  tho'  none  hear 
Beside  the  singer;  and  there  is  delight 
In  praising,  tho'  the  praiser  sit  alone 
And  see  the  prais'd  far  off  him,  far  above. 
Shakespeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's,     5 
Therefore  on  him  no  speech!  and  brief  for  thee. 
Browning!    Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale. 
No  man  hath  walkt  along  our  roads  with  step 
So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So  varied  in  discourse.   But  warmer  climes      lo 
Give   brighter   plumage,   stronger   wing:   the 

Of  Alpine  heights  thou  playest  with,  borne  on 

Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 

The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 


INTRODUCTION  TO 
THE  LAST  FRUIT  OFF  AN  OLD  TREE 

(1853) 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my 

Nature  I  loved,  and,  next  to  Nature,  Art; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  Life; 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 


31ofifept)  Blanco  WWt 

1775-1841 

SONNET  TO  NIGHT 

(First  published  1828) 
Mysterious  Night!  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  by  report  Divine,  and  heard  thy  name. 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  goodly  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  hhiej 
But  through  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew,  5 

Bathed  in  the  hues  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  Host  of  Heaven  came. 
And  lo!  creation  broadened  to  man  s  view. 
Who  could  have  guessed  such  darkness  lay  con- 

Within^hy  beams,  O  Sun!  or  who  divined        lO 
W^hilst  bud,  and  flower,  and  insect  stood  re- 

ThoJ  to^such  countless  worlds  hadst  made  us 

Why  should  we,  then,  shun  death  with  anxious 

If  Light  conceals  so  much,  wherefore  not  Life? 


504 


THE  AGE  OF   WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


arijomas?  Campbell 

1777-1844 

YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND* 

(1801) 
Ye  mariners  of  England 
That  guard  our  native  seas, 
Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 
The  battle  and  the  breeze! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again  5 

To  match  another  foe, 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  10 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave: 

Where  Blake^  and  mighty  Nelson^  fell        15 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow,  • 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

WTiile  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  20 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak  25 

She  quells  the  floods  below — • 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore. 

Where  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  30 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors!  35 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more. 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow.  40 


HOHENLINDENi 

(1802) 
On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low. 
All  bloodless  lay  th'  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

1  When  this  ode  was  written  England  was  arrayed 
singly  against  France  and  the  greater  part  of  Europe,  and 
her  safety  depended  on  the  maintenance  of  her  supremacy 
on  the  sea. 

2  Robert  Blake  (1599-1657),  a  great  English  admiral, 
particularly  noted  for  his  victories  over  the  Dutch  in  1652 
and  1657. 

»  Horatio  Nelson  (afterwards  Viscount) ,  the  greatest 
of  England's  admirals  (1758-1805),  who  was  killed  in  the 
Battle  of  Trafalgar.  In  the  original  version  of  the  poem 
Sir  Richard  Grenville's  name  was  used  instead  of  Nel- 
son's, who  was  then  Uving. 

*  Campbell  was  near  Hohenlinden,  a  village  in  upper 


But  Linden  saw  another  sight. 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night. 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed. 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle  blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 


10 


Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven,  ig 

Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 


But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow, 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


20 


'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.    On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 
Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave. 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 

Few,  few,  shall  part  where  many  meet! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding  sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


25 


30 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC* 

(1809) 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown. 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown. 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone;  5 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 

In  a  bold  determin'd  hand. 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat  10 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine. 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line: 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime; 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path,  15 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death. 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 

Bavaria,  at  the  time  of  the  battle  there  in  18(K),  between 
the  victorious  French  and  the  allied  Bavarians  and 
Austrians. 

1  An  English  expedition  under  Sir  Hyde  Parker,  with 
Nelson  second  in  command,  was  sent  to  the  Baltic  against 
a  confederacy  formed  by  Russia,  Sweden  and  Denmark. 
The  Battle  of  the  Baltic  was  fought  on  April  2,  1801,  and  \ 
Nelson,  rather  than  Parker,  was  the  hero  of  the  day.  )) 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL 


505 


But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene,  20 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between- — 

"Hearts  of  oak,"  our  captains  cried,  when  each 

gun     ,  .     ,. 

From  its  adamantme  hps 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships,  25 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 


Again!  again!  again! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom: — 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail, 

Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave; 

"Ye  are  brothers!  ye  are  men! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save; 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring: 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King." 

Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief. 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day; 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  hght 

Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

While  the  wine  cup  shines  in  light; 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar. 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 

Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore!^ 


Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou,^ 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls. 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles,  70 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave! 

2  A  Danish  sea-port  town  about  twenty  miles  from 

^3'captiin 'Rwu,  who  distinguished  himself  in  an  im- 
portant part  of  the  engagement. 


30 


35 


40 


43 


50 


55 


60 


65 


10 


13 


20 


2£ 


SONG 
"men  op  England" 

Men  of  England!  who  inherit 

Rights  that  cost  your  sires  their  blood. 
Men  whose  undegenerate  spirit 

Has  been  proved  on  land  and  flood: 

By  the  foes  ye've  fought  uncounted, 
By  the  glorious  deeds  ye've  done. 

Trophies  captured — breaches  mounted, 
Navies  conquered — kingdoms  won! 

Yet,  remember,  England  gathers 
Hence  but  fruitless  wreaths  of  fame, 

If  the  patriotism  of  your  fathers 
Glow  not  in  your  hearts  the  same. 

What  are  monuments  of  bravery, 
Where  no  public  virtues  bloom? 

What  avail  in  lands  of  slavery, 
Trophied  temples,  arch  and  tomb? 

Pageants! — Let  the  world  revere  us 
For  our  people's  rights  and  laws. 
And  the  breasts  of  civic  heroes 
Bared  in  Freedom's  holy  cause. 

Yours  are  Hampden's,  Russell's  glory, 
Sydney's  matchless  fame  is  yours, — 

Martyrs  in  heroic  story, 
Worth  a  hundred  Agincourts! 

We're  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 

Crowned  and  mitred  tyranny: 
They  defied  the  field  and  scaffold 

For  their  birthrights— so  will  we! 

SONG 

TO  THE   EVENING   STAR 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee. 
And  sett'st  the  weary  labourer  free! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  thou. 

That  send'st  it  from  above. 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow,   { 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
W^hilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard. 

And  songs,  when  toil  is  done,  1< 

From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirred 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews. 

Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse; 

Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven  1* 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art. 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER 

(1804) 

A  Chief  tan  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "Boatman,  do  not  tarry! 

And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound. 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." — 


506 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


"Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle,         5 

This  dark  and  stormy  water?" 
"O,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 

And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter,— 

"And  fast  before  her  father's  men 

Three  days  we've  fled  together,  10 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen. 

My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover. 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonnie  bride  15 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover?" — 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 

"I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  ready: — 
It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright; 

But  for  your  winsome  lady:  20 

"And  by  my  word!  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry: 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." — 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace,  25 

The  water-wraith  was  shrieking; 
And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 

Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer,  30 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armM  men, 

Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"Oh,  haste  thee,  haste!"  the  lady  cries, 
"Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies,  33 

But  not  an  angry  father." — 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her, — ■ 
When,  oh!  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. —  40 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing; 
Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore. 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. — 

For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shade,  45 

His  child  he  did  discover: — 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid. 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Come  back!  come  back!"  he  cried  in  grief, 
"Across  this  stormy  water:  60 

And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief. 
My  daughter! — oh,  my  daughter!" — 

Twas  vain:  the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore. 

Return  or  aid  preventing: — 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child,  65 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


1779-1852 

AS  SLOW  OUR  SHIP 
(From  Irish  Melodies,  1807-1834) 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  back 

To  that  dear  isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loath  we  part  from  all  we  love,  5 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us; 
So  turn  our  hearts,  where'er  we  rove. 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us! 

When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanish'd  years 

We  talk,  with  joyous  seeming,  lo 

And  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming; 
While  mem'ry  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twin'd  us. 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then  15 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us! 

And,  when  in  other  climes  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting. 
Where  all  looks  flow'ry,  mild  and  sweet, 

And  nought  but  love  is  wanting;  20 

We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss, 

If  Heav'n  had  but  assign'd  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us! 


As  trav'Uers  oft  look  back  at  eve, 

When  eastward  darkly  going. 
To  gaze  upon  the  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing— 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consign'd  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 


25 


30 


THE    HARP    THAT    ONCE    THROUGH 
TARA'S  HALLSi 

(From  the  same) 

The  harp  that  once,  through  Tara's  Halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls. 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled: — 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days,  5 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er; 
And  hearts,  that  once  beat  high  for  praise. 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more! 


No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 
The  chord,  2  alone,  that  breaks  at  night. 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells: — 
Thus  freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes. 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks. 

To  show  that  still  she  lives! 


10 


15 


» The  palace  of  the  ancient  kings  of  Ireland,  which  is 
said  to  have  stood  on  the  Hill  of  Tara,  in  County  Meath, 
Ireland.  »Cord,  string. 


BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER 


507 


SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND 

(From  the  same) 
She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  Hero 


And  lovers  are  round  her,  sighing; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 
For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying! 

She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 
Every  note  which  he  lov'd  awaking ; —  6 

Ah!  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 
How  the  heart  of  the  Minstrel  is  breaking! 

He  had  liv'd  for  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwin'd  him,io 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried. 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him! 

Oh!  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sun-beams  rest. 
When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow ; 

They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from 
the  West,  15 

From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow! 

OFT  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT 

(1816) 

Oft,  in  the  stillv  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Mem'ry  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me; 

The  smiles,  the  tears,  5 

Of  boyhood's  years. 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken; 
The  eyes  that  shone. 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone. 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken!  lo 

Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me. 
Sad  Mem'ry  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all  15 

The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall. 
Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather; 
I  feel  like  one 

Who  treads  alone  20 

Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled. 
Whose  garland's  dead. 
And  all  but  he  departed! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night,  25 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me. 
Sad  Mem'ry  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

€htnt'^tx  Clliott 

1781-1849 
A  POET'S  EPITAPH 

Stop,  Mortal!    Here  thy  brother  lies. 

The  Poet  of  the  Poor. 
His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies. 

The  meadow,  and  the  moor; 


His  teachers  were  the  torn  hearts'  wail,       5 

The  tyrant  and  the  slave. 
The  street,  the  factory,  the  jail, 

The  palace — and  the  grave! 
The  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm. 

He  feared  to  scorn  or  hate;  lo 

And  honoured  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great. 
But  if  he  loved  the  rich  who  make 

The  poor  man's  little  more, 
111  could  he  praise  the  rich  who  take  15 

From  plundered  labour's  store. 
A  hand  to  do,  a  head  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare — 
Tell  man's  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 

Who  drew  them  as  they  are.  20 


lames?  ^tnt^  ileigl^  J^unt 

1784-1859 


TO 


THE 


THE    GRASSHOPPER    AND 
CRICKET  1  (1816) 
Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass. 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon^ 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summonmg 

brass:  ^ 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class  5 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too 

soon, 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass; 
Oh  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong. 
One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth,        lO 
Both  have  your  sunshine;  both,  though  small, 

are  strong 
At  your  clear  hearts;  and  both  seem  giv'n  to 

earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 
In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter.  Mirth. 

115r^an  Waller  ^Procter 

(Barry  Cornwall) 

^  1787-1874 

A  PETITION  TO  TIME  (1850) 
Touch  us  gently.  Time! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently, — as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream! 
Humble  voyagers  are  We,  S 

Husband,  wife,  and  children  three — 
(One  is  lost, — an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead!) 

Touch  us  gently.  Time! 

We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings:     10 
Our  ambition,  our  content 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
O'er  Life's  dim  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime: —  15 

Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time! 

1  Cf.  Keats'  sonnet  and  n.,  p.  529. 

2  This  refers  to  an  old  custom  of  beating  on  pans,  at 
the  time  of  the  swarming  of  the  bees,  which  was  thought 
to  pi  event  their  leaving  the  premises. 


508 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


THE  SEA 

The  Sea!  the  Sea!  the  open  Sea! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  'round; 

It  plays  wi  th  the  clouds ;  it  mocks  the  skies ;       5 

Or  Uke  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  Sea!  I'm  on  the  Sea! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go;  10 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter?    I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love  (oh!  how  I  love)  to  ride 

On  the  fierce  foaming  bursting  tide, 

When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon,      15 

Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune. 

And  tolls  how  goeth  the  world  below. 

And  why  the  south-west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull  tame  shore, 

But  I  lov'd  the  great  Sea  more  and  more,      20 

And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast. 

Like  a  bu-d  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest; 

And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is  to  me; 

For  I  was  bom  on  the  open  Sea! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  mom,      25 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born; 

And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled. 

And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold; 

And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 

As  welcomed  to  hfe  the  Ocean-child!  30 

I've  hved  since  then  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers  a  sailor's  life. 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to  range. 
But  never  have  sought,  nor  sighed  for  change; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  come  to  me,  35 

Shall  come  on  the  wide  unbounded  Sea! 


George  Portion  115^ron 

1788-1824 

HE  WHO  HATH  BENT  HIM  O'ER  THE 
DEAD 

(From  The  Giaour,  1813) 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead, 

Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled. 

The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness,  70 

The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 

(Before  decay's  effacing  fingers 

Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers), 

And  mark'd  the  mild  angelic  air. 

The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there,  75 

The  fix'd,  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 

The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek. 

And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye. 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now. 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow,    80 

Where  cold  obstruction's  apathy 

Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 

As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 


The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon; 

Yes,  but  for  these,  and  these  alone,  8S 

Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour 

He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power; 

So  fair,  so  cakn,  so  softly  seal'd, 

The  first,  last  look  by  death  reveal'd! 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore;  90 

'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more! 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair. 

We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death. 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath;      95 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom. 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 

Expression's  last  receding  ray, 

A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay. 

The  farewell  beam  of  feeling  past  away !  100 

Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly 

birth. 

Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherished 
earth! 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  freedom's  home,  or  glory's  grave!  105 

Shrine  of  the  mighty!  can  it  be, 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee? 
Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  slave 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylas? 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave,        lio 

Oh  servile  offspring  of  the  free — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this? 
The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis! 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own;  115 

Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear 
That  tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear,  120 

And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame: 
For  freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeath'd  by  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  baffled  oft,  is  ever  won.  125 

Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page, 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age! 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid, 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid. 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom  130 

Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command. 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land! 
There  points  thy  muse  to  stranger's  eye 
The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die!  135 

'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace. 
Each  step  from  splendour  to  disgrace; 
Enough — no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell; 
Yes!  self-abasement  paved  the  way  14 • 

To  villain-bonds  and  despot-sway. 

What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore? 

No  legend  of  thine  olden  time, 
No  theme  on  which  the  muse  might  soar 
High  as  thine  own  in  days  of  yore,  145       , 

When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime.  \  v' 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON 


509 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB^ 

(From  Hebrew  Melodies,  1815) 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the 

fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and 

gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on 

the  sea, 
When   the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep 

Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is 


That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were 


Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath 

blown. 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and 

strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the 

blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he 

passed;  lo 

And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and 

chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever 

grew  still! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  wit^  his  nostril  all 

wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his 

pride: 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the 

turf,  15 

And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale. 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his 

mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone. 
The  lances  uplifted,  the  trumpet  unblown.       20 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur^  are  loud  in  their 

wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the 

sword. 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord! 


OHI    SNATCH'D    AWAY    IN    BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM 

(From  the  same) 


Oh!  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom, 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year; 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom :       5 

^Sennacherib,  King  of  Assyria  (705-681  B.  C).  was 
defeated  in  an  expedition  against  Phoenicia  and  Palestine, 
and  was  compelled  to  abandon  the  siege  of  Jerusalem. 
See  //  Chron.  xxxii. 

2  Widows  of  Ashuj= Assyria. 


And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 

Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head. 
And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream. 

And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread; 

Fond  wretch!  as  if  her  step  disturb'd  the 
dead!  10 

ni 
Away!  we  know  that  tears  are  vain. 

That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress. 
Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain? 

Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less? 
And  thou — who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 
Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 


15 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC 
(1815) 

"O  Lachrymarum  fons,  tenero  sacros* 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo:  quater 
Felix!  in  imo  qui  scatentem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit." 

— Gray's  Poetnata, 
I 
There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it 

takes  away. 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in 

feeling's  dull  decay; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush 

alone,  which  fades  so  fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  e'er 
youth  itself  be  past. 


Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the 

wreck  of  happiness  5 

Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean  of 

excess: 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only 

points  in  vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shiver'd  sail  shall 

never  stretch  again. 


Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death 

itself  comes  down; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not 

dream  its  own;  10 

That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of 

our  tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  stiU,  'tis  where 

the  ice  appears. 

IV 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and 

mirth  distract  the  breast, 
Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more 

their  former  hope  of  rest; 
'Tis  but  as  ivy  leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret 

wreath,  15 

All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn 

and  gray  beneath. 

1  "O  fount  of  tears,  sprung  from  the  tender  heart  of 
those  who  inspire  the  holy!  Thrice  blessed  is  he  who 
feels  thee,  sacred  Nymph,  gush  from  his  inmost  being." 


510 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


Oh  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt, — or  be  what  I 

have  been, 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept  o'er  many  a 

vanish'd  scene: 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all 

brackish  though  they  be. 
So  midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears 

would  flow  to  me.  *  20 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 
(From  the  same) 

I 
She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 

Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 

Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 
Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 


One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress. 

Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face;  10 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear,  their  dwelling-place. 

ni 
And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow. 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow,        15 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON 

(Introduction  to  The  Prisoner  of  ChiUon) 

(1816) 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind ! 

Brightest  in  dungeons.  Liberty!  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd—     5 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless 

gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyr- 
dom. 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every 
wind. 
ChiUon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place. 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  'twas  trod,   lo 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod. 
By   Bonnivard!^ — May   none   those   marks 

efface! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

iBonnivard  was  the  "Prisoner  of  ChiUon,"  the  chief 
figure  in  Byron's  poem  of  that  title.  A  man  of  repubUcan 
views  and  of  high  character,  he  was  imprisoned  in  the 
castle  of  Chillon  about  1530,  and  remained  there  for  six 
years. 


CHILDEi  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE 

(1816) 

Canto  III 

m 

In  my  youth's  summer^  I  did  sing  of  One,  Qi, 
The   wandering   outlaw   of   his   own   dark 

mind,"^  2(1 

Again  I  seize  the  theme,  then  but  begun,  9^^ 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind^^  a 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards:  in  that  Tale  I  find^ 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up 

tears,^  ^  , 

Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind,"^ 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years  26 1^ 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — ^where  not  a  flower 


appears. 


•(y 


vni 


Something  too  much  of  this: — ^but  now  'tis 

past. 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal.      65 
Long  absent  Harold  re-appears  at  last; 
He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  would 

feel, 
Wrung  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not,  but 

ne'er  heal; 

Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  altered  him 

In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age:  years  steal     70 

Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigour  from  the  limb; 

And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near 

the  brim. 

IX 

His  had  been  quaff'd  too  quickly,  and  he 

found 
The  dregs  were  wormwood;  but  he  fill'd 

again. 
And  from  a  purer  fount,  on  hoher  ground,  75 
And  deem'd  its  spring  perpetual;  but  in 

vain! 
Still  round  him  clung  invisibly  a  chain 
Which  gall'd  forever,  fettering  though  un- 
seen. 
And  heavy   though   it   clank'd  not;   worn 

with  pain. 
Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,   and 

grew  keen. 
Entering  with  every  step  he  took  through 

many  a  scene.  ...  81 


XII 

But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit    loo 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man;  with  whom  he 

held 
Little  in  common;  untaught  to  submit 
His  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul  was 

quell'd 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts;  still  uncom- 

pell'd, 

1  Childe  (the  heir,  of  a  noble  house)  is  a  title  made 
familiar  by  the  Old  Ballads  like  Childe  Waters,  Childe 
Roland. 

2  The  first  two  cantos  appeared  in  1812,  or  about  four 
years  previously. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON 


511 


He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind  105 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebell'd; 
Proud  though  in  desolation;  which  could  find 
Al  life  within  itself,  to  breathe  without  man- 
kind. 

XIII 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him 

were  friends; 
Where  roU'd   the  ocean,   thereon  was  his 
home;  no 

Where  a  blue  sky,  and  glowing  clime,  ex- 
tends, 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam; 
The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam. 
Were  unto  him  companionship;  they  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome  115 
Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  for- 
sake 
For  Nature's  pages  glass'd  by  sunbeams  on  the 
lake. 

XIV 

Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars. 
Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 
As  their  own  beams;  and  earth,  and  earth- 
born  jars, 
And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite:  121 
Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 
He  had  been  happy;  but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  linki25 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  woos 
us  to  its  brink. 

XV 

But  in  Man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  weari- 
some, 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-bom  falcon  with  dipt 

wing, 
To   whom   the   boundless   air   alone   were 
home:  130 

Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome, 
As  eagerly  the  barr'd-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom 
eat.  135 

XVI 

Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again, 
J-  With  naught  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of 

gloom; 
The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain, 
That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb, 
Had  made  Despair  a  smilingness  assume,  140 
Which,    though    'twere    wild, — as    on    the 

plunder'd  wreck 
When   mariners   would   madly   meet   their 

doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking 

deck, — 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forbore  to 

check.  ...  144 


XVIII 

And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls, 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo;  155 
How  in  an  hour  the  power  which  gave  annuls 
Its  gifts, transferring  fame  as  fleeting  too! 
In  ''pride  of  place "^  here  last  the  eagle  flew, 
Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain. 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations 
through;  leo 

Ambition's  life  and  labours  all  were  vain* 
He  wears  the  shatter'd  links  of  the  world's 
broken  chain.  ... 

XXI 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night,*    181 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave 

men; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;  and  when  185 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake 

again. 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell;. 
But  hush!  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a 

rising  knell! 

XXII 

Did  ye  not  hear  it? — No;  *twas  but  the 

wind,  190 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 
On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  unconfined; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure 

meet 
To   chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying 

feet — 
But,  Hark! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in 

once  more 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat;        196 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before! 
Arm!  Arm!  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening 

roar! 

XXIII 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain ;°  he  did 

hear  200 

That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic 

ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it 

near. 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too 

well 
Which   stretched   his  father   on   a  bloody 

bier,  205 

And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could 

quell: 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting 

feU. 

•A  term  in  falconry,  applied  to  certain  hawks  that 
soar  to  a  place  high  in  the  air,  and  from  thence  swoop 
upon  their  prey.     V.  Macb.  II.  iv. 

*  This  stanza  refers  to  a  ball  ^ven  by  the  Duchess  of 
Richmond,  at  Brussels,  on  the  night  before  the  battle  of 
Waterloo.  The  boom  of  cannon  rang  through  the  city, 
and  the  festivity  was  broken  up  by  a  rush  to  arms. 

*  Duke  Frederick  William  of  Brunswick,  who  lost  his 
life  fighting  at  Quatre  Bras,  1815. 


512 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


XXIV 


Ah!  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  dis- 
tress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale^  which  but  an  hour  ago  210 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as 

press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking 
sishs 


Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated;  who  could 

guess 
If  ever   more  should   meet   those   mutual 

eyes,  215 

Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  mom 

could  rise? 

XXV 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste:  the 

SuGGClj 

The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering 

car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war;     220 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or   whispering,   with   white   lips — "The  foe  I 
They  come!  they  come!"  225 

XXVI 

And  wild  and  high  the  "Cameron's  gather- 
ing"«  rose! 

The   war-note   of   Lochiel,    which   Albyn's 
hills^ 

Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon 
foes: — 

How   in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch 
thrills,  229 

Savage  and  shrill!     But  with  the  breath 
which  fills 

Their    mountain-pipe,    so    fill    the    moun- 
taineers 

With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 

The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,^  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clans- 
man's ears! 

xxvn 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green 
leaves. 

Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 

Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves,  237 

Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas! 

Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 

Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall 
grow  240 

In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 

Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe 
A.nd  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder 
cold  and  low. 

«  The  tune  played  on  the  bagpipes  to  marshal  the  clan 
of  Cameron.  At  Waterloo  the  Gordon  Highlanders  were 
commanded  by  Colonel  Cameron,  a  descendant  of  the 
famous  Highland  Camerons  of  Lochiel. 

7  The  Scotch  Highlands. 

8  Sir  Evan  Cameron  and  his  son  Donald,  famous  an- 
cestors of  Colonel  Cameron,  who  fought  against  England. 


Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life. 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay,   246 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of 

strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when 

rent 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay,250 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and 

pent, 
Rider   and   horse, — ^friend,   foe, — in   one   red 

burial  blent!  .  .  , 

LXXXV 

Clear,  placid  Leman!  thy  contrasted  lake,  797 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwell  in,  is  a  thing 
WTiich  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 800 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved. 
That  I  with  stern  deHghts  should  e'er  have 
been  so  moved.  805 

LXXXVI 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 

Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet 

clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save   darken'd   Jura,    whose   capt   heights 

appear 
Precipitously  steep;  and  drawing  near,      8 10 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the 

shore. 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood;  on  the 

ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol 


more; 


LXXXVII 


815 


He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,'  and  sings  hisvfill; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill. 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews    820 
AU  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil. 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her 
hues. 

LXXXVIII 

Ye  stars!  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven! 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the 

fate  825 

Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state. 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create  830 

In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named 

themselves  a  star.  \  ■ 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON 


513 


LXXXIX 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in 

sleep, 
But  breathless,   as  we  grow  when  feeling 

most; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too 

deep: —  835 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still:  From  the  high 

host 
Of  stars,  to  the  luU'd  lake  and  moimtain- 

coast, 
All  is  concentr'd  in  a  life  intense, 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense  840 

Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 


xc 
Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth 

melt 
And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone,  845 

The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes 

known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's*  zone, 
Binding  all   things  with  beauty; — 'twould 

disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to 

harm.  850 

xci 
Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwall'd  temple,  there  to  seek 
The   spirit,    in   whose   honour   shrines   are 

weak,  855 

Uprear'd  of  human  hands.    Come,  and  com- 
pare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek. 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and 

air. 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy 

pray'r! 

XCII 

The  sky  is  changed! — and  such  a  change — 

Oh  night,  860 

And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous 

strong. 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !    Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!    Not  from  one  lone 

cloud,  865 

But    every  mountain    now  hath  found    a 

tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud! 

XCIII 

And  this  is  in  the  night:— Most  glorious 

night! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber!  let  me  be  870 

»  Venus. 


A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth! 
And  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now,  the 
glee  875 

Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain- 
mirth. 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  yoimg  earth- 
quake's birth. 

xciv 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way 
between 

Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have 
parted 

In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 

That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken- 
hearted! 881 

Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other 
thwarted: 

Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 

Which  bhghted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then 
departed: 

Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age  885 
Of  years  all  winters, — war  within  themselves  to 
wage. 

xcv 
Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft 

his  way. 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his 

stand: 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunderbolts  from  hand  to 

hand,  890 

Flashing  and  cast  around:  of  all  the  band. 
The   brightest   through   these   parted   hills 

hath  fork'd 
His  lightnings, — as  if  he  did  understand. 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd. 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever 

therein  lurk'd.  895 

XCVI 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  light- 
nings! Ye! 

With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a 
soul 

To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 

Things  that  have  made  me  watchful;  the  far 
roll 

Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoU        900 

Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 

But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests!  is  the  goal? 

Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high 
nest? 

XCVII 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now  905 

That  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I 

wreak 
My   thoughts   upon   expression,   and   thus 

throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or 

weak. 


514 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe — into  one 

word,  ^  910 

And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would 

speak; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard. 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a 

sword.  .  .  . 

Canto  IV 
(1818) 

LXXVIII 

Oh  Rome !  my  country !  city  of  the  soul !      694 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee. 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires!  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance?    Come 

and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your 

way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples, 

Ye!  700 

Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

LXXIX 

The  Niobe^"  of  nations!  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe, 
An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands,    705 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago; 
The  Scipio's  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers:  dost  thou  flow. 
Old  Tiber!  through  a  marble  wilderness?  7io 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her 
distress. 

LXXX 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood, 

and  Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hill'd  city's  pride; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep,  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 
Where  the  car  climb'd  the  Capitol;  far  and 

wide  716 

Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a 

site: — 
Chaos  of  ruins!  who  shall  trace  the  void. 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light. 
And  say,  "here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly 

night? 

LXXXI 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her,        721 
Night's   daughter.    Ignorance,   hath   wrapt 

and  wrap 
All  round  us;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err: 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map. 
And  knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample 

lap;  725 

But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 

Stumbling  o'er  recollections;  now  we  clap 

Our  hands,  and  cry  "  Eureka! "  it  is  clear — 

WTiere  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

"  The  wife  of  Amphion.  king  of  Thebes.  She  had  six 
sons  and  six  daughters,  all  of  whom  were  slain  through 
the  jealcusy  of  Lairona. 


LXXXII 

Alas!  the  lofty  city!  and  alas!  730 

The  trebly  hundred  triumphs!  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The    conqueror's   sword    in    bearing    fame 

away! 
Alas,  for  Tully's^^  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page! — ^but  these  shall 

be  735 

Her  resurrection;  all  beside — decay. 
Alas  for  earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when 

Rome  was  free.  .  .  . 

CLXXV 

But  I  forget. — My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  I  must  part, — so  let  it  be, — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea;     1570 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when 

we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we  follow'd  on  till  the  dark 

Euxine  roU'd 

CLXXVI 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades:  long  years — 
Long,  though  not  very  many,  since  have 

done  1577 

Their  work  on  both;  some  suffering  and  some 

tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun: 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run. 
We  have  had  our  reward — and  it  is^ here ;  1581 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden'd  by  the  sun, 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as 

dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is 

clear. 

CLXXVII 

Oh!  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister,       1586 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her! 
Ye  Elements! — in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted — Can  ye  not  1590 

Accord  me  such  a  being?    Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be 
our  lot. 

CLXXVIII 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods. 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore,       1595 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before,     1600 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  con- 
ceal. 

"Ciceto. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON 


515 


CLXXIX 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — 

roll!i2 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  con- 
trol 1605 
Stops  with  the  shore; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He   sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling 
groan,  1610 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and 
unknown. 

CLXXX 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee;  the  vile  strength 

he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful 

spray  1617 

And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 

His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 

And  dashest  him  again  to  earth: — ^there  let  him 

lay. 

CLXXXI 

The   armaments   which   thunderstrike   the 

walls  1621 

Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 

And   monarchs   tremble   in   their   capitals. 

The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 

Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take         1625 

Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war; 

These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake. 

They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which 

mar 

Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

CLXXXII 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save 

thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are 

they? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were 

free,  1632 

And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts: — not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play — 
Time   writes   no    wrinkle   on    thine   azure 

brow—  1637 

Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest 


"These   lines   suggest   the   following   passage   from 
Lucretius: 

"So  when  wild  tempests  over  ocean  sweep 
Leaders,  and  legions,  and  the  pomp  of  war; 
Their  fleet  a  plaything  in  the  hands  of  storms, 
How  come  the  proud  commanders  then  with  prayers 
And  votive  gifts,  imploring  peace  from  gods! 
In  vain:  since  not  the  less  for  prayers  they  oft        ^^ 
In  whirlwinds  seized  are  borne  to  shades  of  death,    etc. 
(£>6  Rerum  Natura,  Bk.  V.  1221.    Good's  trans.) 


CLXXXIII 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's 

form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time  1640 

Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or 

storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless,  endless,  and  sub- 
lime— • 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime  1645 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made;  each 
zone 
Obeys  thee;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless, 
alone. 

CLXXXIV 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean!  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward:  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight;  and  if  the  freshening  sea  1652 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near  1655 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do 
here.  .  .  . 


THE  COLISEUM  AT  NIGHT 

(From  Manfred,  Act  III.  iv,  1817) 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops  261 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. — Beautiful! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man ;  and  in  her  starry  shade  265 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 
I  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world. 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth. 
When  I  was  wandering, — upon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall,  270 

Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome: 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  star 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber;  and  275 
More  near  from  out  the  Caesars'  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time  worn  breach 
AppearM  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood  281 
Within  a  bowshot— Where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 
And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  levell'd  battle- 
ments. 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth ; —      286 
But  the  gladiator's  bloody  Circus  stands, 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection! 
While  Caesars'   chambers  and  the   Augustan 

halls, 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay, —  290 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 


516 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugg'd  desolation,  and  fill'd  up, 
As 't  were  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries,  295 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so. 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old! — 
The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still 
rule  300 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns. — 


DON  JUAN 

Canto  III 

(1821) 

The  isles  of  Greece!  the  isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, — 690 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse,  695 

The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute. 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Bless'd."      700 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free, 
For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave,  706 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 

And  men  in  nations; — all  were  his!  710 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now —  715 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 


'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 


What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah!  no; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head. 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come!'' 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 


735 


720 


In  vain—in  vain:  strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes. 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine!         740 
Hark!  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  bacchanal! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet. 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget  745 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — ■ 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these.    750 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine: 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tjTant  or  the  Chersonese  755 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend. 

That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 

Oh!  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 

Another>despot  of  the  kind! 

Such  claims  as  his  were  sure  to  bind.        760 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore. 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown,     765 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells. 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells;  770 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ;  775 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves. 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 


Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  bless'd?      725 
Must  we  but  blush? — Our  fathers  bled. 

Earth!  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 
A  remnant  of  thy  Spartan  dead! 

Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three. 

To  make  a  new  Thermopylae.  730 


Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep — 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die. 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine!  .  . 


780 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON 


517 


xc 
And  glory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile; 
'Tis    something,    nothing,    words,    illusion, 
wind —  810 

Depending  more  upon  the  historian's  style 

Than  on  the  name  a  person  leaves  behind: 
Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  whist  owes  to  Hoyle: 

The  present  centmy  was  growing  blind 
To  the  great  Marlborough's  skill  in  giving 
knocks  815 

Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 

xci 

Milton's  the  prince  of  poets — so  we  say; 

A  little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine: 
An  independent  being  in  his  day — 

Learn'd,  pious,  temperate  in  love  and  wine; 
But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way,  821 

We're  told  this  great  high-priest  of  all  the 
Nine 
Was    whipt    at    college — a    harsh    sire — odd 

spouse, 
For  the  first  Mrs.  Milton  left  his  house. 

XCII 

All  these  are,  certes,  entertaining  facts,         825 
Like    Shakespeare's    stealing    deer,    Lord 
Bacon's  bribes; 

Like  Titus'  youth,  and  Csesar's  earliest  acts; 
Like  Burns  (whom  Dr.  Currie  well  describes) 

Like  Cromwell's  pranks; — but  although  truth 
exacts 
These  amiable  descriptions  from  the  scribes, 

As  most  essential  to  their  hero's  story,  831 

They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 

XCIII 

All  are  not  moralists,  like  Southey,  when 

He  prated  to  the  world  of  "Pantisocracy;"* 

Or  Wordsworth  unexcised,^  unhir'd,  who  then 
Season'd  his  pedlar  poems^  with  democracy; 

Or  Coleridge,  long  before  his  flighty  pen         837 
Let  to  the  Morning  Post  its  aristocracy; 

When  he  and  Southey,  following  the  same  path, 

Espoused  two  partners*  (milliners  of  Bath).  840 

xciv 
Such  names  at  present  cut  a  convict  figure. 

The  very  Botany  Bay^  in  moral  geography; 
Their  loyal  treason,  renegado  vigour. 

Are  good  manure  for  their  more  bare  biog- 
raphy. 
Wordsworth's   last   quarto,    by   the   way,    is 
bigger  845 

i  Than  any  since  the  birthday  of  typography; 
A  clumsy,  frowzy  poem,  call'd  the  "Excursion "*» 
Writ  in  a  manner  which  is  my  aversion. 

1  The  equal  rule  of  all.  Southey  and  Coleridge,  when 
young  men,  planned  to  found  a  Utopian  society  on  the 
banks  of  the  Susquehanna.    They  called  it  Pantisocracy. 

2  After  ardently  advocating  Liberty,  Equality,  and 
Fraternity,  in  his  youth,  Wordsworth  in  later  life  be- 
came more  conservative  and  even  accepted  a  post  under 
the  government. 

3  An  allusion  to  an  early  poem  of  Wordsworth's  on 
Peter  Bell,  a  pedlar. 

*  The  Misses  Fricker  of  Bath. 

6  The  well  known  convict  colony  in  New  South  Wales. 

•  Published  in  1814. 


XCV 
He  there  builds  up  a  formidable  dyke 

Between  his  own  and  others'  intellect;        850 
But  Wordsworth's  poem,  and  his  followers, 
like 
Joanna  Southcote's  Shiloh,^  and  her  sect, 
Are  things  which  in  this  century  don't  strike 

The  public  mind, — so  few  are  the  elect; 
And  the  new  births  of  both  their  stale  vir- 
ginities 855 
Have  proved  but  dropsies  taken  for  divini- 
ties. .  .  . 

CI 

T'  our  tale. — ^The  feast  was  over,  the  slaves 
gone, 

The  dwarfs  and  dancing  girls  had  all  retir'd; 
The  Arab  lore  and  poet's  song  were  done, 

And  every  sound  of  revelry  expir'd;  900 

The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone, 

The  rosy  flood  of  twilight  sky  admir'd; — 
Ave  Maria!  o'er  the  earth  and  sea. 
That  heavenliest  hour  of  Heaven  is  worthiest 
thee! 

CII 

Ave  Maria!  blessed  be  the  hour!  905 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so 
oft 

Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 
Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft, 

While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower. 
Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft,  910 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 

And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seem  stirr'd  with 
prayer.  .  .  . 

cv 
Sweet  hour  of  twilight! — in  the  solitude 

Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore        930 
Which  bounds  Ravenna's^  immemorial  wood. 
Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flow'd 
o'er, 
To  where  the  last  Csesarean  fortress  stood, 

Evergreen  forest!  which  Boccaccio's  lore' 
And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to 
me,  935 

How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee! 

cvi 
The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer  lives  one   ceaseless 

song. 

Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and 

mine, 

And    vesper-bell's    that    rose    the    boughs 

along;  940 

^  Joanna  Southcote  was  a  visionary,  bom  in  Devon 
about  1750,  who  prophesied  that  she  would  give  birth 
to  a  second  Shiloh,  or  Prince  of  Peace,  on  Oct.  19th,  1814. 
Instead,  she  fell  into  a  trance  and  died  in  the  same  year. 

8  The  celebrated  pine  forest  called  La  Pineta,  the  most 
venerable  forest  in  Italy. 

9  Boccaccio  chose  this  forest  for  the  scene  of  a  ghastly 
story.  Nostalgia  degli  Oiiesii,  in  which  the  mounted 
spectre  of  a  knight  pursues  with  dogs  the  ghostly  form 
of  a  woman  who  in  life  repelled  his  love  with  scorn. 
Dryden  used  the  legend  in  his  poem  of  Theodore  and 
Honoria» 


518 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SC01:T 


The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair 
throng 
Which  learn'd  from  this  example  not  to  fly 
From  a  true  lover,  shadow'd  my  mind's  eye. 

CVII 

Oh,  Hesperus!  thou  bringest  all  good  things- 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer,     946 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabour'd  steer; 

WTiate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear, 

Are  gather'd  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ;       951 

Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's 
breast. 

CVIII 

Soft  hour!  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the 
heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 
When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn 
apart;  955 

Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 
As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay; 
Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns? 
Ah!     surely     nothing     dies     but     something 
mourns!  .  .  .  960 


The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece  around  me  see! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  nor  more  free. 


VII 


Awake  (not  Greece — she  is  awake!)  25, 

Awake,  my  spirit !  Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake. 
And  then  strike  home! 


Tread  these  reviving  passions  down. 

Unworthy  manhood! — unto  thee 
Indififerent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 


30 


IX 


If  thou  regret'st  thy  youth,  w}iy  live: 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here: — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath! 


Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest.  40 


ON 


THIS     DAY     I     COMPLETE 
THIRTY-SIXTH  YEAR 


MY 


MissoLONGHi,  Jan.  22,  1824. 


'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move! 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved. 
Still  let  me  love! 


II 


My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone: 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone! 


Ill 


The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 
A  funeral  pile! 


The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 

And  power  of  love  I  cannot  share. 

But  wear  the  chain. 


10 


15 


But  'tis  not  thiLs — and  'tis  not  here — 

Such  thoughts  would  shake  my  soul,  nor  now, 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 

Or  binds  his  brow.  20 


1792-1822 

ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

(1819) 
I 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's 

being. 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves 

dead 
Are  driven,   Uke  ghosts   from   an   enchanter 

fleeing. 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes :  O  thou,  5 

Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low. 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill  1 0 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  Hving  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill: 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  every  where; 
Destroyer  and  preserver;  hear,  oh,  hear! 

II 
Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's 

commotion,  15 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are 

shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  \ 

Ocean, 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


519 


Lngels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head      20 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad/  even  from  the  dim 

verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou 
'         dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre,  25 

Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst:  oh, 
hear! 

m 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay,  30 

Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's^  bay. 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers  35 
So  sweet  the  sense  faints  picturing  them !  Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which 

wear 
The  sapless  fohage  of  the  ocean  know  40 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  oh,  hear! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share  45 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable!   If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed       50 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision;  I  woula  ne'er  have 
striven 

^s  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
/Oh,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud!      i 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!   I  bleed!   |f 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and 

bowed  55 

One  too  Uke  thee:  tameless,  and  swift,  and 
proud. 

_  1  A  priestess  of  Bacchus,  or  Bacchante.  Mcenad  (de- 
rived from  a  Greek  verb  meaning  to  rage)  suggests  the 
frenzied  enthusiasm  of  the  worshippers  at  the  Bacchic 
festivals. 

,  2  The  modern  Baja  on  the  Bay  of  Naples;  in  classic 
times  it  was  a  luxurious  and  beautiful  resort,  and  the 
ruins  of  some  of  its  splendid  buildings  still  remain. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone,     60 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou.   Spirit 

fierce. 
My  spirit!   Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one!  — -"^ 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse,  65 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy!   O  wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind?      70 

TO  A  SKYLARK 

(1820) 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  Heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art.        5 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever 

singest.  10 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning. 

Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even  16 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven. 
In  the  broad  day-light 
Thou  art  unseen, — ^but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill 
dehght,  20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  harcQy  see — we  feel  that  it  is  there.    25 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  Night  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  Heaven  is 
overflowed.  30 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 


)/' 


620 


THE  AGE  OF   WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


Like  a  Poet  hidden  36 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded 
not:  40 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love, — ^which  overflows 
her  bower:  45 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it 
from  the  view:  50 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  those  heavy- 
winged  thieves:  55 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakehed  flowers. 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  sur- 
pass. 60 

Teach  us.  Sprite  or  Bird, 
What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine; 

I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  Hymenaeal,  66 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden 
want.  70 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields  or  waves  or  mountains? 
What  shajxis  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of 
pain?  75 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee; 
Thou    lovest — but    ne'er    knew    love's    sad 
satiety.  80 

Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream — 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal 
stream?  85 


We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not; 
fOur  sincerest  laughter 
^1^    With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought.  90 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come 
near.  95 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scomer  of  the 
ground!  100 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then — as  I  am  listening 
now.  105 


THE  CLOUD 

(1820) 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers. 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that 
waken  5 

The  sweet  buds  every  one. 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast. 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,  10 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white,  15 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder. 

It  struggles  and  howls  by  fits;  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills,     25 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smileu 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  s(y, 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


521 


The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag,  35 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath, 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbdd  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden,     45 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  so 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin 
roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen   the   rent   in   my  wind-built 
tent,  55 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through-  me  on 
high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl;        60 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and 
swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, —  65 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch,  through  which  I  march. 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my 

chair, 
Is  the  million-coloured  bow;  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and 
shores;  75 

— -I  change,  but  I  cannot  die.  — "^ 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  con- 
vex gleams, 
Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  80 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from 
the  tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again.  —- — 


OZYMANDIAS 

(1817) 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said.  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.  Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown, 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command,  5 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  hfeless 

things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart 

that  fed; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 
"  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings:       lo 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair!" 
Nothing  beside  remains.    Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 


ADONAISi 

(1821) 


I  weep  for  Adonais — ^he  is  dead!^ 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais!  though  our  tears'-^ 

Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a 

head!^  . 

And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years  '■Xa-^ 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  com- 

peers,-^^  5 

And   teach  them  thine  own  sorrow;  Say: 

"'With  me  C         . 
Died  Adonais;  till  the  Future  dares  -^ 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be  t 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity  !"Q^ 


Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he 
lay,  10 

When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  Shaft 
which  flies 

In  darkness?  where  was  lorn  Urania 

When  Adonais  died?    With  veilM  eyes, 
,  'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 

She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured 
breath,  is 

1  Keats,  whose  untimely  loss  to  poetry  is  the  theme 
of  Adonais,  died  in  Rome.  Feb.  23,  1821,  in  his  twenty- 
sixth  year.  Adonais  was  written  in  the  following  May 
(p.  Stanzas  xvi  and  rviii.).  While  not  a  close  friend 
of  Keats,  Shelley  had  a  sincere,  increasing,  but  not  an 
unqualified  admiration  for  his  poetry;  moreover,  he  held 
the  then  prevalent,  but  unfounded,  belief,  that  the  young 
poet's  death  was  the  result  of  his  grief  and  disappoint- 
ment over  the  harsh  and  unfair  criticism  he  had  received. 
Hence,  in  writing  Adonais,  Shelley  was  influenced  chiefly 
by  two  feelings:  regret  that  a  poet  of  liigh  promise  should 
have  been  "  hooted  from  the  stage  of  life,"  and  passionate 
indignation  against  the  perpetrator  of  the  wrong.  Under 
these  circumstances,  Shelley's  elegy  became  a  lament  for 
Keats  the  poet,  rather  than  for  Keats  the  man,  and  its 
true  theme  is  the  loss  that  poetry  (rather  than  Shelley 
himself)  has  sustained.  Beginning  with  this  theme. 
Shelley  passes  to  general  speculations  on  life,  death,  and 
the  hereafter.  ^       ,       ,     .  ,  , 

Adonqis  is  modelled  on  two  Greek  elegies,  that  of 
Bion  on  Adonis  (translated  by  Mrs.  Browning),  and  of 
Moschus  on  Bion. 


522 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 
With  which,  Uke  flowers  that  mock  the  corse 
beneath, 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of 
death. 

Ill 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais — ^he  is  dead! 

Wake,     melancholy     Mother,"    wake    and 
weep!  20 

Yet  wherefore?    Quench  within  their  burn- 
ing bed 

Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep 

Like  his  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep; 

For  he  is  gone  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 

Descend.    Oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous 
Deep  25 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at 
our  despair. 

rv 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again! 
Lament  anew,  Urania! — He  died,^ 
Who  was  the  sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's 

pride  31 

The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed 

rite 
Of  lust  and  blood;  he  went,  un terrified. 
Into  the  gulf  of  death;  but  his  clear  Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth,  the  third*  among  the 

sons  of  light.  36 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew! 

Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb; 

And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew. 

Whose  tapers  yet  bum  through  that  night  of 
time  40 

In  which  suns  perished;  others  more  sub- 
lime. 

Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  God, 

Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime; 

And  some  yet  Uve,  treading  the  thorny  road. 

Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's 

serene  abode.  45 

VI 

But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one  has 
perished. 

The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew, 

Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cher- 
ished 

And  fed  with  true-love  tears  instead  of  dew; 

2  Urania  was  the  muse  of  astronomy.  Urania  means 
"the  heavenly  one,"  and  Shelley,  like  Milton  and  Tenny- 
son (taking  the  word  Urania  in  a  spiritual  and  not  in  a 
material  sense),  makes  her  the  personification  of  the 
Heavenly  Power,  the  Mother  of  all  holy  and  beautiful 
things,  and,  hence,  the  inspirer,  or  Mother,  of  poets, 
(r.  Par.  Lost.  vii.  1-5,  sup.  p.  223  and  In  Memoriam, 
xxxvii). 

«  Milton. 

<  If  Shelley  is  speaking  here  of  zpic  poets  only,  the  two 
other  poets  of  the  trio  are  probably  Homer  and  Oante. 
In  this  case,  Milton  would  be  "the  third,"  not  necea- 
sarily  in  greatness,  but  in  chronological  succession. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew!      50 
Thy  extreme  hope,   the  loveliest  and  the 

last, 
The  bloom,  whose  petals,  nipt  before  they 

blew, 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  overpast. 


To  that  high  Capital,^  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay,     56     f 
He  came;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest 

breath, 
A  grave  among  the  eternal. — Come  away! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still     60 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay; 
Awake  him  not!  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 


VIII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more! 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door  66 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness  and  the  law     71 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  cur- 
tain draw. 

rx 
Oh,  weep  for  Adonais! — ^The  quick  Dreams, 
The  passion-winged  ministers  of  thought. 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living 

streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he 

taught  76 

The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to 

brain, 

But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung;  and 

mourn  their  lot 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,   after  their 

sweet  pain,  80 

They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home 

again. 


And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his 

cold  head. 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and 

cries, 
"Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes,   85 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from  his 

brain." 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own;  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  outwept  its 

ram.  # 

s  Rome,  where  Keats  is  buried.    He  thua  has  literally    \  ^i 
"  a  grave  among  the  eternal."       *  ',.; 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


523 


XI 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew  91 

Washed  his  Hght  Hmbs  as  if  embahning  them; 
Another  dipt  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem,^ 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break      96 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with   one  which  was  more 

weak; 
And  dull  the  barbM  fire  against  his  frozen 

cheek. 

XII 

Another  Splendour  on  his  mouth  aht,       lOO 
That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the 

breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded 

wit, 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music:  the  damp 

death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips;        105 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapour,  which  the  cold  night 

clips. 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  past  to 

its  eclipse. 

XIII 

And  others  came  .  .  .  Desires  and  Adora- 
tions, 
Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendours,   and   Glooms,   and  glimmering 
Incarnations  ,111 

Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twiUght  Fantasies; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  bhnd  with  tears,  led  by  the 

gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes,    115 
Came  in   slow  pomp; — the  moving  pomp 
might  seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 

XIV 

All  he  had  loved,  and  molded  into  thought, 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odour,  and  sweet 

sound. 
Lamented  Adonais.    Morning  sought        120 
Her  eastern  watch  tower,  and  her  hair  un- 
bound, 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the 

ground, 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned. 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay,    ,       125 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  m  their 
dismay. 

XV 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains, 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay. 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  foun- 
tains, 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green 
spray,  ,  ^^^ 

Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day; 

8  Fillet,  or  garland,  for  the  head. 


Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds: — a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  wood- 
men hear.  133 

XVI 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she 

threw  down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were, 
Or  they  dead  leaves;  since  her  delight  is 

flown, 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen 

year? 
To  Phcebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear,        140 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou,  Adonais;  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth. 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears;  odour,  to  sighing 

ruth. 

XVII 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale,       145 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious 

pain; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,    and   could   nourish   in   the   sun's 

domain 
Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth  com- 
plain, 
Soaring  and   screaming  round  her  empty 
nest,  150 

As  Albion  wails  for  thee:  the  curse  of  Cain 
Light  on  his  head^  who  pierced  thy  innocent 
breast, 
And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its  earthly 
guest! 

XVIII 

Ah  woe  is  me !   Winter  is  come  and  gone, 

But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year; 

The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous 
tone;  156 

The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear; 

Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Sea- 
sons' bier; 

The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake. 

And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and 
brere;^  160 

And  the  green  lizard  and  the  golden  snake, 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance 
awake. 

XIX 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill 
and  Ocean, 

A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has 
burst. 

As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion, 

From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when 
first  166 

God  dawned  on  Chaos;  in  its  stream  im- 
mersed 

7  i.  e.,  on  the  head  of  the  critic  whose  adverse  review  of 
Keats'  Endymion  in  the  Quarterly  was  erroneously  sup- 
posed by  Shelley  to  have  caused  the  poet's  death. 

8  Briar. 


524 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND   SCOTT 


The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer 

light; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst, 
Diffuse    themselves,    and    spend    in    love's 

delight,  170 

The   beauty  and   the  joy   of  their  renewed 

might. 

XX 

The  leprous  corpse  touched  by  this  spirit 
tender, 

Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath; 

Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splen- 
dour 

Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death 

And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  be- 
neath. 176 

Nought  we  know  dies.     Shall  that  alone 
which  knows 

Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 

By  sightless  lightning? — the  intense  atom 
glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold 
repose.  180 

XXI 

Alas!  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itseK  be  mortal!    Woe  is  me! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we?  of  what 

scene 
The  actors  or  spectators?    Great  and  mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life 

must  borrow.  186 

As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the 

morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake 

year  to  sorrow. 

XXII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more!      190 
"Wake    thou,"    cried    Misery,     "childless 

Mother,  rise 
Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's 

core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  with  tears  and 

sighs." 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's 

eyes, 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried,  "Arise! "     196 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory 

stung. 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splendour 

sprung. 

XXIII 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  night,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings,  20i 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier. 
Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse, — sorrow  and 

fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way     206 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 


XXIV 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped. 
Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with  stone, 

and  steel, 
And  human  hearts  which,  to  her  airy  tread 
Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible  2 1 1 

Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell; 
And   barbed  tongues,   and   thoughts  more 

sharp  than  they. 
Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel, 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of 

May,  215 

Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving 

way. 

XXV 

In  the  death-chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light   220  \ 
Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her  dear 

delight. 
"Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfort- 
less. 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night! 
Leave  me  not!"  cried  Urania;  her  distress 
Roused  Death;  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met 
her  vain  caress.  225 

XXVI 

"Stay  yet  awhile!  speak  to  me  once  again; 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 
That  word,  that  kiss,  shall  all  thoughts  else 

survive. 
With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive,    230 
Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais!    I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art! 
But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and  cannot  thence 

depart! 

XXVII 

"  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert,  235 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of 

men 
Too   soon,   and   with   weak   hands   though 

mighty  heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon^  in  his  den? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh,  where  was  then 
Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the 

spear?  240 

Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent 

sphere. 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee 

like  deer. 

XXVIII 

"The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead; 
The   vultures,    to   the   conqueror's   banner 

true,  246 

Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion; — how  they 

fled, 

•  The  brutal  critic,  ravening  for  prey  like  a  beast  in  hif  \ 
den.     Unpastured  (Lat.  impastus),  unfed,  hungry.  , 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


525 


When,  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow 

The  Pythian  of  the  age^°  one  arrow  sped     250 

And  smiled! — The  spoilers  tempt  no  second 

blow, 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them 

lying  low. 

XXIX 

"The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles 

spawn; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn,       255 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again; 
So  it  is  in  the  world  of  living  men: 
A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and 

when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared 

its  light     ^  260 

Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful 

night." 


It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower,  284 

A  breaking  billow; — even  whilst  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken?    On  the  withering  jQower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly:  on  a  cheek 
The  hfe  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart 
may  break. 


His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown, 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue; 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses 

grew  292 

Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew. 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it:  of  that 

crew  296 

He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer  struck  by  the  hunter's 

dart. 


Thus  ceased  she:  and  the  mountain  shep- 
herds^^ came, 
Their   garlands   sere,   their  magic  mantles 

rent; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity, ^^  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent,     265 
An  early  but  enduring  monument. 
Game,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow;  from  her  wilds  lerne^^  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist^^  of  her  saddest  wrong. 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his 
tongue.  270 

XXXI 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail 

Form,^^ 
A  phantom  among  men;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm, 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell;  he,  as  I  guess. 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness,    275 
Acteon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness. 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way. 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father  and 

their  prey. 

XXXII 

A  pardlike"  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift —     280 
A  Love  in  desolation  masked: — -a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness; — it  can  scarce 

uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour; 

10  Byron,  who  slew  the  wolves,  ravens,  and  vultures  of 
the  critical  Reviews  by  a  counter-attack  in  his  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.  He  is  here  likened  to  Apollo 
the  Pythian,  or  the  Python-slayer. 

"  Keats'  brother-poets.  Their  songs  are  hushed  "in 
sorrow;"  their  laurel-wreaths  are  withered;  their  singing- 
robes  "rent"  in  token  of  grief.  Shelley  follows  Lycidas, 
and  other  accepted  models,  in  making  his  elegy  pastoral 
in  character. 

12  Byron,  the  poet  of  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage. 

13  Ireland. 

"Thomas  Moore.  By  Ireland's  "saddest  wrong" 
Shelley  is  supposed  to  mean  the  suppression  of  the  insur- 
rection of  1803,  and  the  execution  of  the  Irish  leader 
Robert  Emmet.  Several  songs  of  Moore,  including  O 
Breathe  not  his  Name,  were  inspired  by  Emmet's  fate. 

1*  Shelley  himself. 

"  Leopard-like. 


All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears;  well  knew  that 

gentle  band 
Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own,    300 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land 
He  sang  new  sorrow;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured:  "Who 

art  thou!" 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded   and  ensanguined 

brow,  305 

Which  was  like  Gain's  or  Ghrist's — oh!  that  it 

should  be  so! 

XXXV 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead?" 
Athwart  what  brow   is  that  dark  mantle 

thrown? 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death- 
bed, 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone,  310 

The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan? 
If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise. 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the  de- 
parted one; 
Let  me  not  vex  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice.  315 

XXXVI 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh. 

What   deaf   and   viperous   murderer   could 

crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown ; 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone  320 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate  and  wrong, 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone. 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song. 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver  lyre 

unstrung. 

"  The  last  poet-mourftr  is  Leigh  Hunt,  the  early 
friend  of  Keats  in  London,  and  the  head  of  the  "Cockney- 
school"  of  poetry  with  which  Keats  was  at  first  asso- 
ciated. 


526 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


XXXVII 

Live  thou,"  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame!  325 
Live!  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow; 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to 
thee;  331 

Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow. 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt — as 


XXXVIII 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 

Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream 

below;  335 

He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. 
Dust  to  the  dust!  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the 

same,  341 

Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth 

of  shame. 


Peace,  peace!  he  is  not  dead,^*  he  doth  not 

sleep- 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life — 
'Tis  we,  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep    345 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife. 
And  in  mad  trance,  strike  with  our  spirit's 

knife 
Invulnerable  nothings.    We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day,  350 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our 

Uving  clay. 

XL 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night; 

Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain. 

And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 

Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again;  355 

From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 

He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 

A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in 

vain; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn. 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 


XLI 

He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not 
he;  361 

Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone; 

'*  i.  e.  Keats'  hostile  critic  before  referred  to. 

^'  The  second  natural  division  of  the  elegy  begins  with 
this  stanza.  The  first  part  is  devoted  to  grief  for  Keats, 
indignation  at  his  critics,  and  regrets  over  his  loss  to 
poetry;  this  second  part  is  chiefly  occupied  with  general 
reflections  suggested  by  the  fact  of  death.  The  pre- 
dominant note  of  this  second  part  is  hope. 


Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan!  365 
Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and 

thou  Air, 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst 

thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its 

despair! 

XLII 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature:  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan  371 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may 

move  375 

Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied 

love. 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 


He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 

Which  once  he  made  more  lovely:  he  doth 
bear  380 

His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 

Sweeps  through  the  dull  sense  world,  com- 
pelling there. 

All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear; 

Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its 
flight 

To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear. 

And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might  386 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the 
Heaven's  light. 

XLIV 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they 

climb,  390 

And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty 

thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair. 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and 

stormy  air.  396 

XLV 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from  their  thrones,  ^o  built  beyond  mor- 
tal thought. 
Far  in  the  tJnapparent.    Chatterton 
Rose  pale, — his  solemn  agony  had  not        400 
Yet  faded  from  him;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved. 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot. 
Arose;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved; 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  re- 
proved. 405 
20  Keats  having  died  young,  is  received  into  the  com- 
pany of  those  "immortal  dead"  whose  promise  of  re- 
nown had,  like  his,  been  unfulfilled.     Chatterton  was  not  > 
eighteen  when  he  died.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  but  thirty-two,  \  | 
and  Lucan,  who  died  because  of  his  share  in  a  conspiracy     , 
•gainst  Nero,  about  twenty-seven.  ' 


PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 


527 


XLVI 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth  are 

dark, 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry;  4io 
"It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has 

long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty. 
Silent  alone  amid  a  Heaven  of  song, 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our 

throng!" 

XLVII 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais?  oh,  come  forth,  415 
Fond  wretch!  and  know  thyself  and  him 

aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous 

Earth; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference;  then  shrink 
Even- to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night;  421 
And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make  thee 

sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to 

the  brink. 

XLVIII 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre 
Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy:  'tis  naught  425 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their 
prey;  429 

And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  de- 
cay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 


XLIX 

Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  moun- 
tains rise,  435 
And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses 

dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness, 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access. 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  hght  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is 
spread.  441 

L 

And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull 

Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned    445 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble;  and  be- 
neath 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 


Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp 
of  death, 
Welcoming  him   we  lose  with   scarce  extin- 
guished breath.  450 

LI 

Here  pause:  these  graves  are  all  too  young 

as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  con- 
signed 
Its  charge  to  each;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 
Break  it  not  thou!  too  surely  shalt  thou 
find  455 

Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.    From  the  world's  bitter 

wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become? 

LII 

The  One  remains,   the  many  change  and 
pass;  460 

Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shad- 
ows fly; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass. 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou 
dost  seek!  465 

Follow  where  all  is  fled! — Rome's  azure  sky. 
Flowers,  ruins,   statues,  music,  words,  are 
weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to 
speak. 

LIII 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my 
Heart? 

Thy  hopes  are  gone  before;  from  all  things 
here  470 

They  have  departed;  thou  shouldst  now  de- 
part! 

A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year. 

And  man,  and  woman;  and  what  still  is  dear 

Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 

The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers 
near;  475 

'Tis  Adonais  calls!  oh,  hasten  thither. 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join 
together. 

LIV 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Uni- 
verse, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and 
move,  479 

That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly 

wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and 

sea, 

Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 

The  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams  on 

me,  485 

Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 


528 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


LV 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in 

song 
Descends  on  me;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling 

throng 
Whose   sails   were   never   to   the   tempest 

given;  ^  490 

The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven  I 
1  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar; 
Whilst,  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of 

Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal 

are.  495 

TIME 

(1821) 

Unfathomable  Sea!  whose  waves  are  years, 

Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep  woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears! 
Thou  shoreless  flood,  which  in  thy  ebb  and 
flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality,  5 

And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howling  on  for  more, 
Vomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospitable  shore; 
Treacherous  in  calm,  and  terrible  in  storm, 
Who  siiall  put  forth  on  thee, 
Unfathomable  Sea?  10 


III 


IS 


When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree. 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest. 
Lingering  like  an  imloved  guest,  20 

I  sighed  for  thee. 


IV 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed. 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee. 
Shall  I  nestle  at  thy  side? 
Would'st  thou  me? — and  I  replied, 

No,  not  thee! 


25 


Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon; 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night, — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon! 

A  LAMENT 
(1821) 


35 


TO 

(1821) 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memorj'-; 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken; 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 


O  world!  O  life!  O  time! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime? 

No  more — oh,  never  more!  5 


Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  are  gone. 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


TO  NIGHT 

(1821) 
I 
Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 
Swift  be  thy  flight! 


Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day; —  lo 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out; 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land. 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long-sought! 


5      Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight; 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar, 

Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with 

delight 

No  more — oh,  never  more! 


TO 

(1821) 


One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it; 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 


I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 
But  wilt  thou  accept  not 

The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 
And  the  Heavens  reject  not, — 


10 


10 


JOHN  KEATS 


529 


The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star,; 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow,         ; 
The  devotion  to  something  afar       j        15 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow?   { 


V 


1795-1821 

ENDYMION 

(1818) 

Book  I 


A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever: 

Its  lovehness  increases;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bowei  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet 

breathing.  5 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 
A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 
Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'erdarkcned  ways     10 
Made  for  our  searching:  yes,  in  spite  of  all. 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 
From  our  dark  spirits.    Such  the  sun,  the  moon. 
Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 
For  simple  sheep ;  and  such  are  daffodils  1 5 

With  the  green  world  they  live  in;  and  clear 

rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season;  the  mid  forest  brake, 
Rich    with    a    sprinkHng    of    fair    musk-rose 

blooms: 
And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms       20 
That  we  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read: 
An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences  25 

For  one  short  hour;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite. 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light        30 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast. 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'er- 

cast, 
They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die.  .  .  . 

SONNETS 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S 

HOMERi 

(Written  1816) 

XI 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  reahns  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 

Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

1  Chapman's  translation  of  Homer  (like  the  Faerie 
Queene  and  the  Elgin  Marbles)  early  stimulated  Keats' 
genius  and  helped  to  mould  his  taste.  C.  Cowden  Clarke 
introduced  Keats  to  the  book  in  1815.  It  is  hardly  neces- 
eary  to  add  that  Balboa,  not  Cortez,  discovered  the 
-cific  (1.  12). 


Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told  a 

That    deep-brow'd    Homer    rul'd    as    his 
demesne; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  1  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 
Then  felt  1  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ;         i  o 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  star'd  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — • 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

SONNET 
(June,  1816) 
To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  Sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And   open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe   a 
prayer 
Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 
Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  con- 
tent, 5 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment? 
Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 

Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel,^ — an  eye     10 
Watching  the  sailing  cloudlets'  bright  career. 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by: 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 

That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 

XV 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET^ 

(Written  December  30th,  1816) 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead: 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown 

mead; 
That  is  the  Grasshopper's — ^he  takes  the  lead    5 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights;  for  when  tired  out  with 
fun 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never: 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost      lo 
Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove 
there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost. 
The   Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy 
hills. 

ON  SEEING  THE  ELGIN  MARBLES^ 
FOR  THE  FIRST  TIME 

(1817) 

My  spirit  is  too  weak — ^mortality 
Weighs  heavily  on  me  like  unwilling  sleep, 
And  each  imagined  pinnacle  and  steep 

Of  godlike  hardship,  tells  me  I  must  die 

1  The  nightingale. 

» This  sonnet  and  that  of  Hunt's  (p.  507),  were  the 
result  of  a  friendly  competition. 
1  V.  p.  562,  n.  15. 


530 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


Like  a  sick  eagle  looking  at  the  sky.  5 

Yet  'tis  a  gentle  luxury  to  weep 

That  I  have  not  the  cloudy  winds  to  keep, 
Fresh  for  the  opening  of  the  morning's  eye. 
Such  dim-conceived  glories  of  the  brain 

Bring  round  the  heart  an  indescribable  feud; 
So  do  these  wonders  a  most  dizzy  pain,  1 1 

That  mingles  Grecian  grandeur  with  the 
rude 
Wasting  of  old  Time — with  a  billowy  main — 

A  sun — a  shadow  of  a  magnitude. 


ON  THE  SEA 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 

Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty  swell 
Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till  the 
spell 
Of  Hecate  leaves  them  their  old  shadowy  sound. 
Often  'tis  in  such  gentle  temper  found,  5 

That  scarcely  will  the  very  smallest  shell 
Be  moved  for  days  from  whence  it  sometime 
fell, 
When  last  the  winds  of  heaven  were  unbound. 
Oh  ye!  who  have  your  eye-balls  vex'd  and 
tired. 
Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  Sea ;     lo 
Oh  ye!  whose  ears  are  dinn'd  with  uproar 
rude, 
Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody, — 
Sit  ye  near  some  old  cavern's  mouth,  and 
brood 
Until  ye  start,  as  if  the  sea-nymphs  quired! 


SONNET 

Why  did  I  laugh  to-night?    No  voice  will  tell: 

No  God,  no  Demon  of  severe  response, 
Deigns  to  reply  from  Heaven  or  from  Hell. 

Then  to  my  human  heart  I  turn  at  once. 
Heart !   Thou  and  I  are  here  sad  and  alone;       5 

I  say,  why  did  I  laugh?    O  mortal  pain! 
O  Darkness!    Darkness!  ever  must  I  moan, 

To  question  Heaven  and  Hell  and  Heart  in 
vain. 
Why  did  I  laugh?    I  know  this  Being's  lease, 

My  fancy  to  its  utmost  blisses  spreads;         lo 
Yet  could  1  on  this  very  midnight  cease, 

And  the  world's  gaudy  ensigns  see  in  shreds; 
Verse,  Fame,  and  Beauty  are  intense  indeed. 
But  Death  intenser — Death  is  Life's  high  meed. 


SONNET 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 

Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming  brain. 
Before  high  piled  books  in  charactery. 

Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full  ripen'd  grain; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd  face,    5 

Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance. 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 

Their   shadows,   with   the   magic   hand   of 
chance; 


And  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an  hour, 
That  I  shaU  never  look  upon  thee  more,    10 

Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 
Of  unreflecting  love; — then  on  the  shore 

Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 

Till  love  and  fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 


LAST  SONNET 

Written  on  a  Blank  Page  in  Shakespeare^s 
Poems,  Facing  A  Lover^s  Complaint 

(Written  1820) 

Bright  star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art 

Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart. 

Like  nature's  patient,  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task         5 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft-fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — 
No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 

Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast. 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell,  1 1 

Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 

(1820) 

I 

St.  Agnes'  Eve^ — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was!  'J 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold;'^ 

The    hare    limp'd    trembling    through    the 

frozen  grass,<X  n 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold:*V~^ 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's^  fingers,  while 

he  told  jiy  5 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath,^ 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old,  -V 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a 

death,  ^ 
Past   the   sweet   Virgin's   picture,   while   his 

prayer  he  saith.^ 

II 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man;io 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his 

knees. 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees: 
The  sculptur'd  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to 

freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails:        15 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries. 
He  passeth  by;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and 

mails. 

1  The  night  of  January  20th.  It  was  supposed  that  by- 
observing  certain  ceremonies  on  this  night  a  maiden 
might  see  her  future  husband  in  her  dreams. 

2  One  who  prays,  particularly  one  who  prays  for  othera 


JOHN  KEATS 


531 


m 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden 

tongue  20 

Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor; 
But  no — already  had  his  deathbell  rung; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  eve: 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among  25 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve. 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to 

grieve. 

IV 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude 

soft; 
And  so  it  chanc'd,  for  many  a  door  was  wide. 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.    Soon,  up  aloft,     30 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide: 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests: 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-ey'd, 
Star'd,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice 
rests,  35 

With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross- 
wise on  their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent'  revelry. 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  faerily 
The  brain,  newstuff'd  in  youth,  with  triumphs 

gay  40 

Of  old  romance.    These  let  us  wish  away. 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry 

day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times 

declare.  45 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  eve. 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight. 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night. 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright;  50 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire. 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they 
desire. 


Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline  :55 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard:  her  maiden  eyes  divine 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all:  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier,       60 
And  back  retir'd;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not:  her  heart  was  otherwhere: 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of 
the  year. 

3  Silvery-bright,  shining. 


VIII 

She  danc'd  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes. 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and 

short:  65 

The  hallow' d  hour  was  near  at  hand:  she 

sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy ;  all  amort,*     70 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn,^ 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

IX 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 

She  lingered  still.     Meantime,   across  the 

moors. 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on 

fire  75 

For  Madeline.    Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and 

implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ;8G 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth 

such  things  have  been. 


He  ventures  in:  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell: 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart.  Love's  fev'rous  citadel: 
For   him,    those   chambers   held   barbarian 

hordes,  85 

Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage:  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul,^ 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in 

soul.  90 

XI 

Ah,  happy  chance!  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame. 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland :  95 
He  startled  her;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face. 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,   "Mercy,  Porphyro!  hie  thee  from 
this  place; 
"They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood- 
thirsty race  I 

XII 

"Get   hence!   get    hence!   there's   dwarfish 
Hildebrand;  100 

"He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
"He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and 
land: 

*  Dead,  absorbed  in  thought  (Fr.  a  la  mort). 

'  On  St.  Agnes'  Day,  it  was  the  custom  in  some  places 
for  the  nuns  to  bring  two  white  Iambs  to  Church,  and 
(when  the  Agnus  Dei  was  chanted)  to  present  them  before 
the  altar.  The  lambs,  thus  dedicated,  were  kept  apart 
until  shearing-time,  and  their  fleece  was  regarded  as 
holy.     (c.  Stanza  xiii). 

•  Here  =  harmful,  mischievous. 


532 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTY 


"Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a 

whit 
''More  tame  for  his  grey  hairs — Alas  me!  flit! 
"Flit   like   a   ghost   away." — "Ah,    Gossip 

dear,  105 

"We're  safe  enough;  here  in  this  armchair 

sit, 
"And  tell  me  how" —  "Good  Saints  not 

here,  not  here: 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be 

thy  bier." 

XIII 

He  follow'd  througli  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume,  1 10 
And  as  she  muttered  "  Well-a-well-a-day ! " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room. 
Pale,  lattic'd,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom        115 
"Which  none   but   secret   sisterhood   may 


When   they 
piously." 


St.   Agnes'   wool  are   weaving 


XIV 


"St.  Agnes!  Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve— 
"Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days: 
"Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve,  120 
"And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
"To  venture  so:  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
"To  see  thee,  Porphyro! — St.  Agnes'  Eve! 
"God's   help!   my   lady   fair   the   conjurer 

plays 
"This  very  night:  good  angels  her  deceive! 
"But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time  to 

grieve."  126 

XV 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who    keepeth    clos'd    a    wondrous    riddle- 
book,  130 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she 

told 
His  lady's  purpose;   and  he  scarce  could 

brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments 
cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old.  135 

XVI 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown 

rose. 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot:  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start: 
"A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art:  140 

"Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and 

dream 
"Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
"From  wicked  men  hke  thee.     Go,  go!— I 

deem 
"Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou 

didst  seem." 


XVII 

"I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear,"  145 
Quoth  Porphyro:  "O  may  1  ne'er  find  grace 
"When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last 

prayer, 
"If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
"Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face; 
"Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears;  150 
"Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
"Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's 

ears, 
"And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd 

than  wolves  and  bears." 


XVIII 

"Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
"A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard 

thing,  155 

"Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight 

toll; 
"Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  mom  and 

evening, 
"Were  never  miss'd." — Thus  plaining,  doth 

she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing,       160 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or 


XIX 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy  165 

That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespy'd, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride. 
While  legion'd  fairies  pac'd  the  coverlet. 
And    pale   enchantment    held    her   sleepy- 

ey'd. 
Never  on  such  a  night^  have  lovers  met,      1 70 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous 

debt. 

XX 

"It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame: 
"All  cates^  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
"Quickly  on  this  feast-night:  by  the  tambour 

frame 
"Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see:  no  time  to 

spare,  175 

"For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
"On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
"Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience;  kneel  in 

prayer 
"The  while:  Ah!  thou  must  needs  the  lady 

wed, 
"Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the 

dead."  180 

7  The  night  after  Merlin  was  shut  up  forever  in  a  tree, 
a  frightful  tempest  swept  through  the  forest  of  Broce- 
liande,  in  which  this  tree  stood.  As  Merlin  (according 
to  some  versions  of  the  story)  was  the  child  of  a  "De- 
mon," he  said  is  to  have  "paid"  his  "monstrous  debt" 
when,  his  own  magic  being  turned  against  him,  he  was 
overpowered  by  the  wily  Vivian. 

s  Delicacies. 


JOHN  KEATS 


533 


XXI 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd! 
The  dame  return'd  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.    Safe  at  last,       185 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd,  and 

chaste; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleas'd  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her 

brain. 


XXII 


190 


Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade. 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd^  spirit,  unaware: 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led    195 
To  a  safe  level  matting.    Now  prepare. 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove 
fray'd  and  fled. 

XXIII 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died:200 
She  clos'd  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide: 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side;      205 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should 

swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her 

dell. 

XXIV 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot- 
grass, 210 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device. 
Innumerable  of  stains^"  and  splendid  dyes. 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of 
queens  and  kings.  216 

XXV 

f^    Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
V      And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair 
breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and 

boon; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst,         221 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint: 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest. 
Save   wings,    for   heaven: — Porphyro   grew 
faint: 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal 
taint.  225 


XXVI 

Anon  his  heart  revives:  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees: 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed,    231 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees. 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is 
fled. 

XXVII 

Soon,    trembling   in    her   soft    and    chilly 

nest,  235 

In   sort   of  wakeful  swoon,   perplex'd   she 

Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 

Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away; 

Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow- 
day; 

Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and 
pain;  240 

Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims 
pray;ii 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud 
again. 

XXVIII 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gaz'd  upon  her  empty  dress,        245 
Ana  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he 


•  Commissioued. 


«  Colors. 


And  breath'd  himself:  then  from  the  closet 

crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness,  250 

And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept. 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo! — 

how  fast  she  slept. 

XXIX 

Then  by  the  bed-side  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet: —  256 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet  I^'^ 

.  The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone: — 

The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is 
gone.  261 

XXX 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and 
gourd;  265 

With  jellies  soother ^^  than  the  creamy  curd, 

^i  Swart  Paynims  =  dark  pagans.  "Clasped  like  a 
missal  in  a  land  of  pagans;  that  is  to  say,  where  Christian 
prayer-books  must  not  be  seen,  and  are,  therefore,  doubly 
cherished  for  the  danger."     Leigh  Hunt. 

"  A  charm  capable  of  producing  sleep. 

"  Apparently  =  smoother. 


534 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand^*  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 


Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous 
eye,  305 

Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dream- 
ingly. 


XXXI 

These    delicates   he    heap'd    with    glowing 
hand  271 

On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver:  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light 
"And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake! 
"Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite: 
"Open    thine   eyes,    for   meek   St.    Agnes' 
sake,  278 

"Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth 
ache." 

XXXII 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm  280 
Sank  in  her  pillow.  Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains: — 'twas  a  midnight 

charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  ic^d  stream : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies :    285 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes; 
So  mus'd  ahwile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, — in  chords  that  tender- 
est  be,  290 

He  plaj'^'d  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  call'd,   "La  belle  dame  sans 

mercy:  "^^ 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody; — 
Wherewith   disturb'd,    she   utter'd    a   soft 

moan: 
He    ceas'd — she    panted    quick — and    sud- 
denly 295 
Her  blue  aff rayed  eyes  wide  open  shone: 
Upon   his   knees   he   sank,    pale   as   smooth- 
sculptured-stone. 

XXXIV 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep: 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  ex- 

pell'd  300 

The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep; 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a 

sigh. 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep; 

"  An  ancient  city  in  Turkestan.  It  was  the  capital  of 
the  great  conqueror  Timur,  or  Tamerlane,  and,  in  his 
time,  a  center  of  learning  and  commerce. 

''  The  title  of  a  poem  bv  Alain  Chartier,  court  poet  of 
Charles  VI  and  Charles  VII,  of  France.  An  English 
translation  of  this  poem,  erroneously  attributed  to 
Chaucer,  and  formerly  included  in  editions  of  his  works, 
had  attracted  Keats'  fancy.  Chartier's  title  was  adopted 
by  Keats  as  the  title  of  one  of  his  best  lyrics  (c.  p.  535). 


"Ah,  Porphyro!"  said  she,  "but  even  now 
"Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
"Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow; 
"And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear; 
"How  chang'd  thou  art!  how  pallid,  chill, 

and  drear!  3ii 

"Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
"Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings 

dear! 
"Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
"For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where 

to  go."  .  315 

XXXVI 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose. 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose  320 

Blended  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution    sweet:    meantime   the   frost-wind 

blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes;  St.  Agnes'  moon 

hath  set. 

XXXVII 

'Tis  dark;  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown 

sleet:  325 

"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline! " 
'Tis  dark:  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat: 
"  No  dream,  alas!  alas!  and  woe  is  mine! 
"Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and 

pine, — 
"Cruel!    what    traitor    could    thee    hither 

bring?  330 

"  I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
"Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing; — • 
"A  dove  forlorn  axid  lost  with  sick  unprunM 

wing." 

XXXVIII 

"My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer!  lovely  bride! 
'  *  Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest?  33  5 
"Thy    beauty's    shield,    heart-shap'd    and 

vermeil  dy'd? 
"Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
"After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
"A  famish'd  pilgrim, — sav'd  by  miracle. 
"Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy 

nest  340 

"Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st 

well 
"To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

XXXIX 

"Hark!  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery /land, 
"Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed: 
"Arise — arise!  the  morning  is  at  hand; —    345 
"The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed: —    \ 
"Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed; 


JOHN  KEATS 


535 


"There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
"Drown'd  all  in   Rhenish   and  the  sleepy 

mead: 
"Awake!  arise!  my  love,  and  fearless  be,     350 
"  For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for 

thee." 

XL 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At    glaring    watch,    perhaps,    with    ready 

spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they 

found. —  355 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each 

door; 
The  arras  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and 

hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 
And   the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty 

floor.  360 

XLI 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall; 
Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch,  they  glide; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side: 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his 
hide,  365 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns: 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide: — ■ 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges 
groans. 

XLII 

.   And  they  are  gone :  ay,  ages  long  ago  370 

These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and 

form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm. 
Were  long  be-nightmar'd.    Angela  the  old  375 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  de- 
form; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


ROBIN  HOOD 
To  A  Friend 
(Pub.  1820) 
No!  those  days  are  gone  away, 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years:  5 

Many  times  have  winter's  shears, 
Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forests  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  not  rents  nor  leases.  10 

No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more. 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill; 


There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh,  13 

Where  lone  echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amaz'd  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  in  June 
You  may  go  with  sun  or  moon,  20 

Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you, 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan,  25 

Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent;  30 

For  he  left  the  merry  tale 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone  the  merry  morris  din; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw  35 

Idling  in  the  "grene  shawe;" 
All  are  gone  away  and  past! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  turfed  grave. 
And  if  Marian  should  have  40 

Once  again  her  forest  days. 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze: 
He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fall'n  beneath  the  dockyard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas;  45 

She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her — strange!  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money! 

So  it  is:  yet  let  us  sing. 
Honour  to  the  old  bow  string!  50 

Honour  to  the  bugle-horn ! 
Honour  to  the  woods  unshorn! 
Honour  to  the  Lincoln  green! 
Honour  to  the  archer  keen! 
Honour  to  tight  little  John,  65 

And  the  horse  he  rode  upon! 
Honour  to  bold  Robin  Hood! 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood! 
Honour  to  maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood-clan!  60 

Though  their  days  have  hurried  by 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI* 

(1820) 


Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering; 
The  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake. 

And  no  birds  sing. 

II 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight. 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full. 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

1  Y.  note  to  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  xxxiii,  p.  534. 


536 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


III 


I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew; 
And  on  thy  cheek  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too. 


10 


IV 


I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful,  a  faery's  child; 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 


I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed. 
And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long; 

For  sideways  would  she  lean  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

VI 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 
And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

VII 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew; 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 
I  love  thee  true. 

VIII 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  gaz'd  and  sighed  deep; 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  sad  eyes — 

So  kissed  to  sleep. 


And  there  we  slumber'd  on  the  moss, 
And  there  I  dream'd,  ah  woe  betide, 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd, 
On  the  cold  hill  side. 


15 


20 


25 


30 


35 


I  saw  pale  kings,  and  princes  too. 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all; 

Who  cry'd — "La  belle  Dame  sans  merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall!"  40 


XI 


I  saw  their  starv'd  lips  in  the  gloom. 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hill  side. 


XII 


45 


And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering. 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake 

And  no  birds  sing. 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

(1819) 


My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  1  had  drunk, 


Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk: 

'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot,  5 

But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness, — 

That   thou,   light-winged   Dryad   of   the 

trees. 

In  some  melodious  plot 

Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 

Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease.       i  o 


O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage !  that  hath  been  (X     n 
Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-del vM  earth, -^ 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green,  .,^M^ 
Dance,  and  Provengal  song,  and  sunburnt 
mirth  1-^ 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South,  C  1 5 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene,^^ 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim. 
And  purple-stained  mouth;  t 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  un- 
seen, CL/ 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest 
dim:  ^  20 

III 
Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never 
known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hoar  each  other 
groan; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 25 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin, 
and  dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-ey'd  despairs. 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 
Or   new   Love   pine   at   them   beyond   to- 
morrow. 30 

IV 

Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee. 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards,^ 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards; 
Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night,  35 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes 
blown 
Through    verdurous    glooms    and    winding 
mossy  ways.  40 


I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs. 

But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 

*  A  fountain  sacred  to  the  Muses  on  Mt.  Helicon. 
"The  true  .  .  .  Hippocrene=  wine,  whose  aid  is  after- 
wards rejected  (Stanza  IV). 

2  Leopards.  In  a  painting  by  Titian  in  the  National 
Gallery,  London,  Bacchus,  the  god  of  Wine,  is  repre- 
sented as  descending  from  a  chariot  drawn  by  leopards. 


JOHN   KEATS 


537 


rhe  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fniit-tree  wild;45 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 

Fast  fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 

The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer 

50 


Darkling  I  listen;  and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 

Now  more  than  ev6r  seems  it  rich  to  die,  55 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain. 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 

To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.  60 

VII 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path  65 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick 
for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.         70 

VIII 

Forlorn!  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu!  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  fam'd  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades         75 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades: 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music : — Do  I  wake  or  sleep?      80 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

(Written  1819) 


Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme: 
What  leaf-fring'd   legend   haunts   about  thy 
shape  S 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 

In  Tempe^  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these?    What  maid- 
ens loth? 
What  mad  pursuit?    What  struggle  to  escape? 
What    pipes    and    timbrels?      What    wild 
ecstasy?  10 

1  A  valley  in  Thessaly,  celebrated  for  its  beauty. 


Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 

Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear' d. 

Pipe  to  the  spirityiitties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneatn  the  trees,  thou  canst  not 
leave  is 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss. 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — ^yet,  do  not 
grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy 
bliss. 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair!  20 


Ah!  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 
More  happy  love!  more  happy,  happy  love!  25 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 
For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above,  28 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

IV 

WTio  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies. 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore,  35 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return.  40 


O  Attic  shape!  Fair  attitude!  with  brede^ 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought. 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 
Thou,  silent   form,  dost   tease   us   out  of 
thought 
As  doth  eternity:  Cold  Pastoral!  45 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou 
say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"— that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 
know.  50 

TO  AUTUMN 

(Written  1819  ?) 

I 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness. 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch- 
eaves  run; 

2 The  urn  is  "overwrought"  with  the  shapes  of  "men 
and  maidens"  gracefully  interwoven,  so  that  the  succes- 
sion of  figures,  encircling  the  vase  like  a  fillet,  or  band, 
is  spoken  of  aa  a  brede,  or  braid. 


538 


THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 


To   bend    with    apples   the   moss'd    cottage- 
trees,  5 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel 
shells 
\Mth  a  sweet  kernel;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  moro,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until   they   think    warm   days   will   never 
cease,                                                      lo 
For  Summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their  clam- 
my cells. 

n 
Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind;i5 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drows'd  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while 
thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined 
flowers: 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook;        20 
Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look. 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours  by 
hours. 


Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?    Ay,  where  are 
they?d^  . 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — ^ 

While    barred    clouds    bloom    the    soft-dying 
day,OL^  25 


That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all. 

And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose,        15 
Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave. 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave. 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless 
eyes.  20 

^'  III 

She  dwells  with  Beauty — Beauty  that  must 

die;X,  I 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips^ 
Bidding  adieu;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh  ^        - 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips:  -v- 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight  t  .25 

Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine,^ 
Though   seen   of   none   save   him   whose 
strenuous  tongues- 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine;^^ 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might,  C* 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung,  x^o 


1791-1823 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE 
AT  CORUNNAi 

(1817) 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 


yxa,j,\^  ,    "^^  0       As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 

And  touch  the  stubble-plams  with  rosy  hue;-^^jq-Q^  g^  golj       -     ■  —    -  -    - 


Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn  C 
Among  the  river  sallows,  ^  borne  aloft  d^ 
Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies;fl/ 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly 
bourn  TV  30 


ier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  was  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 


Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble 

soft^                                                    r    J  No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden  croft ;(N  Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

And   gathering   swaUows   twitter   m   the  But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 

skies. 4_  With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 


10 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY 
(Pub.  1820) 
I 
No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 
WoK's-bane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poisonous 
wine; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries,  5 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 
Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily. 

And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the 

soul.  10 

II 
But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 
Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 

1  Willows. 


Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said. 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was 
dead,  15 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow. 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er 
his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow!  20 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him — 

But  little  he'U  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done  25 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun; 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

1  For  an  account  of  Moore's  gallant  death,  v.  Napier'a      V 
Peninsular  War  I.  Bk.  IV,  Ch.  V.  ; 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT 


539 


Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down,  29 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

m 

William  ^pottiertoell 

1797-1834 
JEANIE  MORRISON 

(From  Poems,  1832) 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en,  5 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule: 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years  10 

Still  fling  their  shadows  owre  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears. 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears. 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine. 
As  Memory  idly  summons  up  15 

The  bhthe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part; 
Sweet  time,  sad  time! — twa  bairns  at  schule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart!  20 

'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink. 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear;i 
And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed. 

Remembered  evermair.    ^ 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet,  25 
When  sitting  on  that  bink. 

Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof^  locked  in  loof, 
What  our  wee  heads  could  think! 

When  baith  bent  doun  owre  ae  braid  page, 
Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee,  30 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

Oh,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame. 
Whene'er  the  schule- weans,  laughin'  said,        35 

We  cleek'd  thegither  hame? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays 

(The  schule  then  skail't  at  noon), 
When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June.  40 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As,  ane  by  ane,  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  schule-time  and  o'  thee. 
Oh,  mornin'  life!    Oh,  mornin'  luve!  45 

Oh,  lichtsome  days  and  lang. 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts. 

Like  simmer  blossoms,  sprang! 

Oh,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun,  50 

1  i.  e.  to  teach  each  other  the  lesson.    Lear  =  lore,  learn 

ing- 

2  Palm,  or  hand. 


To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  owre  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet. 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wud  55 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet. 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wud. 

The  burn  sung  to  the  trees. 
And  we,  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies;  60 

And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison,  65 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek, 
Like  dew-buds  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time. 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young,         70 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts  75 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me? 
Oh!  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine: 
Oh!  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  great 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne?  80 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot: 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart,      85 

Still  travels  on  its  way; 
And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young,  90 

I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  of  your  tongue: 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness-. 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed      95 

O'  bygane  days  and  me! 

^ir  falter  ^cott 

1771-1832 

SELECTIONS  FROM  SCOTT'S  JOURNAL 

(Edinburgh)  November  20,  1825.— I  have 
aU  my  life  regretted  that  I  did  not  keep  a 
Journal.  I  have  myself  lost  recollection  of 
much  that  was  interesting,  and  I  have  de- 
5  prived  my  family  and  the  public  of  some  curi- 
ous information,  by  not  carrying  this  resolu- 
tion into  effect.  I  have  bethought  me,  on 
seeing  lately  some  volumes  of  Byron's  notes, 
that  he  probably  had  hit  upon  the  right  way 
10  of   keeping    such   a   memorandum-book,    by 


540  THE  AGE  OF   WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

throwing  aside  all  pretence  of  regularity  and  one.  Then  I  write  or  study  again  till  one.  At 
order,  and  marking  down  events  just  as  they  that  hour  to-day  I  drove  to  Huntly  Burn,  and 
occurred  to  recollection.  I  will  try  this  plan;  walked  home  by  one  of  the  hundred  and  one 
and  behold  I  have  a  handsome  locked  volume,  pleasing  paths  which  I  have  made  through  the 
such  as  might  serve  for  a  lady's  album.  5  woods  I   have    planted — now   chatting  with 

December  18.  An  odd  thought  strikes  me;  Tom  Purdie,  who  carries  my  plaid,  and  speaks 
when  I  die  will  the  Journal  of  these  days  be  when  he  pleases,  telling  long  stories  of  hits  and 
taken  out  of  the  ebony  cabinet  at  Abbotsford,  misses  in  shooting  twenty  years  back — some- 
and  read  as  the  transient  pout  of  a  man  worth  times  chewing  the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter 
£60,000,  with  wonder  that  the  well-seeming  lO  fancy — and  sometimes  attending  to  the  hu- 
Baronet  should  ever  have  experienced  such  a  mours  of  two  curious  little  terriers  of  the 
hitch?  Or  will  it  be  found  in  some  obscure  Dandie  Dinmont  breed,  together  with  a  noble 
lodging-house,  where  the  decayed  son  of  wolf-hound  puppy  which  Glengarry  had  given 
chivalry  has  hung  up  his  scutcheon  for  some  me  to  replace  Maida.  This  brings  me  down 
20s.  a  week,  and  where  one  or  two  old  friends  15  to  the  very  moment  I  do  tell — the  rest  is 
will  look  grave  and  whisper  to  each  other,  prophetic.  I  will  feel  sleepy  when  this  book  is 
"Poor  gentleman,"  "A  well-meaning  man,"  locked,  and  perhaps  sleep  until  Dalgleish 
"Nobody's  enemy  but  his  own,"  "Thought  brings  the  dinner  summons.  Then  I  will  have 
his  parts  could  never  wear  out,"  "Family  a  chat  with  Lady  S.  and  Anne;  some  broth  or 
poorly  left,"  "Pity  he  took  that  fooUsh  title"?  20  soup,  a  sHce  of  plain  meat — a  man's  chief 
Who  can  answer  this  question?  business,  in  Dr.  Johnson's  estimation,  is  briefly 

What  a  Ufe  mine  has  been! — half  educated,  despatched.  Half  an  hour  with  my  family, 
almost  wholly  neglected  or  left  to  myself,  and  half  an  hour's  coquetting  with  a  cigar,  a 
stuffing  my  head  with  most  nonsensical  trash,  tumbler  of  weak  whisky  and  water,  and  a  novel 
and  undervalued  in  society  for  a  time  by  most  25  perhaps,  lead  on  to  tea,  which  sometimes 
of  my  companions,  getting  forward  and  held  consumes  another  half  hour  of  chat;  then 
a  bold  and  clever  fellow,  contrary  to  the  write  or  read  in  my  own  room  till  ten  o'clock 
opinion  of  all  who  thought  me  a  mere  dreamer,  at  night;  a  httle  bread  and  then  a  glass  of 
broken-hearted  for  two  years,  my  heart  hand-      porter,  and  to  bed. 

somely  pieced  again,  but  the  crack  will  remain  30  August  15.  I  write  on,  though  a  little 
to  my  dying  day.  Rich  and  poor  four  or  five  afilicted  with  the  oppression  on  my  chest, 
times,  once  on  the  verge  of  ruin,  yet  opened  new  Sometimes  I  think  it  is  something  dangerous, 
sources  of  wealth  almost  overflowing.  Now  but  as  it  always  goes  away  on  change  of  pos- 
taken  in  my  pitch  of  pride,  and  nearly  winged  ture,  it  cannot  be  speedily  so.  I  want  to  finish 
(unless  the  good  news  hold),  because  London  35  my  task,  and  then  good-night.  I  will  never 
chooses  to  be  in  an  uproar,  and  in  a  tumult  of  relax  my  labour  in  these  afTairs,  either  for  fear 
bulls  and  bears,  a  poor  inoffensive  hon  Hke  of  pain  or  for  love  of  life.  I  will  die  a  free  man 
myseK  is  pushed  to  the  wall.  And  what  is  if  working  will  do  it.  Accordingly,  to-day  I 
to  be  the  end  of  it?  God  knows.  And  so  ends  cleared  the  ninth  leaf,  which  is  the  tenth  part 
the  catechism.  40  of  a  volume,  in  two  days — four  and  a  half 

March  14,  1826.  Read  again,  and  for  the  leaves  a  day. 
third  time  at  least,  Miss  Austen's  very  finely  March  21,  1827.  Wrote  till  twelve,  then 
written  novel  of  Pride  and  Prejudice.  That  out  upon  the  heights  though  the  day  was 
young  lady  had  a  talent  for  describing  the  stormy,  and  faced  the  gale  bravely.  Tom 
involvements  and  feehngs  and  characters  of  45  Purdie  was  not  with  me.  He  would  have 
ordinary  Ufe,  which  is  to  me  the  most  wonderful  obhged  me  to  keep  the  sheltered  ground.  But, 
I  ever  met  with.    The  Big  Bow-wow  strain  I     I  don't  know — 

can  do  myseK  Uke  any  now  going;  but  the  ex-         .,_,        .  1      i-  .    -,  ^      ,* 

quisite  touch,  which  renders  ordinary  common-  ^^«°  ^^  «^^  ^^^^  1^^«  «"^  ^«^*^  fi^^- 

place  things  and  characters  interesting,  from  50  There  is  a  touch  of  the  old  spirit  in  me  yet  that 
the  truth  of  the  description  and  the  sentiment,  bids  me  brave  the  tempest, — the  spirit  that, 
is  denied  to  me.  What  a  pity  such  a  gifted  in  spite  of  manifold  infirmities,  made  me  a 
creature  died  so  early!  roaring  boy  in  my  youth,  a  desperate  climber, 

April  1. — Ex  uno  die  disce  omnes}  Rose  at  a  bold  rider,  a  deep  drinker,  and  a  stout  player 
seven  or  sooner,  studied,  and  wrote  till  break-  55  at  single-stick,  of  all  which  valuable  qualities 
fast  with  Anne,2  about  a  quarter  before  ten.  there  are  now  but  slender  remains.  I  worked 
Lady  Scott  seldom  able  to  rise  till  twelve  or      hard  when  I  came  in,  and  finished  five  pages. 

» From  one  day  learn  a!I.    Cf.  Vergil.  Mn.  II.  65.  ,  ^^^^^  16    1831.     The  affair  with  Mr.  CadeU 

« Scott's  daughter.  bemg  settled,  I  have  only  to  arrange  a  set  of 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE  541 

regular  employment  for  my  time,  without  over-         "Three  score  and  ten  years  do  sum  up." 
fatiguing  myself.     What  I  at  present  practice 

seems  active  enough  for  my  capacity,  and  October.  I  have  been  very  ill,  and  if  not 
even  if  I  should  reach  the  three  score  and  ten,  quite  unable  to  write,  I  have  been  unfit  to  do 
from  which  I  am  thrice  three  years  distant,  5  so.  I  have  wrought  however,  at  two  Waverly 
or  nearer  ten,  the  time  may  pass  honourably,  things,  but  not  well,  and,  what  is  worse,  past 
usefully,  and  profitably,  both  to  myself  and  mending.  A  total  prostration  of  bodily  strength 
other  people.  My  ordinary  runs  thus: —  is  my  chief  complaint.  I  cannot  walk  half  a 
Rise  at  a  quarter  before  seven;  at  a  mile.  There  is,  besides,  some  mental  confu- 
quarter  after  nine  breakfast,  with  eggs,  or  10  sion,  with  the  extent  of  which  I  am  not  perhaps 
in  the  single  number,  at  least;  before  break-  fully  acquainted.  I  am  perhaps  setting.  I  am 
fast  private  letters,  etc.;  after  breakfast  myself  inclined  to  think  so,  and,  like  a  day  that 
Mr.  Laidlaw  comes  at  ten,  and  we  write  to-  has  been  admired  as  a  fine  one,  the  light  of  it 
gether  till  one.  I  am  greatly  helped  by  this  sets  down  amid  mists  and  storms.  I  neither 
excellent  man,  who  takes  pains  to  write  a  good  15  regret  nor  fear  the  approach  of  death  if  it  is 
hand,  and  supplies  the  want  of  my  own  fingers  coming.  I  would  compound  for  a  little  pain 
as  far  as  another  person  can.  We  work  seriously  instead  of  this  heartless  muddiness  of  mind 
at  the  task  of  the  day  till  one  o'clocUy%^hen  I  which  renders  me  incapable  of  anything  ra- 
sometimes  walk — not  often,  however,  having  tional.  The  expense  of  my  journey  will  be 
failed  in  strength,  and  suffering  great  pain  20  something  considerable,  which  I  can  provide 
even  from  a  very  short  walk.  Oftener  I  take  against  by  borrowing  £500  from  Mr.  Gibson, 
the  pony  for  an  hour  or  two  and  ride  about  the  To  Mr.  Cadell  I  owe  already,  with  the  cancels 
doors;  the  exercise  is  humbling  enough,  for  on  these  apoplectic  books,  about  £200,  and 
I  require  to  be  hfted  on  horseback  by  two  must  run  it  up  to  £500  more  at  least;  yet  this 
servants,  and  one  goes  with  me  to  take  care  25  heavy  burthen  would  be  easily  borne  if  I  were 
I  do  not  fall  off  and  break  my  bones,  a  catas-  to  be  the  Walter  Scott  I  once  was;  but  the 
trophe  very  like  to  happen.  My  proud  prome-  change  is  great, 
nade  d  pied  or  d  cheval,  as  it  happens,  concludes 

by   three   o'clock.     An   hour   intervenes   for  g)amuel   m^lOt    ColmDge 

makmg  up  my  Journal  and  such  light  work.  30  ^ 

At  four  comes  dinner, — a  plate  of  broth  or  1772-1834 

soup,  much  condemned  by  the  doctors,  a  bit  TATNi 

of  plain  meat,  no  Uquors  stronger  than  small  ^HE  WANDERINGb  OI-    CAIN^ 

beer,  and  so  I  sit  quiet  to  six  o'clock,  when  Canto  II 

Mr.   Laidlaw  returns,   and  remains  with  me  35  ,^  .         i  yog') 

till  nine  or  three  quarters  past,  as  it  happens.  ^ 

Then  I  have  a  bowl  of  porridge  and  milk,  which  "A  little  further,  O  my  father,  yet  a  little 
I  eat  with  the  appetite  of  a  child.  I  forgot  to  further,  and  we  shall  come  into  the  open 
say  that  after  dinner  I  am  allowed  half  a  glass  moonlight."  Their  road  was  through  a  forest 
of  whiskey  or  gin  made  into  weak  grog.  1 40  of  fir-trees;  at  its  entrance  the  trees  stood 
never  wish  for  any  more,  nor  do  I  in  my  secret  at  distances  from  each  other,  and  the  path  was 
soul  long  for  cigars,  though  once  so  fond  of  broad,  and  the  moonhght  shadows  reposed 
them.  About  six  hours  per  day  is  good  work-  upon  it,  and  appeared  quietly  to  inhabit  that 
ing,  if  I  can  keep  it  up.  solitude.    But  soon  the  path  winded  and  be- 

May  4,  1831.  My  pronunciation  is  a  good  45  came  narrow;  the  sun  at  high  noon  sometimes 
deal  improved.  My  time  glides  away  ill  em-  speckled,  but  never  illumined  it,  and  now  it 
ployed,  but  I  am  afraid  of  the  palsy.    I  should     was  dark  as  a  cavern. 

not  like  to  be  pinned  to  my  chair.  But  I  be-  "It  is  dark,  O  my  father!"  said  Enos,  "but 
lieve  even  that  kind  of  life  is  more  endurable  the  path  under  our  feet  is  smooth  and  soft, 
than  we  could  suppose.  Your  wishes  are  50  and  we  shall  soon  come  out  into  the  open 
limited  to  your  httle  circle— yet  the  idea  is     moonlight." 

terrible  to  a  man  who  has  been  active.     My         "Lead  on,  my  child  I"  said  Cain:  "guide 
own  circle  in  bodily  matters  is  daily  narrow- 
ing;  not  so  in  intellectual  matters,  but  I  am      J^S'l-JfeSj^wtHn  mlThe'^^^^^^^^ 

perhaps  a  bad  judge.      The  plough  is  coming  55  in  concert  a  "prose-poem"  on  the  story  of  Cain  and 

to  the  end  of  the  furrow,  so  it  is  likely  I  shall     ^bei  m^^th,g^_canto,.^^Worf^^^ 

not  reach  the  common  goal  of  mortal  life  by  a       his  part  first,  was  to  undertake  the  third.     The  second 

few  years.  I  am  now  in  my  sixtieth  year  only,  S'/''«,,'T°'^eT/Ti,l''&  Slaridgo°°drd''no1  «2 
and  eider  meter  essential  to  poetry. 


644  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

the  one,  the  incidents  and  agents  were  to  be,  in  the  language  of  ordinary  life  as  to  produce 
in  part  at  least,  supernatural;  and  the  excel-  the  pleasurable  interest,  which  it  is  the  pecuhar 
lence  aimed  at  was  to  consist  in  the  interesting  business  of  poetry  to  impart.  To  the  second 
of  the  affections  by  the  dramatic  truth  of  such  edition  he  added  a  preface  of  considerable 
emotions,  as  would  naturally  accompany  such  6  length;  in  which,  notwithstanding  some  pas- 
situations,  supposing  them  real.  And  real  in  sages  of  apparently  a  contrary  import,  he  was 
this  sense  they  have  been  to  every  human  understood  to  contend  for  the  extension  of 
being  who,  from  whatever  source  of  delusion,  this  style  to  poetry  of  all  kinds,  and  to  reject 
has  at  any  time  believed  hirtiself  under  super-  as  vicious  and  indefensible  all  phrases  and 
natural  agency.  For  the  second  class,  subjects  10  forms  of  speech  that  were  not  included  in 
were  to  be  chosen  from  ordinary  life;  the  charac-  what  he  (unfortunately,  I  think,  adopting  an 
ters  and  incidents  were  to  be  such  as  will  be  equivocal  expression)  called  the  language  of 
found  in  every  village  and  its  vicinity,  where  real  life.  From  this  preface,  prefixed  to  poems 
there  is  a  meditatiye  and  feeling  mind  to  seek  in  which  it  was  impossible  to  deny  the  presence 
after  them,  or  to  notice  them,  when  they  pre-  15  of  original  genius,  however  mistaken  its  direc- 
sent  themselves.  tion  might  be  deemed,  arose  the  whole  long 

In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  continued  controversy.  For  from  the  conjunc- 
Lyrical  Ballads ;i  in  which  it  was  agreed,  that  tion  of  perceived  power  with  supposed  heresy 
my  endeavors  should  be  directed  to  persons  and  I  explain  the  inveteracy  and  in  some  instances, 
characters  supernatural,  or  at  least  romantic;  20 1  grieve  to  say,  the  acrimonious  passions,  with 
yet  so  as  to  transfer  from  our  inward  nature  which  the  controversy  has  been  conducted 
a  human  interest  and  a  semblance  of  truth     by  the  assailants. 

sufficient  to  procure  for  these  shadows  of  Had  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems  been  the 
imagination  that  willing  suspension  of  disbelief  silly,  the  childish  things,  which  they  were  for 
for  the  moment,  which  constitutes  poetic  25  a  long  time  described  as  being;  had  they  been 
faith.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on  the  other  hand,  really  distinguished  from  the  compositions  of 
was  to  propose  to  himself  as  his  object,  to  give  other  poets  merely  by  meanness  of  language 
the  charm  of  novelty  to  things  of  every  day,  and  inanity  of  thought;  had  they  indeed  con- 
and  to  excite  a  feeling  analogous  to  the  super-  tained  nothing  more  than  what  is  found  in  the 
natural,  by  awakening  the  mind's  attention  30  parodies  and  pretended  imitations  of  them; 
to  the  lethargy  of  custom,  and  directing  it  to  they  must  have  sunk  at  once,  a  dead  weight, 
the  loveUness  and  the  wonders  of  the  world  into  the  slough  of  oblivion,  and  have  dragged 
before  us;  an  inexhaustible  treasure,  but  for  the  preface  along  with  them.  But  year  after 
which,  in  consequence  of  the  film  of  familiarity  year  increased  the  number  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
and  selfish  solicitude  we  have  eyes,  yet  see  35  admirers.  They  were  found  too  not  in  the 
not,  ears  that  hear  not,  and  hearts  that  neither  lower  classes  of  the  reading  public,  but  chiefly 
feel  nor  understand.  among  young  men  of  strong  sensibility  and 

With  this  view  I  wrote  The  Ancient  Mariner,      meditative  minds;  and  their  admiration  (in- 
and  was  preparing  among  other  poems.  The     flamed  perhaps  in  some  degree  by  opposition) 
Dark  Ladie,  and  the  Christable,  in  which  1 40  was  distinguished  by  its  intensity,   I  might 
should  have  more  nearly  realized  my  ideal     almost  say,  by  its  religious  fervor, 
than  I  had  done  in  my  first  attempt.     But 
Mr.   Wordsworth's  industry   had   proved   so 

much  more  successful,  and  the  number  of  his  CHARACTERISTICS  OF 

poems  so  much  greater,  that  my  compositions,  45  SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMAS 

instead  of  forming  a  balance,  appeared  rather  (^.e^i^m  Upon  Slmkespeare,  1818) 

an    mterpolation    of    heterogeneous    matter.  *-       >  / 

Mr.  Wordsworth  added  two  or  three  poems  Poetry  in  essence  is  as  familiar  to  barbarous 
written  in  his  own  character,  in  the  impas-  as  to  civilized  nations.  The  Laplander  and  the 
sioned,  lofty,  and  sustained  diction,  which  is  50  savage  Indian  are  cheered  by  it  as  well  as  the 
characteristic  of  his  genius.  In  this  form  the  inhabitants  of  London  and  Paris;— its  spirit 
Lyrical  Ballads  were  published;  and  were  pre-  takes  up  and  incorporates  surrounding  ma- 
sented  by  him,  as  an  experiment,  whether  sub-  terials,  as  a  plant  clothes  itself  with  soil  and 
jects,  which  from  their  nature  rejected  the  climate,  whilst  it  exhibits  the  working  of  a 
usual  ornaments  and  extrarcolloquial  style  of  55  vital  principle  within  independent  of  all  acci- 
poems  in  general,  might  not  be  so  managed      dental   circumstances.     And   to   judge   with 

1  r,^.:^i  p  77  J        ur  u  J  •    ,-«o  ,  fairness  of  an  author's  works,  we  ought  to  dis-\, 

\Lvr\cal  BalUids,  published  in  1798,  was  the  epoch-        x-         -uui.--  j       j  x-ir  i,*' 

making  book  of  poems  in  which  Wordsworth  and  Cole-        tmguish  what  IS  mward  and  essential  from  what  i< 

ridge  first  appeared  as  important  poets.  .    is  outward  and  circumstantial.    It  is  essential 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  545 

to  poetry  that  it  be  simple,  and  appeal  to  the  light  and  vigor,  whilst  another  was  in  its 
elements  and  primary  laws  of  our  nature;  that  gloom  and  bondage.  But  no  sooner  had  the 
it  be  sensuous,  and  by  its  imagery  elicit  truth  Reformation  sounded  through  Europe  like  the 
at  a  flash;  that  it  be  impassioned,  and  be  able  blast  of  an  archangel's  trumpet,  than  from 
to  move  our  feelings  and  awaken  our  affections.  5  king  to  peasant  there  arose  an  enthusiasm  for 
In  comparing  different  poets  with  each  other,  knowledge;  the  discovery  of  a  manuscript 
we  should  inquire  which  have  brought  into  the  became  the  subject  of  an  embassy;  Erasmus 
fullest  play  our  imagination  and  our  reason,  read  by  moonlight,  because  he  could  not  afford 
or  have  created  the  greatest  excitement  and  a  torch,  and  begged  a  penny,  not  for  the  love 
produced  the  completest  harmony.  If  we  10  of  charity,  but  for  the  love  of  learning.  The 
consider  great  exquisiteness  of  language  and  three  great  points  of  attention  were  religion, 
sweetness  of  metre  alone,  it  is  impossible  to  morals,  and  taste;  men  of  genius  as  well  as 
deny  to  Pope  the  character  of  a  delightful  men  of  learning,  who  in  this  age  need  to  be  so 
writer;  but  whether  he  be  a  poet,  must  depend  widely  distinguished,  then  alike  became  copy- 
upon  our  definition  of  the  word;  and,  doubtless,  isists  of  the  ancients;  and  this,  indeed,  was  the 
if  everything  that  pleases  be  poetry,  Pope's  only  way  by  which  the  taste  of  mankind  could 
satires  and  epistles  must  be  poetry.  This,  I  be  improved,  or  their  understandings  informed, 
must  say,  that  poetry,  as  distinguished  from  Whilst  Dante  imagined  himself  a  humble 
other  modes  of  composition,  does  not  rest  in  follower  of  Virgil,  and  Ariosto  of  Homer,  they 
metre,  and  that  it  is  not  poetry,  if  it  make  no  20  were  both  unconscious  of  that  greater  power 
appeal  to  our  passions  or  our  imagination,  working  within  them,  which  in  many  points 
One  character  belongs  to  all  true  poets,  that  carried  them  beyond  their  supposed  originals, 
they  write  from  a  principle  within,  not  originat-  All  great  discoveries  bear  the  stamp  of  the 
ing  in  any  thing  without;  and  that  the  true  age  in  which  they  are  made; — hence  we  per- 
poet's  work  in  its  form,  its  shapings,  and  itS25ceive  the  effects  of  the  purer  religion  of  the 
modifications,  is  distinguished  from  all  other  moderns,  visible  for  the  most  part  in  their 
works  that  assume  to  belong  to  the  class  of  lives;  and  in  reading  their  works  we  should  not 
poetry,  as  a  natural  from  an  artificial  flower,  content  ourselves  with  the  mere  narrative  of 
or  as  the  mimic  garden  of  a  child  from  an  events  long  since  passed,  but  shouM  learn  to 
enamelled  meadow.  In  the  former  the  flowers  30  apply  their  maxims  and  conduct  to  ourselves, 
are  broken  from  their  stems  and  stuck  into  the  Having  intimated  that  times  and  manners 
ground;  they  are  beautiful  to  the  eye  and  fra-  lend  their  form  and  pressure  to  genius,  let  me 
grant  to  the  sense,  but  their  colors  soon  fade  once  more  draw  a  slight  parallel  between  the 
and  their  odor  is  transient  as  the  smile  of  ancient  and  modem  stage,  the  stages  of  Greece 
the  planter; — while  the  meadow  may  be  visited  35  and  of  England.  The  Greeks  were  polytheists; 
again  and  again  with  renewed  delight;  its  their  religion  was  local;  almost  the  only  object 
beauty  is  innate  in  the  soil,  and  its  bloom  is  of  of  all  their  knowledge,  art,  and  taste,  was  their 
the  freshness  of  nature.  gods;  and,  accordingly,  their  productions  were, 

The  next  ground  of  critical  judgment,  and  if  the  expression  may  be  allowed,  statuesque, 
point  of  comparison,  will  be  as  to  how  far  a  40  whilst  those  of  the  moderns  are  picturesque, 
given  poet  has  been  influenced  by  accidental  The  Greeks  reared  a  structure,  which  in  its 
circumstances.  As  a  living  poet  must  surely  parts,  and  as  a  whole,  filled  the  mind  with  the 
write,  not  for  the  ages  past,  but  for  that  in  calm  and  elevated  impression  of  perfect  beauty, 
which  he  lives,  and  those  which  are  to  follow,  and  symmetrical  proportion.  The  moderns 
it  is,  on  the  one  hand,  natural  that  he  should  45  also  produced  a  whole,  a  more  striking  whole; 
not  violate,  and  on  the  other,  necessary  that  but  it  was  by  blending  materials  and  fusmg 
he  should  not  depend  on,  the  mere  manners  the  parts  together.  And  as  the  Pantheon  is 
and  modes  of  his  day.  See  how  little  does  to  York  Minster  or  Westminster  Abbey,  sc 
Shakespeare  leave  us  to  regret  that  he  was  is  Sophocles  compared  with  Shakespeare;  m 
born  in  his  particular  age!  The  grea«  era  in  50  the  one  a  completeness,  a  satisfaction,  an 
modern  times  was  what  is  called  the  Restora-  excellence,  on  which  the  mind  rests  with  com- 
tion  of  Letters;— the  ages  preceding  it  are  placency;  in  the  other  a  multitude  of  inter- 
called  the  dark  ages;  but  it  would  be  more  laced  materials,  great  and  little,  magmficent 
wise,  perhaps,  to  call  them  the  ages  in  which  and  mean,  accompanied,  indeed,  with  a  sense 
we  were  in  the  dark.  It  is  usually  overlooked  55  of  a  falling  short  of  perfection,  and  yet  at  the 
that  the  supposed  dark  period  was  not  uni-  same  time,  so  promising  of  our  social  and  m- 
versal,  but  partial,  or  successive,  or  alternate;  dividual  progression,  that  we  would  not,  if 
that  the  dark  age  of  England  was  not  the  dark  we  could,  exchange  it  for  that  repose  of  the 
age  of  Italy,  but  that  one  country  was  in  its     mind  which  dwells  on  the  forms  of  symmetry 


644  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

the  one,  the  incidents  and  agents  were  to  be,  in  the  language  of  ordinary  life  as  to  produce 
in  part  at  least,  supernatural;  and  the  excel-  the  pleasurable  interest,  which  it  is  the  peculiar 
lence  aimed  at  was  to  consist  in  the  interesting  business  of  poetry  to  impart.  To  the  second 
of  the  affections  by  the  dramatic  truth  of  such  edition  he  added  a  preface  of  considerable 
emotions,  as  would  naturally  accompany  such  5 length;  in  which,  notwithstanding  some  pas- 
situations,  supposing  them  real.  And  real  in  sages  of  apparently  a  contrary  import,  he  was 
this  sense  they  have  been  to  every  human  understood  to  contend  for  the  extension  of 
being  who,  from  whatever  source  of  delusion,  this  style  to  poetry  of  all  kinds,  and  to  reject 
has  at  any  time  believed  hinbself  under  super-  as  vicious  and  indefensible  all  phrases  and 
natural  agency.  For  the  second  class,  subjects  lO  forms  of  speech  that  were  not  included  in 
were  to  be  chosen  from  ordinary  life;  the  charac-  what  he  (unfortunately,  I  think,  adopting  an 
ters  and  incidents  were  to  be  such  as  will  be  equivocal  expression)  called  the  language  of 
found  in  every  village  and  its  vicinity,  where  real  life.  From  this  preface,  prefixed  to  poems 
there  is  a  meditatiye  and  feeling  mind  to  seek  in  which  it  was  impossible  to  deny  the  presence 
after  them,  or  to  notice  them,  when  they  pre-  15  of  original  genius,  however  mistaken  its  direc- 
sent  themselves.  tion  might  be  deemed,  arose  the  whole  long 

In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  continued  controversy.  For  from  the  conjunc- 
Lyrical  Ballads ;i  in  which  it  was  agreed,  that  tion  of  perceived  power  with  supposed  heresy 
my  endeavors  should  be  directed  to  persons  and  I  explain  the  inveteracy  and  in  some  instances, 
characters  supernatural,  or  at  least  romantic;  20 1  grieve  to  say,  the  acrimonious  passions,  with 
yet  so  as  to  transfer  from  our  inward  nature  which  the  controversy  has  been  conducted 
a  human  interest  and  a  semblance  of  truth     by  the  assailants. 

sufficient  to  procure  for  these  shadows  of  Had  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems  been  the 
imagination  that  willing  suspension  of  disbelief  silly,  the  childish  things,  which  they  were  for 
for  the  moment,  which  constitutes  poetic  25  a  long  time  described  as  being;  had  they  been 
faith.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on  the  other  hand,  really  distinguished  from  the  compositions  of 
was  to  propose  to  himself  as  his  object,  to  give  other  poets  merely  by  meanness  of  language 
the  charm  of  novelty  to  things  of  every  day,  and  inanity  of  thought;  had  they  indeed  con- 
and  to  excite  a  feeling  analogous  to  the  super-  tained  nothing  more  than  what  is  found  in  the 
natural,  by  awakening  the  mind's  attention  30  parodies  and  pretended  imitations  of  them; 
to  the  lethargy  of  custom,  and  directing  it  to  they  must  have  sunk  at  once,  a  dead  weight, 
the  loveliness  and  the  wonders  of  the  world  into  the  slough  of  oblivion,  and  have  dragged 
before  us;  an  inexhaustible  treasure,  but  for  the  preface  along  with  them.  But  year  after 
which,  in  consequence  of  the  film  of  familiarity  year  increased  the  number  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
and  selfish  solicitude  we  have  eyes,  yet  see  35  admirers.  They  were  found  too  not  in  the 
not,  ears  that  hear  not,  and  hearts  that  neither  lower  classes  of  the  reading  public,  but  chiefly 
feel  nor  understand.  among  young  men  of  strong  sensibility  and 

With  this  view  I  wrote  The  Ancient  Mariner,      meditative  minds;  and  their  admiration  (in- 
and  was  preparing  among  other  poems.  The     flamed  perhaps  in  some  degree  by  opposition) 
Dark  Ladie,  and  the  Christable,  in  which  1 40  was  distinguished  by  its  intensity,   I  might 
should  have  more  nearly  realized  my  ideal     almost  say,  by  its  religious  fervor, 
than  I  had  done  in  my  first  attempt.     But 
Mr.   Wordsworth's   industry   had   proved   so 

much  more  successful,  and  the  number  of  his  CHARACTERISTICS  OF 

poems  so  much  greater,  that  my  compositions,  45  SHAKESPEARE'S  DRAMAS 

instead  of  forming  a  balance,  appeared  rather  {Lectures  Upon  Sfuikespeare,  1818) 

an    mterpolation    of    heterogeneous    matter.  *-       >  / 

Mr.  Wordsworth  added  two  or  three  poems  Poetry  in  essence  is  as  familiar  to  barbarous 
written  in  his  own  character,  in  the  impas-  as  to  civilized  nations.  The  Laplander  and  the 
sioned,  lofty,  and  sustained  diction,  which  is  50  savage  Indian  are  cheered  by  it  as  well  as  the 
characteristic  of  his  genius.  In  this  form  the  inhabitants  of  London  and  Paris;— its  spirit 
Lyrical  Ballads  were  published;  and  were  pre-  takes  up  and  incorporates  surrounding  ma- 
sented  by  him,  as  an  experiment,  whether  sub-  terials,  as  a  plant  clothes  itself  with  soil  and 
jects,  which  from  their  nature  rejected  the  climate,  whilst  it  exhibits  the  working  of  a 
usual  ornaments  and  extrarCoUoquial  style  of  55  vital  principle  within  independent  of  all  acci- 
poems  in  general,  might  not  be  so  managed      dental    circumstances.     And   to   judge   with 

1  r, «..•/./,?  n  7j  J        uf  u  J  •    -.^rto  r^  fairness  of  an  author's  works,  we  ought  to  dis-\, 

\Lyrtcal  Ballads,  published  m  1798,  was  the  epoch-        x-         -ui^i.--  j       j  x-ir  u+' 

making  book  of  poems  in  which  Wordsworth  and  Cole-       tmguish  what  IS  mward  and  essential  from  what  C 

ridge  first  appeared  as  important  poets.  .    ig  outward  and  circumstantial.    It  is  essential 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  545 

to  poetry  that  it  be  simple,  and  appeal  to  the  light  and  vigor,  whilst  another  was  in  its 
elements  and  primary  laws  of  our  nature;  that  gloom  and  bondage.  But  no  sooner  had  the 
it  be  sensuous,  and  by  its  imagery  elicit  truth  Reformation  sounded  through  Europe  like  the 
at  a  flash;  that  it  be  impassioned,  and  be  able  blast  of  an  archangel's  trumpet,  than  from 
to  move  our  feelings  and  awaken  our  affections.  5  king  to  peasant  there  arose  an  enthusiasm  for 
In  comparing  different  poets  with  each  other,  knowledge;  the  discovery  of  a  manuscript 
we  should  inquire  which  have  brought  into  the  became  the  subject  of  an  embassy;  Erasmus 
fullest  play  our  imagination  and  our  reason,  read  by  moonlight,  because  he  could  not  afford 
or  have  created  the  greatest  excitement  and  a  torch,  and  begged  a  penny,  not  for  the  love 
produced  the  completest  harmony.  If  we  10  of  charity,  but  for  the  love  of  learning.  The 
consider  great  exquisiteness  of  language  and  three  great  points  of  attention  were  religion, 
sweetness  of  metre  alone,  it  is  impossible  to  morals,  and  taste;  men  of  genius  as  well  as 
deny  to  Pope  the  character  of  a  delightful  men  of  learning,  who  in  this  age  need  to  be  so 
writer;  but  whether  he  be  a  poet,  must  depend  widely  distinguished,  then  alike  became  copy- 
upon  our  definition  of  the  word;  and,  doubtless,  isists  of  the  ancients;  and  this,  indeed,  was  the 
if  everything  that  pleases  be  poetry,  Pope's  only  way  by  which  the  taste  of  mankind  could 
satires  and  epistles  must  be  poetry.  This,  I  be  improved,  or  their  understandings  informed, 
must  say,  that  poetry,  as  distinguished  from  Whilst  Dante  imagined  himself  a  humble 
other  modes  of  composition,  does  not  rest  in  follower  of  Virgil,  and  Ariosto  of  Homer,  they 
metre,  and  that  it  is  not  poetry,  if  it  make  no  20  were  both  unconscious  of  that  greater  power 
appeal  to  our  passions  or  our  imagination,  working  within  them,  which  in  many  points 
One  character  belongs  to  all  true  poets,  that  carried  them  beyond  their  supposed  originals, 
they  write  from  a  principle  within,  not  originat-  All  great  discoveries  bear  the  stamp  of  the 
ing  in  any  thing  without;  and  that  the  true  age  in  which  they  are  made; — hence  we  per- 
poet's  work  in  its  form,  its  shapings,  and  itS25ceive  the  effects  of  the  purer  religion  of  the 
modifications,  is  distinguished  from  all  other  moderns,  visible  for  the  most  part  in  their 
works  that  assume  to  belong  to  the  class  of  lives;  and  in  reading  their  works  we  should  not 
poetry,  as  a  natural  from  an  artificial  flower,  content  ourselves  with  the  mere  narrative  of 
or  as  the  mimic  garden  of  a  child  from  an  events  long  since  passed,  but  shouM  learn  to 
enamelled  meadow.  In  the  former  the  flowers  30  apply  their  maxims  and  conduct  to  ourselves, 
are  broken  from  their  stems  and  stuck  into  the  Having  intimated  that  times  and  manners 
ground;  they  are  beautiful  to  the  eye  and  fra-  lend  their  form  and  pressure  to  genius,  let  me 
grant  to  the  sense,  but  their  colors  soon  fade  once  more  draw  a  slight  parallel  between  the 
and  their  odor  is  transient  as  the  smile  of  ancient  and  modem  stage,  the  stages  of  Greece 
the  planter; — while  the  meadow  may  be  visited  35  and  of  England.  The  Greeks  were  polytheists; 
again  and  again  with  renewed  delight;  its  their  religion  was  local;  almost  the  only  object 
beauty  is  innate  in  the  soil,  and  its  bloom  is  of  of  all  their  knowledge,  art,  and  taste,  was  their 
the  freshness  of  nature.  gods;  and,  accordingly,  their  productions  were, 

The  next  ground  of  critical  judgment,  and  if  the  expression  may  be  allowed,  statuesque, 
point  of  comparison,  will  be  as  to  how  far  a  40  whilst  those  of  the  moderns  are  picturesque, 
given  poet  has  been  influenced  by  accidental  The  Greeks  reared  a  structure,  which  in  its 
circumstances.  As  a  living  poet  must  surely  parts,  and  as  a  whole,  filled  the  mind  with  the 
write,  not  for  the  ages  past,  but  for  that  in  calm  and  elevated  impression  of  perfect  beauty, 
which  he  lives,  and  those  which  are  to  follow,  and  symmetrical  proportion.  The  moderns 
it  is,  on  the  one  hand,  natural  that  he  should  45  also  produced  a  whole,  a  more  striking  whole; 
not  violate,  and  on  the  other,  necessary  that  but  it  was  by  blending  materials  and  fusing 
he  should  not  depend  on,  the  mere  manners  the  parts  together.  And  as  the  Pantheon  is 
and  modes  of  his  day.  See  how  little  does  to  York  Minster  or  Westminster  Abbey,  sc 
Shakespeare  leave  us  to  regret  that  he  was  is  Sophocles  compared  with  Shakespeare;  in 
born  in  his  particular  age!  The  grea«  era  in  50  the  one  a  completeness,  a  satisfaction,  an 
modern  times  was  what  is  called  the  Restora-  excellence,  on  which  the  mind  rests  with  com- 
tion  of  Letters; — the  ages  preceding  it  are  placency;  in  the  other  a  multitude  of  inter- 
called  the  dark  ages;  but  it  would  be  more  laced  materials,  great  and  little,  magnificent 
wise,  perhaps,  to  call  them  the  ages  in  which  and  mean,  accompanied,  indeed,  with  a  sense 
we  were  in  the  dark.  It  is  usually  overlooked  55  of  a  falling  short  of  perfection,  and  yet  at  the 
that  the  supposed  dark  period  was  not  uni-  same  time,  so  promising  of  our  social  and  in- 
versal,  but  partial,  or  successive,  or  alternate;  dividual  progression,  that  we  would  not,  if 
that  the  dark  age  of  England  was  not  the  dark  we  could,  exchange  it  for  that  repose  of  the 
age  of  Italy,  but  that  one  country  was  in  its     mind  which  dwells  on  the  forms  of  symmetry 


546  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

in  the  acquiescent  admiration  of  grace.  This  was,  of  course,  impossible.  To  overcome  that 
general  characteristic  of  the  ancient  and  mod-  difficulty  of  accounting  for  time,  which  is 
em  drama  might  be  illustrated  by  a  parallel  effected  on  the  modern  stage  by  dropping  a 
of  the  ancient  and  modern  music;— the  one  curtain,  the  judgment  and  great  genius  sup- 
consisting  of  melody  arising  from  a  succession  5  plied  music  and  measured  motion,  and  with 
only  of  pleasing  sounds,— the  modern  embrac-  the  lyric  ode  filled  up  the  vacuity.  In  the  story 
ing  harmony  also,  the  result  of  combination  of  the  Agamemnon  of  .Eschylus,  the  capture 
and  the  effect  of  a  whole.  of  Troy  is  supposed  to  be  announced  by  a  fire 

I  have  said,  and  I  say  it  again,  that  great  lighted  on  the  Asiatic  shore,  and  the  transmis- 
aswas  the  genius  of  Shakespeare,  his  judgment  10  sion  of  the  signal  by  successive  beacons  to 
was  at  least  equal  to  it.  Of  this  any  one  will  Mycense.  The  signal  is  first  seen  at  the  21st 
be  convinced,  who  attentively  considers  those  line,  and  the  herald  from  Troy  itself  enters  at 
points  in  which  the  dramas  of  Greece  and  Eng-  the  486th,  and  Agamemnon  himself  at  the 
land  differ,  from  the  dissimilitude  of  circum-  783d  line.  But  the  practical  absurdity  of  this 
stances  by  which  each  was  modified  and  in-  15  was  not  felt  by  the  audience,  who,  in  imagina- 
fluenced.  The  Greek  stage  had  its  origin  in  tion,  stretched  minutes  into  hours,  while  they 
the  ceremonies  of  a  sacrifice,  such  as  of  the  goat  hstened  to  the  lofty  narrative  odes  of  the  chorus 
to  Bacchus,  whom  we  most  erroneously  re-  which  almost  entirely  filled  up  the  interspace, 
gard  as  merely  the  jolly  god  of  wine; — for  Another  fact  deserves  attention  here,  namely, 
among  the  ancients  he  was  venerable,  as  the  20  that  regularly  on  the  Greek  stage  a  drama,  or 
symbol  of  that  power  which  acts  without  our  acted  story,  consisted  in  reality  of  three  dramas, 
consciousness  in  the  vital  energies  of  nature,—  called  together  a  trilogy,  and  performed  con- 
the  vinum  mundi,^~a.s  Apollo  was  that  of  the  secutively  in  the  course  of  one  day.  Now  you 
conscious  agency  of  our  intellectual  being,  may  conceive  a  tragedy  of  Shakespeare's  a 
The  heroes  of  old  under  the  influences  of  this  25  trilogy  connected  in  one  single  representa- 
Bacchic  enthusiasm,  performed  more  than  tion.  Divide  Lear  into  three  parts  and  each 
human  actions; — hence  tales  of  the  favourite  would  be  a  play  with  the  ancients;  or  take  the 
champions  soon  passed  into  dialogue.  On  the  three  vEschylean  dramas^  of  Agamemnon,  and 
Greek  stage  the  chorus  was  always  before  the  divide  them  into,  or  call  them,  as  many  acts, 
audience;  the  curtain  was  never  dropped,  as  30  and  they  together  would  be  one  play.  The 
we  should  say;  and  change  of  place  being  first  act  would  comprise  the  usurpation  of 
therefore,  in  general,  impossible,  the  absurd  iEgisthus,  and  the  murder  of  Agamemnon;  the 
notion  of  condemning  it  merely  as  improbable  second,  the  revenge  of  Orestes,  and  the  murder 
in  itself  was  never  entertained  by  any  one.  of  his  mother;  and  the  third,  the  penance  and 
If  we  can  believe  ourselves  at  Thebes  in  one  35  absolution  of  Orestes; — occupying  a  period  of 
act,  we  may  believe  ourselves  at  Athens  in  the     twenty-two  years. 

next.  If  a  story  lasts  twenty-four  hours  or  The  stage  in  Shakespeare's  time  was  a  naked 
twenty-four  years,  it  is  equally  improbable,  room  with  a  blanket  for  a  curtain ;  but  he  made 
There  seems  to  be  no  just  boundary  but  what  it  a  field  for  monarchs.  That  law  of  unity, 
the  feehngs  prescribe.  But  on  the  Greek  stage  40  which  has  its  foundations,  not  in  the  factitious 
where  the  same  persons  were  perpetually  be-  necessity  of  custom,  but  in  nature  itself,  the 
fore  the  audience,  great  judgment  was  neces-  unity  of  feeUng,  is  everywhere  and  at  all  times 
sary  in  venturing  on  any  such  change.  The  observed  by  Shakespeare  in  his  plays.  Read 
poets  never,  therefore,  attempted  to  impose  Romeo  and  Juliet; — all  is  youth  and  spring, — 
on  the  senses  by  bringing  places  to  men,  but  45  youth  with  its  follies,  its  virtues,  its  precipi- 
they  did  bring  men  to  places,  as  in  the  well-  tancies; — spring  with  its  odours,  its  flowers, 
known  instance  in  the  Eumenides,^  where  and  its  transiency;  it  is  one  and  the  same 
during  an  evident  retirement  of  the  chorus  feeling  that  commences,  goes  through,  and 
from  the  orchestra,  the  scene  is  changed  to  ends  the  play.  The  old  men,  the  Capulets  and 
Athens,  and  Orestes  is  first  introduced  in  the  50  the  Montagues,  are  not  common  old  men ;  they 
temple  of  Minerva,  and  the  chorus  of  Furies  have  an  eagerness,  a  heartiness,  a  vehemence, 
come  in  afterwards  in  pursuit  of  him.  the  effect  of  spring;  with  Romeo,  his  change  of 

In  the  Greek  drama  there  were  no  formal  passion,  his  sudden  marriage,  and  his  rash 
divisions  into  scenes  and  acts;  there  were  no  death,  are  all  the  effects  of  youth; — whilst  in 
means,  therefore,  of  allowing  for  the  necessary  55  Juliet  love  had  all  that  is  tender  and  melan- 
lapse  of  time  between  one  part  of  the  dialogue  choly  in  the  nightingale,  all  that  is  voluptuous 
and  another,  and  unity  of  time  in  a  strict  sense      in  the  rose,  with  whatever  is  sweet  in  the  fresh- 

» The  wine  of  the  world.  ^^^  ^^  *^^  Spring;  but  it  ends  with  a  long  deep 

'  ^schylua's  Eumenides,  V.  230-239.  •  Agamemnon,  Choephorai,  Eumenides. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  547 

sigh  like  the  last  breeze  of  the  Italian  evening,  representation  of  a  veritable  fool, — hie  labor, 
This  unity  of  feeling  and  character  pervades  hoc  opus  est.^  A  drunken  constable  is  not  un- 
every  drama  of  Shakespeare.  common,  nor  hard  to  draw;  but  see  and  ex- 
It  seems  to  me  that  his  plays  are  distin-  amine  what  goes  to  make  up  a  Dogberry .^ 
guished  from  those  of  all  other  dramatic  poets  5  3.  Keeping  at  all  time»  in  the  high  road  of 
by  the  following  characteristics:  life.     Shakespeare  has  no  innocent  adulteries, 

1.  Expectation  in  preference  to  surprise,  no  interesting  incests,  no  virtuous  vice; — he 
It  is  like  the  true  reading  of  the  passage—  never  renders  that  amiable  which  religion  and 
"God  said,  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  reason  alike  teach  us  to  detest,  or  clothes 
light;"— not  there  was  light.  As  the  feeling  10 impurity  in  the  garb  of  virtue,  hke  Beaumont 
with  which  we  startle  at  a  shooting  star  com-  and  Fletcher,  the  Kotzebues^  of  the  day. 
pared  with  that  of  watching  the  sunrise  at  the  Shakespeare's  fathers  are  roused  by  ingrati- 
pre-established  moment,  such  and  so  low  is  tude,  his  husbands  stung  by  unfaithfulness; 
surprise  compared  with  expectation.  in  him,  in  short,  the  affections  are  wounded 

2.  Signal  adherence  to  the  great  law  of  na-  15  in  those  points  in  which  all  may,  nay,  must, 
ture,  that  all  opposites  tend  to  attract  and  feel. 

temper  each  other.     Passion  in  Shakespeare  Let  the  morality  of  Shakespeare  be  con- 

generally  displays  libertinism,  but  involves  trasted  with  that  of  the  writers  of  his  own,  or 
morality;  and  if  there  are  exceptions  to  this,  the  succeeding  age,  or  of  those  of  the  present 
they  are,  independently  of  their  intrinsic  value,  20  day,  who  boast  their  superiority  in  this  respect, 
all  of  them  indicative  of  individual  character,  No  one  can  dispute  that  the  result  of  such  a 
and,  hke  the  farewell  admonitions  of  the  comparison  is  altogether  in  favour  of  Shake- 
parent,  have  an  end  beyond  the  parental  rela-  speare; — even  the  letters  of  women  of  high 
tion.  Thus  the  Countess's  beautiful  precepts  rank  in  his  age  were  often  coarser  than  his 
to  Bertram,  by  elevating  her  character,  raise  25  writings.  If  he  occasionally  disgusts  a  keen 
that  of  Helena*  her  favourite,  and  soften  down  sense  of  delicacy,  he  never  injures  the  mind; 
the  point  in  her  which  Shakespeare  does  not  he  neither  excites,  nor  flatters  passion,  in  order 
mean  us  not  to  see,  but  to  see  and  to  forgive,  to  degrade  the  subject  of  it;  he  does  not  use 
and  at  length  to  justify.  And  so  it  is  in  Polo-  the  faulty  thing  for  a  faulty  purpose,  nor 
nius,  who  is  the  personified  memory  of  wis-  30  carries  on  warfare  against  virtue,  by  causing 
dom  no  longer  actually  possessed.  This  ad-  wickedness  to  appear  as  no  wickedness,  through 
mirable  character  is  always  misrepresented  on  the  medium  of  a  morbid  sympathy  with  the 
the  stage.  Shakespeare  never  intended  to  ex-  unfortunate.  In  Shakespeare  vice  never  walks 
hibit  him  as  a  buffoon;  for  although  it  was  as  in  twihght;  nothing  is  purposely  out  of  its 
natural  that  Hamlet, — a  young  man  of  fire  35  place; — he  inverts  not  the  order  of  nature  and 
and  genius,  detesting  formality,  and  dishking  propriety, — does  not  make  every  magistrate 
Polonius  on  political  grounds,  as  imagining  a  drunkard  or  glutton,  nor  every  poor  man 
that  he  had  assisted  his  uncle  in  his  usurpation,  meek,  humane,  and  temperate;  he  has  no 
— should  express  himself  satirically, — yet  this  benevolent  butchers,  nor  any  sentimental 
must  not  be  taken  as  exactly  the  poet's  concep-  40  ratcatchers. 

tion  of  him.  In  Polonius  a  certain  induration  4.  Independence  of  the  dramatic  interest 
of  character  had  arisen  from  long  habits  of  on  the  plot.  The  interest  in  the  plot  is  always 
business;  but  take  his  advice  to  Laertes,  and  in  fact  on  account  of  the  characters,  not  vice 
Ophelia's  reverence  for  his  memory,  and  we  versa,  as  in  almost  all  other  writers;  the  plot  is 
shall  see  that  he  was  meant  to  be  represented  as  45  a  mere  canvass  and  no  more.  Hence  arises 
a  statesman  somewhat  past  his  faculties — his  the  true  justification  of  the  same  stratagem 
recollections  of  hfe  all  full  of  wisdom,  and  being  used  in  regard  to  Benedict  and  Beatrix, 
showing  a  knowledge  of  human  nature,  whilst  — the  vanity  in  each  being  alike.  Take  away 
what  immediately  takes  place  before  him,  and  from  the  Much  Ado  About  Nothing  all  that 
escapes  from  him,  is  indicative  of  weakness.  50  which  is  not  indispensable  to  the  plot,  either 
But  as  in  Homer  all  the  deities  are  in  armour,  as  having  httle  to  do  with  it,  or,  at  best,  hke 
even  Venus;  so  in  Shakespeare  all  the  characters  Dogberry  and  his  comrades,  forced  into  the 
are  strong.  Hence  real  folly  and  dulness  are  service,  when  any  other  less  ingeniously  ab- 
made  the  vehicles  of  wisdom.  There  is  no  surd  watchmen  and  night  constables  would 
difficulty  of  one  being  a  fool  to  imitate  a  fool;  55 
but  to  be,  remain,  and  speak  like  a  wise  man      ^^^^^^  f/„,!°L'SL"Sr*''  "  "'''''-'^"<'"  <" 

and  a  great  wit,  and  yet  so  as  to  give  a  vivid  e  The  foolish  watchman  in  Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

">  August  F.   F.  von  Kotzebue,  a  German  dramatist 
*  Bertram,  Helena,  are  characters  in  All's  Well  that       born  in  1761.     His  plays  are  pervaded  by  the  tone  of 
Ends  Well.  moral  laxity. 


548  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

have  answered  the  mere  necessities  of  the  reader; — they  are  not  told  to  him.  And  it  is 
action; — take  away  Benedict,  Beatrice,  Dog-  well  worth  remarking  that  Shakespeare's  char- 
berry,  and  the  reaction  of  the  former  on  the  acters,  like  those  in  real  life,  are  very  com- 
character  of  Hero, — and  what  would  remain?  monly  misunderstood,  and  almost  always 
In  other  writers  the  main  agent  of  the  plot  is  5  understood  by  different  persons  in  different 
always  the  prominent  character;  in  Shake-  ways.  The  causes  are  the  same  in  either  case. 
speare  it  is  so,  or  is  not  so,  as  the  character  is  in  If  you  take  only  what  the  friends  of  the  char- 
itself  calculated,  or  not  calculated,  to  form  acter  say,  you  may  be  deceived,  and  still  more 
the  plot.  Don  John  is  the  mainspring  of  the  so,  if  that  which  his  enemies  say;  nay,  even 
plot  of  this  play;  but  he  is  merely  shown  and  10  the  character  himself  sees  himself  through 
then  withdrawn.  the  medium  of  his  character,  and  not  exactly 

5.  Independence  of  the  interest  on  the  story  as  he  is.  Take  all  together,  not  omitting  a 
as  the  groundwork  of  the  plot.  Hence  Shake-  shrewd  hint  from  the  clown  or  the  fool,  and 
speare  never  took  the  trouble  of  inventing  perhaps  your  impression  will  be  right;  and  you 
stories.  It  was  enough  for  him  to  select  from  15  may  know  whether  you  have  in  fact  discovered 
those  that  had  already  been  invented  or  re-  the  poet's  own  idea,  by  all  the  speeches  rcceiv- 
corded  such  as  had  one  or  other,  or  both,  of  ing  light  from  it,  and  attesting  its  reahty  by 
two  recommendations,  namely,  suitableness  to  reflecting  it. 

his  particular  purpose,  and  their  being  parts  of  Lastly,  in  Shakespeare  the  heterogeneous  is 

popular  tradition, — names  of  which  we  had  20  united,  as  it  is  in  nature.  You  must  not  sup- 
often  heard,  and  of  their  fortunes,  and  as  to  pose  a  pressure  or  passion  always  acting  on  or 
which  all  we  wanted  was,  to  see  the  man  him-  in  the  character! — Passion  in  Shakespeare  is 
self.  So  it  is  just  the  man  himself,  the  Lear,  that  by  which  the  individual  is  distinguished 
the  Shylock,  the  Richard,  that  Shakespeare  from  others,  not  that  which  makes  a  different 
makes  us  for  the  first  time  acquainted  with.  25  kind  of  him.  Shakespeare  followed  the  main 
Omit  the  first  scene  in  Lear,  and  yet  every  march  of  the  human  affections.  He  entered 
thing  will  remain;  so  the  first  and  second  into  no  analysis  of  the  passions  or  faiths  of  men, 
scenes  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  Indeed  it  is  but  assured  himself  that  such  and  such  pas- 
universally  true.  sions  and  faiths  were  grounded  in  our  common 

6.  Interfusion  of  the  lyrical — that  which  in  30  nature,  and  not  in  the  mere  accidents  of  ig- 
its  very  essence  is  poetical — not  only  with  the  norance  or  disease.  This  is  an  important 
dramatic,  as  in  the  plays  of  Metastasio,^  where  consideration  and  constitutes  our  Shakespeare 
at  the  end  of  the  scene  comes  the  aria  as  the  the  morning  star,  the  guide  and  the  pioneer, 
exit  speech  of  the  character, — but  also  in  and      of  true  philosophy. 

through  the  dramatic.     Songs  in  Shakespeare  35 

are  introduced  as  songs  only,  just  as  songs  are 

in  real  life,  beautifully  as  some  of  them  are  Mobftt    ^OUtl)^ 

characteristic  of  the  person  who  has  sung  or 

called  for  them,   as  Desdemona's  "Willow,"  1774-1843 

and  OpheUa's  wild  snatches,  and  the  sweet  40 

carollings  in  As  You  Like  It.    But  the  whole  THE  BATTLE  OF  TRAFALGAR 

of  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  is  one  con-  (j,^^^  ^  .^^  ^j  ^^^        1813) 

tmued    specimen    of    the   dramatised    lyricaL 

And  observe  how  exquisitely  the  dramatic  of         His    [Nelson's]    services   were   as   willingly 

Hotspur; —  45  accepted  as  they  were  offered,  and  Lord  Bar- 

Marry,  and  I'm  glad  on't  with  all  my  heart;  ^^™'^  giving  him  the  list  of  the  navy,  desired 
I'd  rather  be  a  kitten  and  cry— mew,  &c.  ^^^  to  choose  his  own  officers.    "Choose  your- 

melts  away  into  the  lyric  of  Mortimer;-  ^^^/'  ^^  ^^T/^'"  7«,  ^^  ^^P^^ '.  "  ^^^  «^"^^  ^^'''l 

actuates    the   whole   profession:    you    cannot 

«^"^i?^^i^"^  *^y  ^°°K^' ^^^^  P^^^^-y  ^^^^^  50  choose  wrong."  Lord  Barham  then  desired 
Which  thou  pourest  down  from  these  swelling     tinj  to  say  what  ships  and  how  many  he  would 

T  orv,  ♦««  ^r.Je^r.i-  ;^    jp «  wish,  in  addition   to  the  fleet  which  he  was 

1  am  too  perfect  in,  &c.  .   '  ,       j      -j  .^,        1      u  r  n 

Henry  IV,  Part  1   Act  iii  sc.  1.  S^^^S  to  command,  and  said  they  should  follow 

him  as  soon  as  each  was  ready.  No  appoint- 
^  7.  The  characters  of  the  dramatis  personcB,  55  ment  was  ever  more  in  unison  with  the  feelings 
like  those  in  real  life,  are  to  be  inferred  by  the      and  judgment  of  the  whole  nation.    They,  like 

,  .      ^    ,.        _  1  Charles  Mifldleton  (1726-1813),  who  had  then  been 

»An  Itahan   Dramatist   (1698-1782),  and  court-poet  receutlv  appointed  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty  (April  30. 

at  Vienna,  who  wrote  lync  dramas,  various  composers  1805).  and  raised  to  the  peerage  as  Lord  Barham,  after 

supplying  the  music  for  each.  a  long  and  honorable  career  in  the  navy. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY  549 

Lady  Hamilton, 2  thought  that  the  destruction  by  taking  a  by-way  to  the  beach,  but  a  crowd 
of  the  combined  fleets  ought  properly  to  be  collected  in  his  tram,  pressing  forward  to  obtain 
Nelson's  work;  that  he  who  had  been  sight  of  his  face;  many  were  in  tears,  and  many 

"Tioif  o*.^„.^.1  +k«  o^«  „;«<-  u^n  knelt  down  before  him,  and  blessed  him  as  he 

Half  around  the  sea-girt  ball,  ^_       jTr.iJT.i.j  1.  1^ 

The  hunter  of  the  recreant  Gaul,"'  5  passed.     England  has  had  many  heroes,  but 

never  one  who  so  entirely  possessed  the  love  of 
ought  to  reap  the  spoils  of  the  chase  which  he  his  fellow-countrymen  as  Nelson.  All  men 
had  watched  so  long  and  so  perseveringly  knew  that  his  heart  was  as  humane  as  it  was 
pursued.  fearless;  that  there  was  not  in  his  nature  the 

Unremitting  exertions  were  made  to  equip  10  slightest  alloy  of  selfishness  or  cupidity,  but 
the  ships  which  he  had  chosen,  and  especially  that  with  perfect  and  entire  demotion  he  served 
to  refit  the  Victory,  which  was  once  more  to  his  country  with  all  his  heart,  and  with  all  his 
bear  his  flag.  Before  he  left  London  he  called  soul,  and  with  all  his  strength;  and  therefore 
at  his  upholsterer's,  where  the  coffin*  which  they  loved  him  as  truly  and  as  fervently  as  he 
Captain  Hallowell  had  given  him  was  deposited,  15  loved  England.  They  pressed  upon  the  parapet 
and  desired  that  its  history  might  be  engraven  to  gaze  after  him  when  his  barge  pushed  off,  and 
upon  the  lid,  saying  it  was  highly  probable  he  he  was  returning  their  cheers  by  waving  his  hat. 
might  want  it  on  his  return.  He  seemed,  in-  The  sentinels,  who  endeavoured  to  prevent  them 
deed,  to  have  been  impressed  with  an  expecta-  from  trespassing  upon  this  ground,  were  wedged 
tion  that  he  should  fall  in  the  battle.  In  a  letter  20  among  the  crowd,  and  an  officer  who,  not  very 
to  his  brother,  written  immediately  after  his  prudently  upon  such  an  occasion,  ordered 
return,  he  had  said:  "We  must  not  talk  of  Sir  them  to  drive  the  people  down  with  their  bay- 
Robert  Calder's  battle.^  I  might  not  have  done  onets,  was  compelled  speedily  to  retreat;  for 
so  much  with  my  small  force.  If  I  had  fallen  the  people  would  not  be  debarred  from  gazing 
in  with  them,  you  might  probably  have  been  25  till  the  last  moment  upon  the  hero — the  dar- 
a  lord  before  I  wished,  for  I  know  they  meant  ling  hero — of  England.  .  .  . 
to  make  a  dead  set  at  the  Victory"  Nelson  had  About  half-past  nine  in  the  morning  of  the 
once  regarded  the  prospect  of  death  with  gloomy  19th  the  Mars,  being  the  nearest  to  the  fleet 
satisfaction;  it  was  when  he  anticipated  the  of  the  ships  which  formed  the  line  of  communi- 
upbraidings  of  his  wife  and  the  displeasure  of  30  cation  with  the  frigates  in-shore,  repeated  the 
his  venerable  father.  The  state  of  his  feelings  signal  that  the  enemy  were  coming  out  of  port.« 
now  was  expressed  in  his  private  journal  in  The  wind  was  at  this  time  very  light,  with  par- 
these  words:  "  Friday  night  (Sept.  13th),  at  half-  tial  breezes,  mostly  from  the  S.  S.  W.  Nelson 
past  ten,  I  drove  from  dear,  dear  Merton,  where  ordered  the  signal  to  be  made  for  a  chase  in  the 
I  left  all  which  I  hold  dear  in  this  world,  to  go  to  35  south-east  quarter.  About  two  the  repeating 
serve  my  king  and  country.  May  the  great  ships  announced  that  the  enemy  were  at  sea. 
God  whom  I  adore  enable  me  to  fulfil  the  expec-  All  night  the  British  fleet  continued  under  all 
tations  of  my  country!  And  if  it  is  His  good  sail,  steering  to  the  southeast.  At  daybreak^ 
pleasure  that  I  should  return,  my  thanks  will  they  were  in  the  entrance  of  the  Straits,  but 
never  cease  being  ofi'ered  up  to  the  throne  of  40  the  enemy  were  not  in  sight.  About  seven,  one 
His  mercy.  If  it  is  His  good  providence  to  cut  of  the  frigates  made  signal  that  the  enemy  were 
short  my  days  upon  earth,  I  bow  with  the  bearing  north.  Upon  this  the  Victory  hove-to, 
greatest  submission;  relying  that  He  will  pro-  and  shortly  afterwards  Nelson  made  sail  again 
tect  those  so  dear  to  me  whom  I  may  leave  be-  to  the  northward.  In  the  afternoon  the  wind 
hind.    His  will  be  done.   Amen!  Amen!  Amen!"  45  blew  fresh  from  the  south-west,  and  the  English 

Early  on  the  following  morning  he  reached     began  to  fear  that  the  foe  might  be  forced  to  re- 
Portsmouth,  and  having  despatched  his  busi-      turn  to  port, 
ness  on  shore,  endeavoured  to  elude  the  populace         A  little  before  sunset,  however,  BIackwood,8 

2  A  beautiful  adventuress,  who  gained  an  unfortunate      in  the  Euryolus,  telegraphed  that  they  appeared 

influence  over  Nelson.     His  attachment  to  her  brought  gg  determined    tO    gO    tO    the    westward.  And 

'''^to^'^:htSfS°^S^frXy}o^<^^i^^-Croy..r.     that,"  said  the  Admiral  in  his  diary    "they 

Croker  was  secretary  of  the  Admiralty  when  the  Life  of      q^q\\.  not  do,  if  it  is  in  the  power  of  Nelson  and 

ScTteThif  book''^'  '°^  '"'  "^'  ''  ^'"  ''^'  ^'"'^'"^      Bronte  to  prevent  them."    Nelson  had  signified 

4  This  coffin  was  made  of  the  main-mast  of  the  French  ^q  Blackwood  that  he  depended  Upon  him  to 
ship  L'Orient,  which  had  been  one  of  the  ships  in  the 

fleet  defeated  by  Nelson  in  the  battle  of  the  Nile.  1798.  6 1   e..  Cadiz.                                                 Uo*tip  „f  Tra 

It  was  presented  to  Nelson  by  Capt.  Hallowell.  that  the  ^  On  October  21,  1805,  the  day  of  the  battle  of  Tra- 

great  Admiral  might  be  buried  in  one  of  his  trophies.  falgar.                 t,i     i         j   f^T^7c\  ic'Jo\    \^^A  Koon  „\-^c.r, 

6  An   engagement   between   the   Franco-Spanish   fleet  s  sir  Henry  Blackwood  (1770-1832),  had  been  given 

and  the  Engtish.  which  took  place  off  Cape  Finisterre.  command  of  the  l^-f'P'l'^'^^X'.^^f  ^l^f{^ the 

July  22.   1805.     Calder  was  severely  criticised  for  not  keeping  the  Admiral  informed  of  every  move  of  the 

winning  a  decisive  victory.  enemy. 


550  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

keep  sight  of  tlio  enemy.  They  were  observed  fleet!  For  myself  individually, — I  commit 
so  well  that  all  their  motions  were  made  known  my  life  to  Him  that  made  me,  and  may  His 
to  him,  and,  as  they  wore  twice,  he  inferred  that  blessing  alight  on  my  endeavours  for  serving 
that  they  were  aiming  to  keep  the  port  of  Cadiz  my  country  faithfully!  To  Him  I  resign  my- 
open,  and  would  retreat  there  as  soon  as  they  5  self,  and  the  just  cause  which  is  entrusted  to 
saw  the  British  fleet;  for  this  reason  he  was  very  me  to  defend.  Amen,  Amen,  Amen."  .  .  . 
careful  not  to  approach  near  enough  to  be  seen  Blackwood  went  on  board  the  Victory  about 
by  them  during  the  night.  At  daybreak  the  com-  six.  He  found  him  in  good  spirits,  but  very 
bined  fleets^  were  distinctly  seen  from  the  ViC'  calm ;  not  in  that  exhilaration  which  he  had 
ton/ 's  deck,  formed  in  a  close  line  of  battle  ahead,  10  felt  upon  entering  into  battle  at  Aboukir  and 
on  the  starboard  tack,  about  twelve  miles  to  Copenhagen;  he  knew  that  his  own  life  would 
leeward,  and  standing  to  the  south.  Our  fleet  be  particularly  aimed  at,  and  seems  to  have 
consisted  of  twenty-seven  sail  of  the  line  and  looked  for  death  with  almost  as  sure  an  ex- 
four  frigates;^"  theirs  of  thirty- three  and  seven  pectation  as  for  victory.  His  whole  attention 
large  frigates.  Their  superiority  was  greater  in  15  was  fixed  upon  the  enemy.  They  tacked  to  the 
size  and  weight  of  metal  than  in  numbers.  northward,  and  formed  their  line  on  the  lar- 
They  had  four  thousand  troops  on  board;  and  board  tack;  thus  bringing  the  shoals  of  Trafal- 
the  best  riflemen  who  could  be  procured,  many  gar  and  St.  Pedro  under  the  lee  of  the  British 
of  them  Tyrolese,  were  dispersed  through  the  and  keeping  the  port  of  Cadiz  open  for  them- 
ships.  Little  did  the  Tyrolese,  and  little  did  20  selves.  This  was  judiciously  done;  and  Nelson, 
the  Spaniards  at  that  day,  imagine  what  horrors  aware  of  all  the  advantages  which  it  gave  them, 
the  wicked  tyrant  whom  they  served  was  pre-  made  signal  to  prepare  to  anchor, 
paring  for  their  country.  Villeneuve^'  was  a  skilful  seaman,  worthy 

Soon  after  dayhght  Nelson  came  upon  deck,  of  serving  a  better  master  and  a  better  cause. 
The  21st  of  October  was  a  festival  in  his  family,  25  His  plan  of  defence  was  as  well  conceived  and 
because  on  that  day  his  uncle.  Captain  Suckling  as  original  as  the  plan  of  attack.  He  formed 
in  the  Dreadnought,  with  two  other  line-of-  the  fleet  in  a  double  line,  every  alternate  ship 
battle  ships,  had  beaten  off  a  French  squadron  being  about  a  cable's  length"  to  windward  of 
of  four  sail  of  the  line  and  three  frigates.^*  her  second  ahead  and  astern.  Nelson,  certain 
Nelson,  with  that  sort  of  superstition  from  30  of  a  triumphant  issue  to  the  day,  asked  Black- 
which  few  persons  are  entirely  exempt,  had  wood  what  he  should  consider  as  a  victory, 
more  than  once  expressed  his  persuasion  that  That  officer  answered  that,  considering  the 
this  was  to  be  the  day  of  his  battle  also,  and  he  handsome  way  in  which  battle  was  offered  by 
was  well  pleased  at  seeing  his  prediction  about  the  enemy,  their  apparent  determination  for 
to  be  verified.  The  wind  was  now  from  the  35  a  fair  trial  of  strength,  and  the  situation  of  the 
west — light  breezes,  with  a  long  heavy  swell.  land,  he  thought  it  would  be  a  glorious  result  if 
Signal  was  made  to  bear  down  upon  the  enemy  fourteen  were  captured.  He  replied:  "I  shall 
in  two  lines,  and  the  fleet  set  all  sail.  Colling-  not  be  satisfied  with  less  than  twenty."  Soon 
wood,*2  iQ  tjie  Royal  Sovereign,  led  the  lee  line  afterwards  he  asked  him  if  he  did  not  think 
of  thirteen  ships;  the  Victory  led  the  weather  40  there  was  a  signal  wanting.  Captain  Black- 
line  of  fourteen.  Having  seen  that  all  was  as  it  wood  made  answer  that  he  thought  the  whole 
should  be.  Nelson  retired  to  his  cabin  and  wrote  fleet  seemed  very  clearly  to  understand  what 
the  following  prayer: — "May  the  great  God  they  were  about.  These  words  were  scarcely 
whom  I  worship  grant  to  my  country,  and  for  spoken  before  that  signal  was  made  which  will 
the  benefit  of  Europe  in  general,  a  great  and  45  be  remembered  as  long  as  the  language  or  even 
glorious  victory,  and  may  no  misconduct  in  the  memory  of  England  shaU  endure — Nelson's 
anyone  tarnish  it,  and  may  humanity  after  vie-  last  signal:  "England  expects  every  man  to 
tory  be  the  predominant  feature  in  the  British      do  his  duty!"    It  was  received  throughout  the 

fleet  with  a  shout  of  answering  acclamation, 

» In  1805  Spain  formed  an  alliance^th  France  and  50  made  subfime  by  the  spirit  which  it  breathed 

agreed  to  furnish  twenty-five  amps  of  the  line  and  eleven  ,,       „,.       "^    ,  .  ,    \  ,        ,,^r        << 

frigates  for  the  combined  fleet.  and  the  feelmg  which  it  expressed.     "Now, 

JoSail  of  the  line  corresponded  to  the  modern  battle       gaj^   Lord    Nelson,    "I    Can   do  no  more.      We 
ships  and  were  so  called  because  of  their  heavy  arma-  ,     '  .^.  /.     ,1 

ment.  which  enabled  them  to  take  a  place  in  the  line  of       must  trust  tO  the  great  Disposer  of  all  events 

I^^i^lf;.  ^"^"'''  v^T  ^^^  irif'f{,oT-t^2''Sf  i?  lu^     and  the  justice  of  our  cause.    I  thank  God  for 

moacrn  cruisers;  Nelson  called  them      the  eyes  or  the       ^,  .  ''  .  -    ,    .  i  »» 

fleet."  55  this  great  opportunity  of  doing  my  duty. 

Fr:nIS=inn*rwtrMierwSo''cap.!*'suIkiLf  u*iTe?     ,  ««  wore  that  day.  as  usuaJ,  his  Admiral's 

Commodore  Forrest  attacked  and  disabled  a  powerful       frock-COat,  beanng  on  the  left  breast  four  starS 

''""cutX^roilingwood  (1750-isio)  was  ne,t  in  com-     °f  '^e  different  orders  with  which  he  was  in.\' 

mand  to  Nelson,  with  the  rank  of  Vice-AdmiraL  i*  The  French  Admiral.    ^*A  cablets  length  is  600  feet.       " 


1^  ROBERT  SOUTHEY  551 

vested.  Ornaments  which  rendered  him  so  Villeneuve  had  made  his  own  dispositions  with 
conspicuous  a  mark  for  the  enemy  were  beheld  the  utmost  skill,  and  the  fleets  under  his  com- 
with  ommous  apprehensions  by  his  officers,  mand  waited  for  the  attack  with  perfect  cool- 
It  was  known  that  there  were  riflemen  on  board  ness.  Ten  minutes  before  twelve  they  opened 
the  French  ships,  and  it  could  not  be  doubted  5  their  fire.  Eight  or  nine  of  the  ships  immedi- 
but  that  his  life  would  be  particularly  aimed  at.  ately  ahead  of  the  Victory,  and  across  her 
They  communicated  their  fears  to  each  other,  bows,  fired  single  guns  at  her  to  ascertain 
and  the  surgeon,  Mr.  Beatty,i5  spoke  to  the  whether  she  was  yet  within  their  range.  As 
chaplain,  Dr.  Scott,  and  to  Mr.  Scott,  the  public  soon  as  Nelson  perceived  that  their  shot  passed 
secretary,  desiring  that  some  person  would  lo  over  him  he  desired  Blackwood  and  Captain 
entreat  him  to  change  his  dress  or  cover  the  Prowse,  of  the  Sirius,  to  repair  to  their  respec- 
stars;  but  they  knew  that  such  a  request  would  tive  frigates,  and  on  then-  way  to  tell  all  the 
highly  displease  him.  ''In  honour  I  gained  captains  of  the  line-of-battle  ships  that  he  de- 
them,"  he  had  said  when  such  a  thing  had  been  pended  on  their  exertions,  and  that,  if  by  the 
hinted  to  him  formerly,  "and  in  honour  I  will  15 prescribed  mode  of  attack  they  found  it  im- 
die  with  them."  Mr.  Beatty,  however,  would  practicable  to  get  into  action  immediately, 
not  have  been  deterred  by  any  fear  of  exciting  they  might  adopt  whatever  they  thought  best, 
his  displeasure  from  speaking  to  him  himself  provided  it  led  them  quickly  and  closely  along- 
upon  a  subject  in  which  the  weal  of  England,  side  an  enemy.  As  they  were  standing  on  the 
as  well  as  the  life  of  Nelson,  was  concerned;  but  20  front  of  the  poop,  Blackwood  took  him  by 
he  was  ordered  from  the  deck  before  he  could  the  hand,  saying  he  hoped  soon  to  return  and 
find  an  opportunity.  This  was  a  point  upon  find  him  in  possession  of  twenty  prizes.  He 
which  Nelson's  officers  knew  that  it  was  hope-  replied,  "God  bless  you,  Blackwood;  I  shall 
less  to  remonstrate  or  reason  with  him;  but      never  see  you  again." 

both  Blackwood  and  his  own  captain,  Hardy,  25  Nelson's  column  was  steered  about  two 
represented  to  him  how  advantageous  to  the  points  more  to  the  north  than  CoUingwood's, 
fleet  it  would  be  for  him  to  keep  out  of  action  in  order  to  cut  off  the  enemy's  escape  into 
as  long  as  possible,  and  he  consented  at  last  Cadiz.  The  lee  line,  therefore,  was  first  en- 
to  let  the  Leviathan  and  the  T^mtraire,  which  gaged.  "See,"  cried  Nelson,  pointing  to  the 
were  sailing  abreast  of  the  Victory,  be  ordered  ZQ  Royal  Sovereign,^''  as  she  steered  right  for  the 
to  pass  ahead.  Yet  even  here  the  last  infirmity  centre  of  the  enemy's  line,  cut  through  it  astern 
of  this  noble  mind  was  indulged,  for  these  of  the  Santa  Anna,  three-decker,  and  engaged 
ships  could  not  pass  ahead  if  the  Victory  con-  her  at  the  muzzle  of  her  guns  on  the  starboard 
tinned  to  carry  all  her  sail,  and  so  far  was  Nel-  side;  "see  how  that  noble  fellow  Collingwood 
son  from  shortening  sail  that  it  was  evident  he  35  carries  his  ship  into  action!"  Collingwood, 
took  pleasure  in  pressing  on,  and  rendering  it  delighted  at  being  first  in  the  heat  of  the  fire, 
impossible  for  them  to  obey  his  own  orders.  A  and  knowing  the  feelings  of  his  Commander 
long  swell  was  setting  into. the  Bay  of  Cadiz,  and  old  friend,  turned  to  his  captain  and  ex- 
Our  ships,  crowding  all  sail,  moved  majestically  claimed,  "Rotherham,  what  would  Nelson  give 
before  it,  with  fight  winds  from  the  south-west.  40  to  be  here!"  Both  these  brave  officers  perhaps 
The  sun  shone  on  the  sails  of  the  enemy;  and  at  this  moment  thought  of  Nelson  with  grati- 
their  well-formed  line,  with  their  numerous  tude  for  a  circumstance  which  had  occurred 
three-deckers,  made  an  appearance  which  any  on  the  preceding  day.  Admiral  Collingwood, 
other  assailants  would  have  thought  formid-  with  some  of  the  captains,  having  gone  on 
able;  but  the  British  sailors  only  admired  the  45  board  the  Fidori/ to  receive  instructions,  Nelson 
beauty  and  the  splendour  of  the  spectacle,  inquired  of  him  where  his  captain  was,  and 
and,  in  full  confidence  of  winning  what  they  was  told  in  reply  that  they  were  not  upon  good 
saw,  remarked  to  each  other  what  a  fine  sight  terms  with  each  other.  "Terms!"  said  Nelson, 
yonder  ships  would  make  at  Spithead.^'  "good  terms  with  each  other!"    Immediately 

The  French  Admiral,  from  the  Bucentaure  5ohe  sent  a  boat  for  Captain  Rotherham,  led 
beheld  the  new  manner  in  which  his  enemy  was  him,  as  soon  as  he  arrived,  to  Collingwood,  and 
advancing — Nelson  and  Collingwood  each  lead-  saying,  "Look,  yonder  are  the  enemy!"  bade 
ing  his  line;  and  pointing  them  out  to  his  of-  them  shake  hands  like  Englishmen, 
ficers,  he  is  said  to  have  exclaimed  that  such  The  enemy  continued  to  fire  a  gun  at  a  time 
conduct  could  not  fail  to  be  successful.    Yet  55  at  the  Victory  till  they  saw  that  a  shot  had 

passed  through  her  main-top-gallant  sail;  then 

"Afterwards  Sir  William  Beatty,  physician  to  the  *^ 
fleet.     Beatty's  Narration  of  Lord  Nelson's  Death  was  ,.,-,•  j         .      ,    , 

Southey's  chief  authority  for  this  part  of  his  book.  "  Collingwood  s  ship,  being  new-coppered,  outsailed 

16  Off  the  south  coast  of  England,  between  the  Isle  of  the  other  ships  by  three-quarters  of  a  mile,  and  for  twenty 

Wight  and  Portsmouth;  a  station  for  the  British  navy.  minutes  stood  the  combined  fire  of  the  enemy  alone. 


552  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

they  opened  their  broadsides,  aiming  chiefly  in  his  tops;  he  had  a  strong  dislike  to  the  prao- 
at  her  rigging,  in  the  hope  of  disabUng  her  tice,  not  merely  because  it  endangers  setting 
before  she  could  close  with  them.  Nelson,  as  fire  to  the  sails,  but  also  because  it  is  a  mur- 
UMial,  had  hoisted  several  flags,  lest  one  should  derous  sort  of  warfare,  by  which  individuals 
be  shot  away.  The  enemy  showed  no  colours  6  may  suffer,  and  a  commander  now  and  then 
till  late  in  the  action,  when  they  began  to  feel  be  picked  off,  but  which  never  can  decide  the 
the  neoessitv  of  having  them  to  strike.  For  fate  of  a  general  engagement. 
this  leMon  the  SarUiasima  Trinidad— Nelson's  Captain  Harvey,  in  the  Ttmhaire,^  fell  on 
old  acquaintance,  as  he  used  to  call  her— was  board  the  Redoubtable  on  the  other  side;  an- 
distinguishable  only  by  her  four  decks,  and  to  10  other  enemy  was  in  like  manner  on  board  the 
the  bow  of  this  opponent  he  ordered  the  Victory  T^'eraire;  so  that  these  four  ships  formed  as 
to  be  steered.  Meantime  an  incessant  raking  fire  compact  a  tier  as  if  they  had  been  moored  to- 
was  kept  up  upon  the  Victory.  The  Admiral's  gether,  their  heads  all  lying  the  same  way. 
secretary  was  one  of  the  first  who  fell;  he  was  The  lieutenants  of  the  Victory,  seeing  this 
killed  by  a  cannon-shot  while  conversing  with  15  depressed  their  guns  of  the  middle  and  lower 
Hardy.  Captain  Adair,  of  the  marines,  with  decks,  and  fired  with  a  diminished  charge, 
the  help  of  a  sailor,  endeavoured  to  remove  lest  the  shot  should  pass  through  and  injure 
tbe  body  from  Nelson's  sight,  who  had  a  great  the  T^^raire;  and  because  there  was  danger 
regard  for  Mr.  Scott;  but  he  anxiously  asked,  that  the  Redoubtable  might  take  fire  from  the 
**ls  that  poor  Scott  that's  gone?"  and  being 20 lower-deck  guns,  the  muzzles  of  which  touched 
informed  that  it  was  indeed  so,  exclaimed,  her  side  when  they  were  run  out,  the  fireman 
"Poor  fellow!"  Presently  a  double-headed  of  each  gun  stood  ready  with  a  bucket  of  water, 
shot  struck  a  party  of  marines  who  were  drawn  which,  as  soon  as  the  gun  was  discharged,  he 
up  on  the  poop,  and  killed  eight  of  them,  upon  dashed  into  the  hole  made  by  the  shot.  An 
which  Nelson  immediately  desired  Captain  25  incessant  fire  was  kept  up  from  the  Victory  from 
Adair  to  disperse  his  men  round  the  ship,  that  both  sides;  her  larboard  guns  playing  upon  the 
they  might  not  suffer  so  much  from  being  to-  Bucentaure  and  the  huge  Santissima  Trinidad. 
gether.    A  few  minutes  afterwards  a  shot  struck  It  had  been  part  of  Nelson's  prayer  that  the 

the  fore-brace  bits  on  the  quarter-deck,  and  British  fleet  might  be  distinguished  by  human- 
passed  between  Nelson  and  Hardy,  a  splinter  30  ity  in  the  victory  which  he  expected.  Setting 
from  the  bit  tearing  off  Hardy's  buckle  and  an  example  himself,  he  twice  gave  orders  to 
bruising  his  foot.  Both  stopped  and  looked  cease  firing  upon  the  Redoubtable,  supposing 
anxiously  at  each  other:  each  supposed  the  other  that  she  had  struck,  because  her  great  guns  were 
to  be  wounded.  Nelson  then  smiled,  and  said:  silent;  for,  as  she  carried  no  flag,  there  was  no 
"This  is  too  warm  work,  Hardy,  to  last  long."  35  means  of  instantly  ascertaining  the  fact.  From 
The  Victory  had  not  yet  returned  a  single  this  ship,  which  he  had  thus  twice  spared,  he 
gun;  fifty  of  her  men  had  been  by  this  time  received  his  death.  A  ball  fired  from  her 
killed  or  wounded,  and  her  main-topmast,  with  mizzen-top,  which  in  the  then  situation  of  the 
all  her  studdmg-sails  and  their  booms,  shot  two  vessels  was  not  more  than  fifteen  yards 
away.  Nelson  declared  that  in  all  his  battles  4ofrom  that  part  of  the  deck  where  he  was  stand- 
be  had  seen  nothing  which  surpassed  the  cool  ing  struck  the  epaulette  on  his  left  shoulder 
courage  of  his  crew  on  this  occasion.  At  four  about  a  quarter  after  one,  just  in  the  heat  of 
mimiteB  after  twelve  she  opened  her  fire  from  action.  He  fell  upon  his  face,  on  the  spot  which 
both  sides  of  her  deck.  It  was  not  possible  to  was  covered  with  his  poor  secretary's  blood. 
^^  the  enemy  s  hne  without  running  on  45  Hardy,  who  was  a  few  steps  from  him,  turning 
board"  one  of  thor  ships;  Hardy  informed  him  round,  saw  three  men  raising  him  up.  "They 
o(  this,  and  asked  him  which  he  would  prefer,  have  done  for  me  at  last,  Hardy!"  said  he. 
Nelson  rephed:  'Take  your  choice.  Hardy;  it  "I  hope  not!"  cried  Hardy.  "Yes,"  he  replied, 
dwe  not  signify  much."  The  master  was  "my  back-bone  is  shot  through!"  Yet  even 
ordered  to  put  the  helm  to  port,  and  the  Fidorr/ 50  now,  not  for  a  moment  losing  his  presence  of 
ran  on  board  the  RedoubUMe  just  as  her  tiller-  mind,  he  observed,  as  they  were  carrying  him 
12^ T^  '^K  T*^:,  .P^  J'^°'^  '^^P  '^  ^^^  *^«  ladd^^'  t^at  the  tiller-ropes,  which  had 
S^IrKf  r^^^A*"?^"^^^'  then  instantly  let  been  shot  away,  were  not  yet  replaced,  and  .' 
do^  her  lower^eck  porta  for  fear  of  being  ordered  that  new  ones  should  be  rove  im- \ 
fi^o^  ♦  "^i  .""'  ^i""^  °^.''^''  afterwards  65  mediately.  Then,  that  he  might  not  be  seen  " 
U^thn^nfT.f"°^^®»^u.''°-  ^^'iT'  ^y  ^^^  ^^^^'  ^^  took  out  his  handkerchief, 
wiSi  rifl^Jn  M  f  '°''™^  '  ships  were  filled  and  covered  his  face  and  his  stars.  Had  he  but 
with  nflemcn.  Nelson  never  placed  musketry  concealed  these  badges  of  honour  from  the 
■  Akmgride.  for  boarding  purpoees.  enemy,  England  perhaps  would  not  have  had 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY  553 

cause  to  receive  with  sorrow  the  news  of  the  ascertain  this,  said  to  him:  "You  know  I  am 
battle  of  Trafalgar.  The  cockpit  was  crowded  gone.  I  know  it.  I  feel  something  rising  in 
with  wounded  and  dying  men,  over  whose  my  breast" — putting  his  hand  on  his  left  side — 
bodies  he  was  with  some  difficulty  conveyed,  "which  tells  me  so."  And  upon  Beatty's  in- 
and  laid  upon  a  pallet  in  the  midshipmen's  5  quiring  whether  his  pain  was  very  great,  he 
berth.  It  was  soon  perceived  upon  examina-  replied,  "So  great  that  he  wished  he  was  dead, 
tion  that  the  wound  was  mortal.  This,  how-  Yet,"  said  he  in  a  lower  voice,  "one  would  hke 
ever,  was  concealed  from  all  except  Captain  to  live  a  little  longer  too!"  And  after  a  few 
Hardy,  the  chaplain,  and  the  medical  attend-  minutes,  in  the  same  under-tone,  he  added: 
ants.  He  himseK  being  certain,  from  the  sensa-  10  "What  would  become  of  poor  Lady  Hamilton 
tion  in  his  back  and  the  gush  of  blood  he  felt  if  she  knew  my  situation?"  Next  to  his  coun- 
momently  within  his  breast,  that  no  human  try  she  occupied  his  thoughts.  Captain  Hardy, 
care  could  avail  him,  insisted  that  the  surgeon  some  fifty  minutes  after  he  had  left  the  cockpit, 
should  leave  him,  and  attend  to  those  to  whom  returned,  and  again  taking  the  hand  of  his  dy- 
he  might  be  useful;  "for,"  said  he,  "you  canising  friend  and  Conmiander,  congratulated  him 
do  nothing  for  me."  All  that  could  be  done  on  having  gained  a  complete  victory.  How 
was  to  fan  him  with  paper,  and  frequently  to  many  of  the  enemy  were  taken  he  did  not 
give  him  lemonade  to  alleviate  his  intense  know,  as  it  was  impossible  to  perceive  them 
thirst.  He  was  in  great  pain,  and  expressed  distinctly,  but  fourteen  or  fifteen  at  least, 
much  anxiety  for  the  event  of  the  action,  which  20  "That's  well!"  cried  Nelson,  "but  I  bargained 
now  began  to  declare  itself.  As  often  as  a  ship  for  twenty."  And  then  in  a  stronger  voice  he 
struck,  the  crew  of  the  Victory  hurraed,  and  said:  "Anchor,  Hardy,  anchor."  Hardy  upon 
at  every  hurra  a  visible  expression  of  joy  this  hinted  that  Admiral  CoUingwood  would 
gleamed  in  the  eyes  and  marked  the  counte-  take  upon  himseK  the  direction  of  affairs.  "Not 
nance  of  the  dying  hero.  But  he  became  im-  25  while  I  five.  Hardy,"  said  the  dying  Nelson, 
patient  to  see  Captain  Hardy;  and  as  that  ineffectually  endeavouring  to  raise  himself 
officer,  though  often  sent  for,  could  not  leave  from  the  bed.  "  Do  you  anchor."  His  previous 
the  deck,  Nelson  feared  that  some  fatal  cause  order  for  preparing  to  anchor  had  shown  how 
prevented  him,  and  repeatedly  cried:  "Will  clearly  he  foresaw  the  necessity  of  this.  Fres- 
no one  bring  Hardy  to  me?  He  must  be  killed!  30  ently,  calling  Hardy  back,  he  said  to  him  in 
He  is  surely  dead!"  An  hour  and  ten  minutes  low  voice:  "Don't  throw  me  overboard!"  and 
elapsed  from  the  time  when  Nelson  received  he  desired  that  he  might  be  buried  by  his 
his  wound  before  Hardy  could  come  to  him.  parents  unless  it  should  please  the  king  to  order 
They  shook  hands  in  silence;  Hardy  in  vain  otherwise.  Then,  reverting  to  private  feelings, 
struggling  to  suppress  the  feehngs  of  that  most  35  "Take  care  of  my  dear  Lady  Hamilton,  Hardy; 
painful  and  yet  sublimest  moment.  "Well,  take  care  of  poor  Lady  Hamilton.  Kiss  me. 
Hardy,"  said  Nelson,  "how  goes  the  day  with  Hardy!"  said  he.  Hardy  knelt  down  and 
us?" — "Very  well,"  replied  Hardy,  "ten  ships  kissed  his  cheek,  and  Nelson  said:  "Now  I  am 
have  struck,  but  five  of  the  van  have  tacked  satisfied.  Thank  God  I  have  done  my  duty!" 
and  show  an  intention  to  bear  down  upon  the  40  Hardy  stood  over  him  in  silence  for  a  moment 
Victory.  I  have  called  two  or  three  of  our  fresh  or  two,  then  knelt  again,  and  kissed  his  fore- 
ships  round,  and  have  no  doubt  of  giving  head.  "Who  is  that?"  said  Nelson;  and  being 
them  a  drubbing." — "I  hope,"  said  Nelson,  informed,  he  replied:  "God  bless  you,  Hardy!" 
"none  of  our  ships  have  struck?"  Hardy  And  Hardy  then  left  him  for  ever, 
answered,  "There  was  no  fear  of  that."  Then,  45  Nelson  now  desired  to  be  turned  upon  his 
and  not  till  then,  Nelson  spoke  of  himself,  right  side,  and  said:  "I  wish  I  had  not  left  the 
"I  am  a  dead  man,  Hardy,"  said  he,  "I  am  deck,  for  I  shall  soon  be  gone."  Death  was 
going  fast;  it  will  be  all  over  with  me  soon,  indeed  rapidly  approaching.  He  said  to  the 
Come  nearer  to  me.  Let  my  dear  Lady  Hamil-  chaplain:  "Doctor,  I  have  not  been  a  great 
ton  have  my  hair  and  all  other  things  belong- 50  sinner."  And  after  a  short  pause:  "Remember 
ing  to  me."  Hardy  observed  that  he  hoped  that  I  leave  Lady  Hamilton  and  my  daughter 
Mr.  Beatty  could  yet  hold  out  some  prospect  Horatia  as  a  legacy  to  my  country."  His 
of  life.  "Oh,  no!"  he  replied,  "it  is  impossible;  articulation  now  became  difficult,  but  he  was 
my  back  is  shot  through.  Beatty  will  tell  you  distinctly  heard  to  say:  "Thank  God,  I  have 
so."  Captain  Hardy  then  once  more  shook 55 done  my  duty!"  These  words  he  repeatedly 
hands  with  him,  and  with  a  heart  almost  burst-  pronounced,  and  they  were  the  last  words 
ing  hastened  upon  deck.  which  he  uttered.    He  expired  at  thirty  minutes 

By  this  time  all  feeling  below  the  breast  was     after  four,  three  hours  and  a  quarter  after  he 
gone;  and  Nelson,  having  made  the  surgeon     had  received  his  wound.  .  .  . 


654  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

The  death  of  Nelson  was  felt  in  England  as  hero  in  the  hour  of  victory;  and  if  the  chariot 
flomcthiDK  more  than  a  public  calamity;  men  and  the  horses  of  fire  had  been  vouchsafed  for 
Ttjkd  at  the  inteUigence  and  turned  pale,  as  Nelson's  translation,  he  could  scarcely  have 
if  they  bad  heard  of  the  loss  of  a  dear  friend,  departed  in  a  brighter  blaze  of  glory.  He  has 
\n  object  of  our  admiration  and  affection,  of  5  left  us,  not  indeed  his  mantle  of  inspiration, 
our  pride  and  of  our  hopes,  was  suddenly  tsken  but  a  name  and  an  example  which  are  at  this 
from  us;  and  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  never  till  hour  inspiring  thousands  of  the  youth  of  Eng- 
tben  known  how  deeply  we  loved  and  rever-  land— a  name  which  is  our  pnde,  and  an  ex- 
enoed  him.  What  the  country  had  lost  in  its  ample  which  will  continue  to  be  our  shield 
gieat  naval  hero— the  greatest  of  our  own  and  loand  our  strength.  Thus  it  is  that  the  spirits 
of  all  former  times— was  scarcely  taken  into  of  the  great  and  the  wise  continue  to  Hve  and 
lie  aooount  of  grief.  So  perfectly  indeed  had  to  act  after  them,  verifying  in  this  sense  the 
le  performed  his  part  that  the  maritime  war  language  of  the  old  my thologist: 
Iter  the  battle  of  Trafalgar  was  considered  at  ,j,^^  ^^  dalfwpes  eWL,  Aids  fieydXov  SiA  /9ouXAs 
an  end:  the  fleets  of  the  enemy  were  not  merely  15  'E<re\ol,  iinxO(>vioi.,  <pv\aKes  dvvrQv  dvdpuiirtov.^^ 
defeated,  but  destroyed;  new  navies  must  be 
built,  and  a  new  race  of  seamen  reared  for  ^^ 

them,  before  the  possibiUty  of  their  invading  Cf  HtUS^    ilaUlb 

our  shores  could  again  be  contemplated.     It  I77ti-18^4 

was  not,  therefore,  from  any  selfish  reflection  20  ^''^ 

upon  the  magnitude  of  our  loss  that  we  mourned  riPT?AM  rminPFM-    A   pfvfrv 

for  him;  the  general  sorrow  was  of  a  higher  DREAM   CHILDREN.  A  REVERY 

character.    The  people  of  England  grieved  that  (Essays  of  Elia,  1822-24) 

funeral   ceremonies,   and   public   monuments, 

and  posthumous  rewards  were  all  which  they  25  Children  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their 
could  now  bestow  upon  him  whom  the  king,  elders,  when  they  were  children ;  to  stretch  their 
the  Legislature,  and  the  nation  would  have  imagination  to  the  conception  of  a  traditionary 
alike  delighted  to  honour;  whom  every  tongue  great-uncle,  or  grandame  whom  they  never 
would  have  blessed;  whose  presence  in  every  saw.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that  my  little  ones 
village  through  which  he  might  have  passed  30  crept  about  me  the  other  evening  to  hear  about 
would  have  wakened  the  church  bells,  have  their  great-grandmother  Field, ^  who  lived  in 
given  school-boys  a  hoUday,  have  drawn  a  great  house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred  times 
children  from  their  sports  to  gaze  upon  him,  bigger  than  that  in  which  they  and  Papa  lived) 
and  "old  men  from  the  chimney-corner"  to  which  had  been  the  scene — so  at  least  it  was 
look  upon  Nelson  ere  they  died.  The  victory  35  generally  believed  in  that  part  of  the  country — 
of  Trafalgar  was  celebrated,  indeed,  with  the  of  the  tragic  incidents  which  they  had  lately 
usual  forms  of  rejoicing,  but  they  were  without  become  familiar  with  from  the  ballad  of  the 
joy;  for  such  already  was  the  glory  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood.^  Certain  it  is  that  the 
British  navy  through  Nelson's  surpassing  whole  story  of  the  children  and  their  cruel 
genius  that  it  scarcely  seemed  to  receive  any  40  uncle  was  to  be  seen  fairly  carved  out  in  wood 
addition  from  the  most  signal  victory  that  ever  upon  the  chimney  piece  of  the  great  hall,  the 
was  achieved  upon  the  seas;  and  the  destruction  whole  story  down  to  the  Robin  Redbreasts, 
of  this  mighty  fleet,  by  which  all  the  maritime  till  a  foolish  rich  person  pulled  it  down  to  set 
schemes  of  France  were  totally  frustrated,  up  a  marble  one  of  modem  invention  in  its 
hardly  appeared  to  add  to  our  security  or  45  stead,  with  no  story  upon  it.  Here  AHce  put 
strength;  for  while  Nelson  waa  hving,  to  watch  out  one  of  her  dear  mother's  looks,  too  tender 
the  combined  squadrons  of  the  enemy,  we  felt  to  be  called  upbraiding.  Then  I  went  on  to 
ourselves  as  secure  as  now,  when  they  were  no  flay,  how  religious  and  how  good  their  great- 
longerin  existence.  grandmother    Field    was,    how    beloved    and 

There  was  reason  to  suppose,  from  the  ap- 50  respected  by  everybody,  though  she  was  not 
peaninoes  upon  opening  the  body,  that  in  the 

course  of  nature  he  might  have  attained,  Uke  ""Shining  spirits  there  are  that  dwell  upon  earth 

his  father,  to  a  good  old  age.    Yet  he  cannot  be  Prompting  uu^trious  deeds,  and  fulfilling  the  counsel 

said    to   have  fallen    prematurely   whose  work  °'  Zeus."  Hesiod,  Works  and  Days,  122. 

w«  done   nor  ought  he  to  be  lamented  y\^o,,^tl^'£;!Z^^^^^Tf^^^:rI^t^^^!S- 

aiea  so  lull  of  honours  and   at  the  height  of       'ectionsof  their  "fine  old  family  mansion  "at  Blakesmoor 

human  fame.    The  most  triumphant  death  is      R£.sl^\i  «'^^'  ^nd  form  the  subject  of  the  essay 

♦u-*  ^r  au  _l         XL  ^         *   1  .,        """^o       ^laicesmoor  %n  H  .  .  .  .  ahire.     Lamb,  in  his  fondness  foi 

tnat  of  the  martyr;  the  most  awful  that  of  the       disguising  facts,  here  places  it  in  Norfolk. 

martyred  patriot;  the  most  splendid  that  of  the     w^^^  ^^"^^^'^^  °^^  ^"'^'  ^°''''  ^^  ^  ^*^  ^  *^ 


CHARLES   LAMB  555 

indeed  the  mistress  of  this  great  house,  but  roaming  about  that  huge  mansion,  with  its 
had  only  the  charge  of  it  (and  yet  in  some  vast  empty  rooms,  with  their  worn-out  hang- 
respects  she  might  be  said  to  be  the  mistress  ings,  fluttering  tapestry,  and  carved  oaken 
of  it  too)  committed  to  her  by  the  owner,  who  panels,  with  the  gilding  almost  rubbed  out — 
preferred  living  in  a  newer  and  more  fashion-  5  sometimes  in  the  spacious  old-fashioned  gar- 
able  mansion  which  he  had  purchased  some-  dens,  which  I  had  almost  to  myself,  unless 
where  in  the  adjoining  county;  but  still  she  when  now  and  then  a  solitary  gardening  man 
lived  in  it  in  a  manner  as  if  it  had  been  her  would  cross  me — and  how  the  nectarines  and 
own,  and  kept  up  the  dignity  of  the  great  house  peaches  hung  upon  the  walls,  without  my  ever 
in  a  sort  while  she  Uved,  which  afterwards  came  10  offering  to  pluck  them,  because  they  were 
to  decay,  and  was  nearly  pulled  down,  and  all  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now  and  then, — and 
its  old  ornaments  stripped  and  carried  away  because  I  had  more  pleasure  in  strolling  about 
to  the  owner's  other  house,  where  they  were  among  the  old  melancholy-looking  yew-trees, 
set  up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some  one  or  the  firs,  and  picking  up  the  red  berries,  and 
were  to  carry  away  the  old  tombs  they  had  15  the  fir-apples,  which  were  good  for  nothing 
seen  lately  at  the  Abbey,  and  stick  them  up  in  but  to  look  at — or  in  lying  about  upon  the 
Lady  C's  tawdry  gilt  drawing-room.  Here  fresh  grass  with  all  the  fine  garden  smells 
John  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say,  'Hhat  would  around  me — or  basking  in  the  orangery,  till 
be  foolish  indeed."  And  then  I  told  how,  when  I  could  almost  fancy  myself  ripening  too  along 
she  came  to  die,  her  funeral  was  attended  by  20  with  the  oranges  and  the  hmes  in  that  grateful 
a  concourse  of  all  the  poor,  and  some  of  the  warmth — or  in  watching  the  dace  that  darted 
gentry  too,  of  the  neighbourhood  for  many  to  and  fro  in  the  fish-pond,  at  the  bottom  of 
miles  round,  to  show  their  respect  for  her  the  garden,  with  here  and  there  a  great  sulky 
memory,  because  she  had  been  such  a  good  pike  hanging  midway  down  the  water  in  silent 
and  religious  woman;  so  good  indeed  that  she 25 state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent 
knew  all  the  Psaltery  by  heart,  ay,  and  a  great  friskings, — I  had  more  pleasure  in  these  busy- 
part  of  the  Testament  besides.  Here  little  idle  diversions  than  in  all  the  sweet  flavours  of 
Alice  spread  her  hands.  Then  I  told  what  a  peaches,  nectarines,  oranges,  and  such-like 
tall,  upright,  graceful  person  their  great-  common  baits  of  children.  Here  John  slyl^ 
grandmother  Field  once  was;  and  how  in  her  30  deposited  back  upon  the  plate  a  bunch  of  grapes, 
youth  she  was  esteemed  the  best  dancer — here  which,  not  unobserved  by  Alice,  he  had  medi- 
Alice's  httle  right  foot  played  an  involuntary  tated  dividing  with  her,  and  both  seemed 
movement,  till,  upon  my  looking  grave,  it  willing  to  relinquish  them  for  the  present  as 
desisted — the  best  dancer,  I  was  saying,  in  irrelevant.  Then,  in  somewhat  a  more  height- 
the  county,  till  a  cruel  disease,  called  a  cancer  35  ened  tone,  I  told  how,  though  their  great- 
came,  and  bowed  her  down  with  pain;  but  it  grandmother  Field  loved  all  her  grandchildren, 
could  never  bend  her  good  spirits,  or  make  them     yet  in  an  especial  manner  she  might  be  said  to 

stoop,   but   they  were  still   upright,   because     love  their  uncle,  John  L f  because  he  was 

she  was  so  good  and  religious.  Then  I  told  so  handsome  and  spirited  a  youth,  and  a  king 
how  she  was  used  to  sleep  by  herself  in  a  lone  40  to  the  rest  of  us;  and,  instead  of  moping  about 
chamber  of  the  great  lone  house;  and  how  she  in  sohtary  corners,  like  some  of  us,  he  would 
believed  that  an  apparition  of  two  infants  was  mount  the  most  mettlesome  horse  he  could  get, 
to  be  seen  at  midnight  gliding  up  and  down  when  but  an  imp  no  bigger  than  themselves, 
the  great  staircase  near  where  she  slept,  but  and  make  it  carry  him  half  over  the  county 
she  said  "those  innocents  would  do  her  no 45 in  a  morning,  and  join  the  hunters  when  there 
harm;"  and  how  frightened  I  used  to  be,  were  any  out — and  yet  he  loved  the  old  great 
though  in  those  days  I  had  my  maid  to  sleep  house  and  gardens  too,  but  had  too  much 
with  me,  because  I  was  never  half  so  good  or  spirit  to  be  always  pent  up  within  their  boun- 
religious  as  she — and  yet  I  never  saw  the  in-  daries — and  how  their  uncle  grew  up  to  man's 
fants.  Here  John  expanded  all  his  eyebrows  50  estate  as  brave  as  he  was  handsome,  to  the 
and  tried  to  look  courageous.  Then  I  told  admiration  of  everybody,  but  of  their  great- 
how  good  she  was  to  all  her  grandchildren,  grandmother  Field  most  especially;  and  how 
having  us  to  the  great  house  in  the  holy-days,  he  used  to  carry  me  upon  his  back  when  I  was 
where  I  in  particular  used  to  spend  many  a  lame-footed  boy — for  he  was  a  good  bit  older 
hours  by  myself,  in  gazing  upon  the  old  busts  55  than  me — many  a  mile  when  I  could  not  walk 
of  the  twelve  Csesars,  that  had  been  Emperors  for  pain;— and  how  in  after  life  he  became 
of  Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would  seem      lame-footed  too,  and  I  did  not  always  (I  fear) 

to  live  again,   or  I   to  be  turned  into  marble  3  Lamb's  brother  John,  twelve  years  his  senior,  had 

with  them;  how  I  never  could  be  tired  with       died  a  short  time  before  this  essay  was  written. 


556  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

make  allowances  enough  for  him  when  he  was         DETACHED  THOUGHTS  ON  BOOKS 
tropatient  and   in   pain,   nor  remember  suf-  AND  READING 

6ciently  how  considerat^  he  had  been  to  me  ^333^ 

when  I  was  lame-footed;  and  how  when  he  ^  n  ^         i 

died,  though  he  had  not  been  dead  an  hour,  5  rpo  mind  the  inside  of  a  book  is  to  entertain 
it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a  great  while  ago,  one's  self  with  the  forced  product  of  another 
such  a  distance  there  is  betwixt  life  and  death;  man's  brain.  Now  I  think  a  man  of  quality 
and  how  I  bore  his  death  as  I  thought  pretty  and  breeding  may  be  much  amused  with  the 
weU  at  firet,  but  afterwards  it  haunted  and  natural  sprouts  of  his  own.— Lord  Foppmgton/ 
haunted  me;  and  though  I  did  not  cry  or  take  lo  "^  ^  '^  KeUivse. 
it  to  heart  as  some  do,  and  as  I  think  he  would  ^  . 

have  done  if  1  had  died,  yet  I  missed  him  all  An  mgenious  acquamtance  of  my  own  was 
day  long,  and  knew  not  till  then  how  much  I  so  much  struck  with  this  bnght  sally  of  his 
had  loved  him.  I  missed  his  kindness,  and  I  Lordship,  that  he  has  left  off  reading  alto- 
missed  his  crossness,  and  wished  him  to  be  15  gether,  to  the  great  improvement  of  his  origi- 
alive  again,  to  be  quarrelling  with  him  (for  nality.  At  the  hazard  of  losing  some  credit  on 
we  quarrelled  sometimes),  rather  than  not  this  head,  I  must  confess  that  I  dedicate  no 
have  him  again,  and  was  as  uneasy  without  inconsiderable  portion  of  my  time  to  other 
.  him,  as  he,  their  poor  uncle,  must  have  been  people's  thoughts.  I  dream  away  my  life  in 
when  the  doctor  took  ofif  his  limb— Here  the  20  others'  speculations.  I  love  to  lose  myself  in 
children  fell  a-crying.  and  asked  if  their  little  other  men's  minds.  When  I  am  not  walking, 
mourning  which  they  had  on  was  not  for  Uncle  I  am  reading;  I  cannot  sit  and  think.  Books 
John,  and  they  looked  up,  and  prayed  me  not      think  for  me. 

to  go  on  about  their  uncle,  but  to  tell  them  I  have  no  repugnances.  Shaftsbury^  is  not 
some  stories  about  their  pretty  dead  mother.  25  too  genteel  for  me,  nor  Jonathan  Wild^  too  low. 
Then  I  told  how  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope  I  can  read  anything  which  I  call  o  hook.  There 
sometimes,  sometimes  in  despair,  yet  persisting     are  things  in  that  shape  which  I  cannot  allow 

ever,  I  courted  the  fair  .\lice  W n;  and  as     for  such. 

much  as  children  could  understand,  I  explained,  In  this  catalogue  of  hooks  which  are  no  books — 
to  them  what  coyness,  and  difficulty,  and  de-3obiblia  a-biblia — I  reckon  Court  Calendars, 
nial  meant  in  maidens— when  suddenly  turn-  Directories,  Pocket-Books,  Draught  Boards,* 
ing  to  Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  bound  and  lettered  on  the  back,  Scientific  Trea- 
out  at  her  eyes  with  such  a  reality  of  repre-  tises.  Almanacs,  Statutes  at  Large:  the  works 
sentment,  that  I  became  in  doubt  which  of  of  Hume,  Gibbon,  Robertson,  Beattie,  Soame 
thera  stood  there  before  me,  or  whose  that  35  Jenyns,  and  generally,  all  those  volumes  which 
bright  hair  was;  and  while  I  stood  gazing,  *'no  gentleman's  library  should  be  without:" 
both  the  children  gradually  grew  fainter  to  my  the  Histories  of  Flavius  Josephus  (that  learned 
view,  recedmg,  and  still  receding,  till  nothing  Jew),  and  Paley's  Moral  Philosophy.  With 
at  last  but  two  mournful  features  were  seen  these  exceptions,  I  can  read  almost  anything. 
in  the  uttermost  distance,  which,  without  40  I  bless  my  stars  for  a  taste  so  catholic,  so  un- 
speech,  strangely  impressed  upon  me  the  effects      excluding. 

of  8i>eech:  "  We  are  not  of  Alice,*  nor  of  thee,  I  confess  that  it  moves  my  spleen  to  see  these 

nor  are  we  children  at  all.  The  children  of  things  in  books'  clothing  perched  upon  shelves 
Alice  call  Bartrum  father.  We  are  nothing;  like  false  saints,  usurpers  of  true  shrines,  in- 
less  than  nothing,  and  dreams.  We  are  only  45  truders  into  the  sanctuary,  thrusting  out  the 
what  might  have  been,  and  must  wait  upon  legitimate  occupants.  To  reach  down  a  well- 
Ihe  tedious  shores  of  Lethe^  millions  of  ages  bound  semblance  of  a  volume,  and  hope  It 
before  we  have  existence,  and  a  name;"— and  some  kind-hearted  playbook,  then,  opening 
immediately  awaking,  I  found  myself  quietly  what  ''seem  its  leaves,"  to  come  bolt  upon  a 
seated  in  my  bachelor  armchair,  where  I  had  60  withering  Population  Essay.^  To  expect  a 
fallen  asleep,  with  the  faithful  Bridget*  un- 
changed by  my  side— but  John  L.  (or  James  '  A  shallow,  affected  dandy  in  Sir  John  Vanbrugh's 
Elia)  was  eone  forever                                              p'^^-  ^^®  Relapse,  1697. 

L^imj  was  gone  lorever.  ^Anthony  Ashley  Cooper,   third  Earl  of  Shnftsburv 

vl(>71-1713).     A  moral  philosopher  and  generally  con- 
.  *  h«»"D  never  married.     He  gave  up  bis  courtship  of       sidered  a  model  of  the  genteel  style  in  writing. 
the     fair  Ahre"  io  order  to  devote  bis  life  to  the  care  of  t.^  famous  English  thief  (c.   1682-1725).     He  is  the 

bin  afflicted  hister  Mary.  subject  of  Fielding's  satire.  Hiafory  of  a  Life  of  the  Late 

•The  river  of  forgetfulneas  in  Greek  mythology  ^''-  Jonathan  Wild  the  Great  (1743). 

•The  cousin  Bridget  of  the  E*aay»  of  Elia  la  Lamb'a       .    \Folding  checker-boards,  made  outwardly  to  resemble 
■*'"  Mary.  books. 

/Malthua,  an  English  economist,  published  in   1798 
nia  famous  essay  on  the  Principle  of  Population.  v 

\ 


CHARLES   LAMB  557 

Steele,  or  a  Farquhar,  and  find  — Adam  Smith.^     We  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  torch 

To  view  a  well-arranged  assortment  of  block-     That  can  its  light  relumine,— ^ 

headed  Encyclopaedias  (Anglicanas  or  Metro- 

politanas)  set  out  in  an  array  of  russia,  or     such  a  book,  for  instance,  as  the  Life  of  the 

morocco,  when  a  tithe  of  that  good  leather  5  Duke  of  Newcastle,  by  his  Duchess^"— no  casket 

would    comfortably    reclothe    my    shivering      is  rich  enough,  no  casing  sufficiently  durable, 

folios;    would    renovate    Paracelsus'    himself,      to  honour  and  keep  safe  such  a  jewel. 

and  enable  old  Raymund  LuUy^  to  look  like  Not  only  rare  volumes  of  this  description, 

himself  again  in  the  world.    I  never  see  these      which  seem  hopeless  ever  to  be  reprinted,  but 

impostors,  but  I  long  to  strip  them,  to  warm  lo  old   editions   of   writers,    such   as   Sir   Philip 

my  ragged  veterans  in  their  spoils.  Sydney,  Bishop  Taylor,  Milton  in  his  prose 

To  be  strong-backed  and  neat-bound  is  the  works,  Fuller — of  whom  we  have  reprints,  yet 
desideratum  of  a  volume.  Magnificence  comes  the  books  themselves,  though  they  go  about, 
after.  This,  when  it  can  be  afforded,  is  not  and  are  talked  of  here  and  there,  we  know 
to  be  lavished  upon  all  kinds  of  books  indis-  15  have  not  endenizened  themselves  (nor  possibly 
criminately.  I  would  not  dress  a  set  of  Maga-  ever  will)  in  the  national  heart,  so  as  to  be- 
zines,  for  instance,  in  full  suit.  The  dishabille,  come  stock  books — it  is  good  to  possess  these 
or  half -binding  (with  russia  backs  ever)  is  our  in  durable  and  costly  covers.  I  do  not  care  for  a 
costume.  A  Shakespeare  or  a  Milton  (unless  First  Folio  of  Shakespeare. ^^  [You  cannot 
the  first  editions),  it  were  mere  foppery  to  20  make  a  pe^  book  of  an  author  whom  everybody 
trick  out  in  gay  apparel.  The  possession  of  reads.]  I  rather  prefer  the  common  editions  of 
them  confers  no  distinction.  The  exterior  of  Rowe  and  Tonson,^^  without  notes,  and  with 
them  (the  things  themselves  being  so  common),  plates,  which,  being  so  execrably  bad,  serve 
strange  to  say,  raises  no  sweet  emotions,  no  as  maps  or  modest  remembrancers  to  the  text; 
tickling  sense  of  property  in  the  owner.  Thom-  25  and,  without  pretending  to  any  supposable 
son's  Seasons,  again,  looks  best  (I  maintain  it)  emulation  with  it,  are  so  much  better  than  the 
a  little  torn  and  dog's-eared.  How  beautiful  Shakespeare  gallery  engravings,^^  which  did. 
to  a  genuine  lover  of  reading  are  the  sullied  Ihaveacommunity  of  feeling  with  my  country- 
leaves,  and  worn-out  appearance,  nay,  the  men  about  his  Plays,  and  I  like  those  editions 
very  odour  (beyond  russia),  if  we  would  not  30  of  him  best  which  have  been  of  ten  est  tumbled 
forget  kind  feelings  in  fastidiousness,  of  an  old  about  and  handled. — On  the  contrary,  I  can- 
" Circulating  Library"  Tom  Jones,  or  Vicar  of  not  read  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  but  in  Folio. 
Wakefield!  How  they  speak  of  the  thousand  The  Octavo  editions  are  painful  to  look  at. 
thumbs  that  have  turned  over  their  pages  with  I  have  no  sympathy  with  them.  If  they  were 
delight! — of  the  lone  sempstress,  whom  they  35  as  much  read  as  the  current  editions  of  the 
may  have  cheered  (milliner,  or  harder- working  other  poet,  I  should  prefer  them  in  that  shape 
mantua-maker)  after  her  long  day's  needle-toil,  to  the  older  one.  I  do  not  know  a  more  heart- 
running  far  into  midnight,  when  she  has  less  sight  than  the  reprint  of  the  Anatomy  of 
snatched  an  hour,  ill  spared  from  sleep,  to  steep  Melancholy.^*  What  need  was  there  of  un- 
her  cares,  as  in  some  Lethean  cup,  in  spelling  40  earthing  the  bones  of  that  fantastic  old  great 
out  their  enchanting  contents!  Who  would  man,  to  expose  them  in  a  winding  sheet  of  the 
have  them  a  whit  less  soiled?  what  better  con-  newest  fashion  to  modern  censure?  what  hap- 
dition  could  we  desire  to  see  them  in?  less   stationer   could   dream   of   Burton    ever 

In  some  respects  the  better  a  book  is,  the  becoming  popular? — The  wretched  Malone^** 
less    it    demands    from    binding.      Fielding,  45 

Smollett,  Sterne,  and  aU  that  clas3  of  perpetu-        '  «"?ffiJ„y7^^X?'°uS*^Ll■hian  ha»t 
ally  self-reproductive  volumes — Great  Nature  s  That  can  thy  light  relume." 

Stprpntvnpc! wp  spp  thpm   individuallv  oerish  "Margaret  Cavendiah,  Duchess  of  Nowoastle  (1024- 

Otereotypes      we  see  tnem   maiviauaiiy   pensu       ^^^    ^  famous  beautv,  and  voluminous  writer  of  plays 
with  less  regret,    because   we  know   the   copies       and   poems.      Her  Life  of  William  Cavendish,   Duke  of 
nf  thpm  tn  hp  <'pfpmp  "      Rllt  where  a  book  is  «50  Newcastle  (1667),  is  generally  considered  a  masterpiece. 
OI  tnem  to  Oe      eteme.        out  wnere  a  uook  la  5U      „  rj,^^  ^^^  collected  edition  of  Shakespeare's  works. 

at  once  both  good  and  rare — where  the  m-      i623. 

HiviflMnl   iq  nlmnsf-   fhp  Rnprips    and  when  that  "Nicholas  Rowe  edited  the  first  critical  edition  of 

dividual  IS  almost  tne  species,   anu  wnen  inub       ghakespeare;  it  was  published  by  Tonson  in  :709. 

perishes,  "  The  Shakespeare  gallery  of  John   Boydell,   who  in 

1786  began  the  publication  of  a  series  of  prints  illustra- 

«  The  author  of  the  Wealth  of  Nations,  and  the  founder  tive  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  after  pictures  i)iiinted  for 

of  modern  political  economy.  him  by  English  artists;  he  built  a  gallery  in  Pall  Mall  for 

?  A  celebrated  German  physician,  alchemist,  and  phi-  their  exhibition. 
loBopher  (1493-1541)  "  By  Robert  Burton  (1577-1740),  see  p.  229.  supra. 

8  A  medieval  philosopher  and  alchemist,  author  of  a  "  "This  happened  in  1793  on  the  occasion  of  Malone'a 

system  of  logic.     The  presence  of  Paracelsus  and  Lully  visit  to  Stratford  to  examine  the  municipal  and  other 

in  Lamb's  library  suggest  his  fondness  for  quaint  and  records  of  that  town,  for  the  purpose  of  his  edition, 

out-of-the-way  reading.  Ainger. 


558  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

couUi  not  do  worse,  when  he  bribe^l  the  sexton  shops  and  public-houses  a  fellow  will  get  up 
of  Stratford  church  to  let  him  whitewash  the  and  spell  out  a  paragraph,  which  he  com- 
painted  effig.v  of  old  Shakespeare,  which  stood  municates  as  some  discovery.  Another  follows 
there,  in  rude  but  lively  fashion  depicted,  to  with  his  selection.  So  the  entire  journal  tran- 
the  very  colour  of  the  cheek,  the  eye,  the  eye-  5  spires  at  length  by  piecemeal.  Seldom-readers 
brow,  hair,  the  very  dress  he  used  to  wear—  are  slow  readers,  and,  without  this  expedient, 
the  only  authentic  testimony  we  had,  however  no  one  in  the  company  would  probably  ever 
imperfect,  of  these  curious  parts  and  parcels  travel  through  the  contents  of  a  whole  paper. 
of  him.    They  covered  him  over  with  a  coat  of         Newspapers   always   excite    curiosity.      No 

white  paint.    By ,  if  I  had  been  a  justice  lo  one  ever  lays  one  down  without  a  feehng  of 

of  peace  for  Warwickshire,  I  would  have  clapt     disappointment. 

both  commentator  and  sexton  fast  in  the  What  an  eternal  time  that  gentleman  in 
stocks,  for  a  pair  of  meddling  sacrilegious  black,  at  Nando's,"  keeps  the  paper!  I  am 
varlets.  sick  of  hearing  the  waiter  bawling  out  inces- 

I  think  I  see  them  at  theur  work— these  l£  santly,  "The  Chronicle  is  in  hand,  Sir." 
sapient  trouble-tombs.  Coming  into  an  inn  at  night— having  ordered 

Shall  I  be  thought  fantastical  if  I  confess,  your  supper— what  can  be  more  delightful 
that  the  names  of  some  of  our  poets  sound  than  to  find  lying  in  the  window-seat,  left 
.sweeter,  and  have  a  finer  relish  to  the  ear — to  there  time  out  of  mind  by  the  carelessness  of 
mine,  at  least— than  that  of  Milton  or  Shake- 20  some  former  guest,— two  or  <^hree  numbers  of 
speare?  It  may  be,  that  the  latter  are  more  the  old  Town  and  Country  Magazine,  with 
staled  and  rung  upon  in  common  discourse,      its  amusing  tete-d-tete  pictures — "The  Royal 

The  sweetest  names,  and  which  carry  a  per-     Lover  and  Lady  G ;"  "The  Melting  Pla- 

fume  in  the  mention,  are,  Kit  Marlowe,  Dray-  tonic  and  the  old  Beau," — and  such-like  anti- 
ton,  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  and  Cowley.  25  quated  scandal?    Would  you  exchange  it — at 

Much  depends  upon  when  and  where  you  that  time,  and  in  that  place — for  a  better  book? 
read  a  book.  In  the  five  or  six  impatient  Poor  Tobin,^^  ^]^o  latterly  fell  blind,  did 
minutes,  before  the  dinner  is  quite  ready,  who  not  regret  it  so  much  for  the  weightier  kinds  of 
would  think  of  taking  up  the  Fairy  Queen  for  a  reading — the  Paradise  Lost,  or  Comus,  he 
stopgap,  or  a  volume  of  Bishop  Andrewes*^' 30  could  have  read  to  him — but  he  missed  the 
sermons?  pleasure  of  skimming  over  with  his  own  eye  a 

Milton  almost  requires  a  solemn  service  of      magazine,  or  a  light  pamphlet, 
music  to  be  played  before  you  enter  upon  him.  I  should  not  care  to  be  caught  in  the  serious 

But  he  brings  his  music,  to  which,  who  listens,  avenues  of  some  cathedral  alone,  and  reading 
had  need  bring  docile  thoughts,  and  purged  ears.  35  Candide.^^ 

Winter  evenings — the  world  shut  out — with  I  do  not  remember  a  more  whimsical  surprise 
less  of  ceremony  the  gentle  Shakespeare  enters,  than  having  been  once  detected — by  a  familiar 
At  such  a  season  the  Tempest,  or  his  own  damsel — reclined  at  my  ease  upon  the  grass, 
Winter's  Tale—  on    Primrose    Hill^o    (her    Cythera)    reading 

These  two  poets  you  cannot  avoid  reading  40  PameZa.^i  There  was  nothing  in  the  book  to 
aloud — to  yourself,  or  (as  it  chances)  to  some  make  a  man  seriously  ashamed  at  the  exposure, 
single  person  listening.  More  than  one — and  but  as  she  seated  herself  down  by  me,  and 
it  degenerates  into  an  audience.  seemed   determined   to   read   in   company,    I 

Books  of  quick  interest,  that  hurry  on  for  could  have  wished  it  had  been — any  other 
incidents,  are  for  the  eye  to  glide  over  only.  45  book.  Wereadon  very  sociably  for  a  few  pages; 
It  will  not  do  to  read  them  out.  I  could  never  and,  not  finding  the  author  much  to  her  tiiste, 
listen  to  even  the  better  kind  of  modem  novels  she  got  up,  and— went  away.  Gentle  casuist, 
without  extreme  irksomeness.  I  leave  it  to  thee  to  conjecture,  whether  the 

A  newspaper,  read  out,  is  intolerable.     In      blush  (for  there  was  one  between  us)  was  the 
some  of  the  Bank  offices  it  is  the  custom  (to  50  property  of  the  nymph  or  the  swain  in  this 
save  so  much  individual  time)  for  one  of  the     dilemma.    From  me  you  shall  never  get  the 
clerks— who  is  the  best  scholar— to  commence     secret. 
upon  the  Times,  or  the  Chronicle  and  recite        n  a  London  coffee-house. 

Its    entire    contents    aloud,    pro    bono    publico.  "John  Tobin,  a  dramatist,  whose  life  had  recently 

With  every  advantage  of  lungs  and  elocution,  55  %Y"pSsothical  novel  by  Voltaire,  whose  sceptical, 
Ine    enect    is    singularly    vapid.       In    barbers'       scoffing  spirit  Lamb  felt  would  ill  harmonize  with  the 

associations  of  a  cathedral. 

u  A »♦»,«-«»-  J  u        *xi-  •    .  ,    ^Primrose   Hill  was   north   of  Regent's   Park.      The 

.„~.:.,.Jil     T    ™**^l*°^?™\™^/°^^^®*'°?^??*^^!"'^       "familiar  damsel"  arose  from  the  grass,  as  Venus  did 

Pf?  ^1^  i^T^  ^  ***  ™?^^  ,*^f,  ^'°«  ^^""""^   Version       from  the  sea-foam  at  the  isle  of  Cythera. 
of  the  Bible,  which  appeared  in  161 1.  "A  novel  by  Samuel  Richardson. 


CHARLES  LAMB 


559 


This  boy's  case,  then  thought  I,  is  surely  harder, 
Thus  hungry,  longing,  thus  without  a  penny, 
Beholding  choice  of  dainty  dressed  meat: 
No  wonder  if  he  wish  he  ne'er  had  learn'd  to  eat. 


THE  SUPERANNUATED 

(From  the  same) 
Sera  tamen  respexit  Lihertas.^ 
A  Clerk  I  was  in  London  gay. 


MAN 

Vergil. 
O'Keefe. 


I  am  not  much  a  friend  to  out-of-doors 
reading.  I  cannot  settle  my  spirits  to  it.  I 
knew  a  Unitarian  minister,  who  was  generally 
to  be  seen  upon  Snow  Hill  (as  yet  Skinner's 
Street  was  not),  between  the  hours  of  ten  and  5 
eleven  in  the  morning,  studying  a  volume  of 
Lardner.22  I  own  this  to  have  been  a  strain  of 
abstraction  beyond  my  reach.  I  used  to  ad- 
mire how  he  sidled  along,  keeping  clear  of 
secular  contacts.  An  illiterate  encounter  with  lo 
a  porter's  knot,^*  or  a  breadbasket,  would  have 
quickly  put  to  flight  all  the  theology  I  am  If  peradventure,  Reader,  it  has  been  thy  lot 

master  of,  and  have  left  me  worse  than  indif-     to  waste  the  golden  years  of  thy  life — thy 
ferent  to  the  five  points.^^  shining  youth — in  the  irksome  confinement  of 

There  is  a  class  of  street-readers,  whom  1 15  an  office;  to  have  thy  prison-days  prolonged 
can  never  contemplate  without  affection — the  through  middle  age  down  to  decrepitude  and 
poor  gentry,  who,  not  having  wherewithal  to  silver  hairs,  without  hope  of  release  or  respite; 
buy  or  hire  a  book,  filch  a  little  learning  at  the  to  have  lived  to  forget  that  there  are  such 
open  stalls — the  owner,  with  his  hard  eye,  things  as  holidays,  or  to  remember  them  but 
casting  envious  looks  at  them  all  the  while,  20  as  the  prerogatives  of  childhood;  then,  and 
and  thinking  when  they  will  have  done.  Ven-  then  only,  will  you  be  able  to  appreciate  my 
turing   tenderly,    page   after   page,    expecting      deliverance. 

every  moment  when  he  shall  interpose  his  in-  It  is  now  six-and-thirty  years^  since  I  took 

terdict,   and  yet  unable  to  deny  themselves      my  seat  at  the  desk  in  Mincing  Lane.^    Melan- 
the  gratification,  they  "snatch  a  fearful  joy."  25choly  was  the  transition  at  fourteen  from  the 

Martin  B ,2^  in  this  way,  by  daily  frag-      abundant     playtime,     and     the     frequently- 

ments,  got  through  two  volumes  of  Clarissa,^^  intervening  vacations  of  school  days,  to  the 
when  the  stallkeeper  damped  his  laudable  eight,  nine,  and  sometimes  ten  hours'  a-day 
ambition,  by  asking  him  (it  was  in  his  younger  attendance  at  the  counting-house.  But  time 
days)  whether  he  meant  to  purchase  the  work.  30  partially  reconciles  us  to  anything.  I  gradually 
^M.  declares,  that  under  no  circumstance  in  became  content — doggedly  contented,  as  wild 
his  life  did  he  ever  peruse  a  book  with  half  the      animals  in  cages.  . 

satisfaction  which  he  took  in   those  uneasy  It  is  true  I  had  my  Sundays  to  myself;  but 

snatches.     A  quaint  poetess  ^^  of  our  day  has      Sundays,  admirable  as  the  institution  of  them 
moralized  upon  this  subject  in  two  very  touch-  35  is  for  purposes  of  worship,  are  for  that  very 


ing  but  homely  stanzas: 

I  saw  a  boy  with  eager  eye 
Open  a  book  upon  a  stall, 
And  read,  as  he'd  devour  it  all; 
Which,  when  the  stall-man  did  espy, 
Soon  to  the  boy  I  heard  him  call, 
"You  Sir,  you  never  buy  a  book. 
Therefore  in  one  you  shall  not  look." 
The  boy  pass'd  slowly  on,  and  with  a  sigh 
He  wish'd  he  never  had  been  taught  to  read. 
Then  of  the  old  churl's  books  he  should  have 
had  no  need. 

Of  sufferings  the  poor  have  many, 

Which  never  can  the  rich  annoy. 

I  soon  perceived  another  boy, 

Who  look'd  as  if  he  had  not  any 

Food,  for  that  day  at  least, — enjoy 

The  sight  of  cold  meat  in  a  tavern  larder. 

22  Nathaniel  Lardner  (1684-1768),  wrote  a  noted  de- 
fense of  the  Christian  religion,  which  was  used  as  a 
theological  text  book. 

23  A  pad  used  by  portera  for  carrying  trunks. 
2'<  The  leading  tenets  of  Calvinistic  theology. 

2*  Martin  Burney,  an  unsuccessful  lawyer,  who  died 
in  London,  1852. 

^  Clarissa  Harlowe,  a  novel  by  Richardson  in  eight 
volumes.  *^  Mary  Lamb. 


reason  the  very  worst  adapted  for  days  of  un- 
bending and  recreation.  In  particular,  there 
is  a  gloom  for  me  attendant  upon  a  city  Sunday, 
a  weight  in  the  air.    I  miss  the  cheerful  cries 

40  of  London,  the  music,  and  the  ballad-singers, — 
the  buzz  and  stirring  murmur  of  the  streets. 
Those  eternal  bells  depress  me.  The  closed 
shops  repel  me.  Prints,  pictures,  all  the  glit- 
tering and  endless  succession  of  knacks  and 

45  gewgaws,  and  ostentatiously  displayed  wares 
of  tradesmen,  which  make  a  weekday  saunter 
through  the  less  busy  parts  of  the  metropolis 
so  delightful — are  shut  out.  No  book-stalls 
deliciously  to  idle  over — no  busy  faces  to  re- 

50  create  the  idle  man  who  contemplates  them 
ever  passing  by — the  very  face  of  business  a 
charm  by  contrast  to  his  temporary  relaxation 

1  The  line  in  Vergil  is:  lAbertas,  quae  sera  tamen  respexit 
inertem,  Liberty,  though  late,  at  last  looks  on  the  idle. 

2  Lamb  was  a  clerk  in  the  office  of  the  East  India  Com- 
pany from  1792-1825.  From  1789-92  he  had  been  in 
the  South  Sea  House.  He  was  retired  on  a  pension  of 
£450,  two-thirds  of  his  salary  at  the  time  of  his  retire- 
ment. 

^  The  South  Sea  House  was  on  Mincing  Lane,  and  the 
East  India  House  was  not  far  away. 


560  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

from  it  Nothing  to  be  seen  but  unhappy  quired  the  cause  of  them.  So  taxed,  I  honestly 
countcnuicca— or  half-happy  at  best— of  eman-  made  confession  of  my  mfirmity,  and  added 
cipated  ''prentices  and  little  tradesfolks,  with  that  I  was  afraid  that  I  should  eventually  be 
here  and  there  a  servant-maid  that  has  got  obliged  to  resign  his  service.  He  spoke  some 
leave  to  go  out,  who,  slaving  all  the  week,  with  5  words  of  course  to  hearten  me,  and  there  the 
the  habit  has  lost  almost  the  capacity  of  enjoy-  matter  rested.  A  whole  week  I  remained  la- 
ing  a  free  hour;  and  liveUly  expressing  the  hoi-  bouring  under  the  impression  that  I  had  acted 
lowness  of  a  day's  pleasuring.  The  very  imprudently  in  my  disclosure;  that  I  had  fool- 
stroUere  in  the  fields  on  that  day  look  anything  ishly  given  a  handle  against  myself,  and  had 
but  comfortable.  ^0  ^^^^  anticipating  my  own  dismissal.     A  week 

But  besides  Sundays,  I  had  a  day  at  Easter,  passed  in  this  manner,  the  most  anxious  one,  I 
and  a  day  at  Christmas,  with  a  fuU  week  in  the  verily  believe,  in  my  whole  life,  when  on  the 
summer  to  go  and  air  myself  in  my  native  evening  of  the  12th  of  April,  just  as  I  was  about 
fields  of  Hertfordshire.*  This  last  was  a  great  quitting  my  desk  to  go  home  (it  might  be  about 
indulgence;  and  the  prospect  of  its  recurrence,  15  eight  o'clock,)  I  received  an  awful  summons 
1  believe,  alone  kept  me  up  through  the  year,  to  attend  the  presence  of  the  w^hole  assembled 
and  made  my  durance  tolerable.  But  when  the  firm  in  the  formidable  back  parlour.  I  thought 
week  came  round,  did  the  glittering  phantom  now  my  time  is  surely  come,  I  have  done  for 
of  the  distance  keep  touch  with  me?  or  rather     myseK,  I  am  going  to  be  told  that  they  have 

was  it  not  a  series  of  seven  uneasy  days,  spent  20  no  longer  occasion  for  me.     L ,  I  could 

in  restless  pursuit  of  pleasure,  and  a  wearisome  see,  smiled  at  the  terror  I  was  in,  which  was  a 
anxiety  to  find  out  how  to  make  the  most  of      little  relief  to  me, — when  to  my  utter  astonish- 

them?    Where  was  the  quiet,  where  the  prom-      ment  B ,  the  eldest  partner,  began  a  formal 

ised  rest?  Before  I  had  a  taste  of  it  it  was  harangue  to  me  on  the  length  of  my  services, 
vanished.  I  was  at  the  desk  again,  counting  25  my  very  meritorious  conduct  during  the  whole 
upon  the  fifty-one  tedious  weeks  that  must  of  the  time  (the  deuce,  thought  I,  how  did  he 
intervene  before  such  another  snatch  would  find  out  that?  I  protest  I  never  had  the  con- 
come.  Still  the  prospect  of  its  coming  threw  fidence  to  think  as  much).  He  went  on  to 
something  of  an  illumination  upon  the  darker  descant  on  the  expediency  of  retiring  at  a 
side  of  my  captivity.  Without  it,  as  I  have  said,  30  certain  time  of  life,  (how  my  heart  panted!) 
I  could  scarcely  have  sustained  my  thralldom.        and  asking  me  a  few  questions  as  to  the  amount 

Independently  of  the  rigours  of  attendance,  of  my  own  property,  of  which  I  have  a  little, 
I  have  ever  been  haunted  with  a  sense  (per-  ended  with  a  proposal,  to  which  his  three  part- 
haps  a  mere  caprice)  of  incapacity  for  business,  ners  nodded  a  grave  assent,  that  I  should 
This,  during  my  latter  years,  had  increased  to  35  accept  from  the  house,  which  I  had  served  so 
such  a  degree,  that  it  was  visible  in  all  the  lines  well,  a  pension  for  life  to  the  amount  of  two- 
of  my  countenance.  My  health  and  my  good  thirds  of  my  accustomed  salary — a  magnificent 
spirits  flagged.  I  had  perpetually  a  dread  of  offer!  I  do  not  know  what  I  answered  between 
some  crisis,  to  which  I  should  be  found  un-  surprise  and  gratitude,  but  it  was  understood 
equal.  Besides  my  daylight  servitude,  I  served  40  that  I  accepted  their  proposal,  and  I  was  told 
over  again  all  night  in  my  sleep,  and  would  that  I  was  free  from  that  hour  to  leave  their 
awake  with  terrors  of  imaginary  false  entries,  service.  I  stammered  out  a  bow,  and  at  just 
errors  in  my  accounts,  and  the  like.  I  was  ten  minutes  after  eight  I  went  home — forever. 
fifty  years  of  age,  and  no  prospect  of  emancipa-  This  noble  benefit— gratitude  forbids  me  to 
tion  presented  itself.  I  had  grown  to  my  desk,  45  conceal  their  names— I  owe  to  the  kindness  of 
as  it  were;  and  the  wood  had  entered  into  my  the  most  munificent  firm  in  the  world— the 
80ul.  house  cf  Boldero,  Merry  weather,  Bosanquet, 

My  fellows  in  the  office  would  sometimes     and  Lacy, 
rally  me  upon  the  trouble  legible  in  my  coun-  ^  ,  ,» 

tenance;  but  I  did  not  know  that  it  had  raised  50  perpetua. 

the  suspicions  of  any  of  my  employers,  when  For  the  first  day  or  two  I  felt  stunned— over- 
on  the  fifth  of  last  month,  a  day  ever  to  be     whelmed.    I  could  only  apprehend  my  felicity; 

remembered  by  me,  L ^  the  junior  partner      I  was  too  confused  to  taste  it  sincerely.   "l 

in  the  firm,  calling  me  on  one  side,  directly  wandered  about,  thinking  I  was  happy,  and 
taxed  me  with  my  bad  looks,  and  frankly  in-  55  knowing  that  I  was  not.    I  was  in  the  condi- 

« Strictly  speaking.  Lamb's  "native  eelds"  were  the  *^^^  ^^  ^  prisoner  in  the  old  Bastile,^  suddenly 

London  streets,  but  he  often  visited  relatives  in  Hert-  «  May  you  live  forever. 

fordshire.              ,  „  , ,         „              .in              .         ,  ^  '^^^^  prison  in  Paris,  the  storming  of  which  on  July 

»Tbe  names  of  BoWero.  Merry  weather,  Bosanquet,  and  14,  1789,  marked  the  beginning  of  the  French  Revolu- 

Lacy,  mentioned  further  on,  were  invented  by  Lamb.  tion. 


CHARLES  LAMB  561 

let  loose  after  a  forty  years'  confinement.  I  day  in  the  year,  been  closely  associated — being 
could  scarce  trust  myself  with  myself.  It  was  suddenly  removed  from  them— they  seemed 
like  passing  out  of  Time  into  Eternity, — for  it  as  dead  to  me.  There  is  a  fine  passage,  which 
is  a  sort  of  Eternity  for  a  man  to  have  his  may  serve  to  illustrate  this  fancy,  in  a  Tragedy 
Time  all  to  himseK.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  5  by  Sir  Robert  Howard,^  speaking  of  a  friend's 
had  more  time  on  my  hands  than  I  could  ever  death: — 
manage.    From  a  poor  man,  poor  in  Time,  I 

was  suddenly  lifted  up  into  a  vast  revenue;  I         •  •  •  'Twas  but  just  now  he  went  away; 
could  see  no  end  of  my  possessions;  I  wanted         {^^"^^  not  since  had  time  to  shed  a  tear; 
some  stewa^   or  Judicious  bailiff   to  njaoa^exo     i^^'^^l^tJ^T^MZ^^S^Z^^rae. 
my  estates  m  Time  for  me.    And  here  let  me         Time  takes  no  measure  in  Eternity, 
caution  persons  grown  old  in  active  business, 

not  lightly  nor  without  weighing  their  own  To  dissipate  this  awkward  feeling,  I  have 
resources,  to  forego  their  customary  employ-  been  fain  to  go  among  them  once  or  twice 
ment  all  at  once,  for  there  may  be  danger  in  it.  15  since;  to  visit  my  old  desk-fellows — my  co- 
I  feel  it  by  myself,  but  I  know  that  my  re-  brethren  of  the  quill— that  I  had  left  below  in 
sources  are  sufficient;  and  now  that  those  first  the  state  militant.  Not  all  the  kindness  with 
giddy  raptures  have  subsided,  I  have  a  quiet  which  they  received  me  could  quite  restore  to 
home-feeling  of  the  blessedness  of  my  condi-  me  that  pleasant  familiarity,  which  I  had 
tion.  I  am  in  no  hurry.  Having  all  holidays,  20  heretofore  enjoyed  among  them.  We  cracked 
I  am  as  though  I  had  none.  If  Time  hung  some  of  our  old  jokes,  but  methought  they 
heavy  upon  me,  I  could  walk  it  away;  but  I  do  went  off  but  faintly.  My  old  desk;  the  peg 
not  walk  all  day  long,  as  I  used  to  do  in  those  where  I  hung  my  hat,  were  appropriated  to 
old  transient  holidays,  thirty  miles  a  day,  to     another.    I  knew  it  must  be,  but  I  could  not 

make  the  most  of  them.    If  Time  were  trouble-  25  take  it  kindly.    D 1  take  me,  if  I  did  not 

some,  I  could  read  it  away;  but  I  do  not  read  feel  some  remorse — beast,  if  I  had  not — at 
in  that  violent  measure,  with  which,  having  quitting  my  old  compeers,  the  faithful  partners 
no  Time  my  own  but  candlelight  Time,  I  used  of  my  toils  for  six-and-thirty  years,  that  soothed 
to  weary  out  my  head  and  eyesight  in  bygone  for  me  with  their  jokes  and  conundrums  the 
^inters.  I  walk,  read,  or  scribble  (as  now)  30  ruggedness  of  my  professional  road.  Had  it 
just  when  the  fit  seizes  me.  I  no  longer  hunt  been  so  rugged  then,  after  all?  or  was  I  a  coward 
after  pleasure;  I  let  it  come  to  me.  I  am  like  simply?  Well,  it  is  too  late  to  repent;  and  I 
the  man.  also  know  that  these  suggestions  are  a  common 

^,    ,,  ,  J 1.     T.-  .    !_•  fallacy  of  the  mind  on  such  occasions.     But 

in  some  .reeHe^ert  '^'^''  '^"''  '  ^5  my  heart  smote  me.    I  had  violently  broken 

m  some  green  desert.  ^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^^^  ^^^     j^  ^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^ 

**  Years!"  you  will  say;  "what  is  this  super-  courteous.  I  shall  be  some  time  before  I  get 
annuated  simpleton  calculating  upon?  He  has  quite  reconciled  to  the  separation.  Farewell, 
already  told  us  he  is  past  fifty."  old  cronies,  yet  not  for  long,  for  again  and 

I  have  indeed  lived  nominally  fifty  years,  40  again  I  will  come  among  ye,  if  I  shall  have  your 

but  deduct  out  of  them  the  hours  which  I  have     leave.     Farewell  Ch ,  dry,  sarcastic,  and 

lived  to  other  people,  and  not  to  myself,  and     friendly  I     Do ,  mild,  slow  to  move,  and 

you  will  find  me  still  a  young  fellow.    For  that     gentlemanly!     PI ,  officious  to  do,  and  to 

is  the  only  true  Time  which  a  man  can  properly  volunteer,  good  services! — and  thou,  thou 
call  his  own,  that  which  he  has  all  to  himself;  45  dreary  pile,  fit  mansion  for  a  Gresham^  or  a 
the  rest,  though  in  some  sense  he  may  be  said  Whittington^"  of  old,  stately  house  of  Mer- 
to  live  it,  is  other  people's  Time,  not  his.  The  chants;  with  thy  labyrinthine  passages,  and 
remnant  of  my  poor  days,  long  or  short,  is  at  light-excluding,  pent-up  offices,  where  candles 
least  multiplied  for  me  threefold.  My  ten  next  for  one-haK  the  year  supplied  the  place  of  the 
years,  if  I  stretch  so  far,  will  be  as  long  as  any  50  sun's  light;  unhealthy  contributor  to  my  weal, 
preceding  thirty.    'Tis  a  fair  rule-of-three  sum.      stem  fosterer  of  my  living,  farewell!    In  thee 

Among  the  strange  fantasies  which  beset  remain,  and  not  in  the  obscure  collection  of 
me  at  the  commencement  of  my  freedom,  and      some    wandering    bookseller,    my    "works!" 

of  which  all  traces  are  not  gone,  one  was,  that  3  j^^^^^^,^  brother-in-law.  and  joint  author  with  him 

a  vast  tract  of  Time  had  intervened  since  1  55  of  the  Indian  Queen.  The  lines  are  from  the  Vestal  Vir- 
quitted  the  Counting-House.  I  could  not  con-  ^^'S'TTomi'^GTeThi'm^'S:  1579?).  a  noted  financier  of 
Ceive    of    it    as    an    afiFair    of    yesterday.      The       Elizabeth's  time,  was  the  founder  of  the  Royal  Exchange 

partners,  and  the  clerks  with  whom  I  had  for  -?o  gL'^RichaS  WM? tlngton  (d.  1423)  was  a  famous 
eo  many  years,  and  for  so  many  hours  of  each      Lord  Mayor  of  London. 


502  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

There  let  them  rest,  as  I  do  from  my  labours,  Monday?  All  days  are  the  same.  Sunday 
pile<l  on  thy  mossy  shelves,  more  MSS.  in  itself— that  unfortunate  failure  of  a  holiday, 
folio  than  ever  Aquinas"  left,  and  full  as  useful!  as  it  too  often  proved,  what  with  my  sense  of 
My  mantle  1  bequeath  among  ye.  its  fugitiveness,  and  over-care  to  get  the  great- 

A  fortnight  has  passed  since  the  date  of  my  5  est  quantity  of  pleasure  out  of  it— is  melted 
first  communication.  At  that  period  I  was  down  into  a  week-day.  I  can  spare  to  go  to 
approaching  to  tranquillity,  but  had  not  church  now,  without  grudging  the  huge  cantle 
reached  it.  I  boosted  of  a  calm  indeed,  but  it  which  it  used  to  seem  to  cut  out  of  the  holiday. 
was  comparative  only.  Something  of  the  first  I  have  Time  for  everything.  I  can  visit  a  sick 
flutter  was  left;  an  unsettling  sense  of  novelty;  lo  friend.  I  can  interrupt  the  man  of  much  oc- 
the  daxsle  to  weak  eyes  of  unaccustomed  light,  cupation  when  he  is  busiest.  I  can  insult  over 
I  missed  my  old  chains,  forsooth,  as  if  they  him  with  an  invitation  to  take  a  day's  pleasure 
'ad  been  some  necessary  part  of  my  apparel,  with  me  to  Windsor  this  fine  May-morning. 
was  a  poor  Carthusian,"  from  strict  cellular  It  is  Lucretian  pleasure^^  to  behold  the  poor 
discipline  suddenly  by  some  revolution  returned  is  drudges,  whom  I  have  left  behind  in  the  world, 
upon  the  world.  I  am  now  as  if  I  had  never  carking  and  caring;  hke  horses  in  a  mill,  drudg- 
b^n  other  than  my  own  master.  It  is  natural  ing  on  in  the  same  eternal  round — and  what  is 
to  me  to  go  where  I  please,  to  do  what  I  please,  it  all  for?  A  man  can  never  have  too  much 
I  find  myself  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  day  in  Time  to  himself,  nor  too  little  to  do.  Had  I  a 
Bond  Street,"  and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  20  little  son,  I  would  christen  him  Nothing-To-Do; 
been  sauntering  there  at  that  very  hour  for  he  should  do  nothing.  Man,  I  verily  believe, 
years  past.  I  digress  into  Soho,  to  explore  a  is  out  of  his  element  f3  long  as  he  is  opera- 
bookstall.  Methinks  I  have  been  thirty  years  tive.  I  am  altogether  /or  the  life  contempla- 
a  collector.  There  is  nothing  strange  nor  new  tive.  Will  no  kindly  earthquake  come  and 
in  it.  I  find  myself  before  a  fine  picture  in  the  25  swallow  up  those  accursed  cotton  mills?  Take 
morning.  Was  it  ever  otherwise?  What  has  me  that  lumber  of  a  desk  there,  and  bowl  it 
become  of  Fish  Street  Hill?    Where  is  Fen-     down 

church  Street?**    Stones  of  old  Mincing  Lane,  Ag  low  as  to  the  fiends.*' 

which  I  have  worn  with  my  daily  pilgrimage 

for  six-and-thirty  years,  to  the  footsteps  of  30  I  am  no  longer  .  .  .  ,  clerk  to  the  Firm  of, 
what  toilwom  clerk  are  your  everlasting  flints  &c.  I  am  Retired  Leisure.  I  am  to  be  met 
now  vocal?  I  indent  the  gayer  flags  of  Pall  with  in  trim  gardens.  I  am  ah-eady  come  to 
Mall.  It  is  'Change  time,  and  I  am  strangely  be  known  by  my  vacant  face  and  careless 
among  the  Elgin  marbles."  It  was  no  hyper-  gesture,  perambulating  at  no  fixed  pace,  nor 
bole  when  I  ventured  to  compare  the  change  35 with  any  settled  purpose.  I  walk  about;  not 
in  my  condition  to  a  passing  into  another  to  and  from.  They  tell  me,  a  certain  cum  rfi^m- 
world.  Time  stands  still  in  a  manner  to  me.  tate  air,  that  has  been  buried  so  long  with  my 
I  have  lost  all  distinction  of  season.  I  do  not  other  good  parts,  has  begun  to  shoot  forth  in 
know  the  day  of  the  week  or  of  the  month,  my  person.  I  grow  into  gentility  perceptibly. 
Each  day  used  to  be  individually  felt  by  me  40  When  I  take  up  a  newspaper,  it  is  to  read  the 
m  Its  reference  to  the  foreign  post-days;  in  its  state  of  the  opera.  Opus  operatum  est.^^  I 
distance  from,  or  propinquity  to,  the  next  have  done  all  that  I  came  into  this  world  to  do. 
Sunday-  I  had  my  Wednesday  feelings,  my  I  have  worked  task-work,  and  have  the  rest  of 
fcjaturday  nights'  sensations.  The  genius  of  the  day  to  myself. 
each  day  was  upon  me  distinctly  during  the  45 

whole  of  it,  affecting  my  appetite,  spirits,  &c.  ^^  r^^^   DEATH  OF  rOTFPTnPF 

The  phantom  of  the  next  day,  with  the  dreary  ^      ""^   Ui^AlM  Ob    COLERIDGE 

five  to  follow,  sate  as  a  load  upon  my  poor  (Nov.  21,  1834) 

Sabbath  recreations.  What  charm  has  washed  When  I  heard  of  the  death  of  Coleridge,  it 
that  Ethiop  white?  What  is  gone  of  Black  50  was  without  grief .  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  long 
(d."i274).''^°'"  Bcholaatic  theologian,  ihomas  Aquinas     had  been  on  the  Confines  of  the  next  world,— 

"I*?®  Carthusians  were  aa  order  of  Monks  founded       *^^*  ^®  ^^^  ^  hunger  for  eternity.     I  grieved 
in  1036;  their  discipline  was  very  strict. 

n  M  ^u^    A^a^t    a ^* "  *^®  qu-arter of  fashionable  shops. 


»»  The  Elgin  marbles    amone  the  Bnont  9T%orimona     r  fl^^ship  of  another,  not  because  it  is  a  delicious  satisfac- 

Grt^ek  sculpfure    were  oriSallv  oart  of  the^oo^rXn^  i?°°  ^°  feel  that  anyone  should  be  made  miserable,  but 

of  the  Parthenon.    tLJ  Lre  Sow  fn  the  Bn^i^h  m^^^  ^^^^"««  '^  is  consoling  to  discern  from  what  evils  we 

h«viii«  been  brought  from  Grercibv  the  Ear   nf  FM^i^'  °""e]ves  are  free.— Z)e  Rerum  Natura.  II.  1-4. 
See  Kkta'  Sonnet,  p.  529?               ^                  °^  ^'*''*'  ^^"^  ^^f  P'^^^^'^  declamation  in  Hamlet,  II.  11.  475. 


My  work  is  done. 


CHARLES  LAMB  563 

then  that  I  could  not  grieve.  But,  since,  I  assassin  is  Glenalvon?'  Do  we  think  of  any- 
feel  how  great  a  part  he  was  of  me.  His  great  thing  but  of  the  crime  which  he  commits,  and 
and  dear  spirit  haunts  me.  I  cannot  think  a  the  rack  which  he  deserves?  That  is  all  which 
thought,  I  cannot  make  a  criticism  on  men  and  we  really  think  about  him.  Whereas  in  cor- 
books,  without  an  ineffectual  turning  and  5  responding  characters  in  Shakespeare,  so  little 
reference  to  him.  He  was  the  proof  and  touch-  do  the  actions  comparatively  affect  us,  that 
stone  of  all  my  cogitations.  He  was  a  Grecian  while  the  impulses,  the  inner  mind  in  all  its 
(or  in  the  first  form)  at  Christ's  Hospital,  perverted  greatness,  solely  seems  real  and  is 
where  I  was  Deputy-Grecian;  and  the  same  exclusively  attended  to,  the  crime  is  compara- 
subordination  and  deference  to  him  I  have  lo  tively  nothing.  But  when  we  see  these  things 
preserved  through  a  life-long  acquaintance,  represented,  the  acts  which  they  do  are  com- 
Great  in  his  writings,  he  was  greatest  in  his  paratively  everything,  their  impulses  nothing, 
conversation.  In  him  was  disproved  that  old  The  state  of  sublime  emotion  into  which  we 
maxim,  that  we  should  allow  every  one  his  are  elevated  by  thoye  images  of  night  and 
share  of  talk.  He  would  talk  from  morn  to  15  horror  which  Macbeth  is  made  to  utter,  that 
dewy  eve,  nor  cease  till  far  midnight;  yet  who  solemn  prelude  with  which  he  entertains  the 
ever  would  interrupt  him?  who  would  obstruct  time  till  the  bell  shall  strike  which  is  to  call  him 
that  continuous  flow  of  converse,  fetched  from  to  murder  Duncan, — when  we  no  longer  read 
Helicon  or  Zion?^  He  had  the  tact  of  making  it  in  a  book,  when  we  have  given  up  that 
the  unintelligible  seem  plain.  Many  who  read  20  vantage-ground  of  abstraction  which  reading 
the  abstruser  parts  of  his  "Friena"  would  possesses  over  seeing,  and  come  to  see  a  man 
complain  that  his  works  did  not  answer  to  his  in  his  bodily  shape  before  our  eyes  actually 
spoken  wisdom.  They  were  identical.  But  he  preparing  to  commit  a  murder,  if  the  acting 
had  a  tone  in  oral  delivery  which  seemed  to  be  true  and  impressive,  as  I  have  witnessed 
convey  sense  to  those  who  were  otherwise  im-  25  it  in  Mr.  K.'s^  performance  of  that  part,  the 
perfect  recipients.  He  was  my  fifty-years-old  painful  anxiety  about  the  act,  the  natural 
friend  without  a  dissension.  Never  saw  I  his  longing  to  prevent  it  while  it  yet  seems  unper- 
likeness,  nor  probably  the  world  can  see  again,  petrated,  the  too  close  pressing  semblance  of 
I  seem  to  love  the  house  he  died  at  more  reality,  give  a  pain  and  an  uneasiness  which 
passionately  than  when  he  lived.  I  love  the  30  totally  destroy  all  the  delight  which  the  words 
faithful  Gilmans^  more  than  while  they  exer-  in  the  book  convey,  where  the  deed  doing 
cised  their  virtues  towards  him  living.  What  never  presses  upon  us  with  the  painful  sense  of 
ivas  his  mansion  is  consecrated  to  me  a  chapel,  presence;  it  rather  seems  to  belong  to  his- 
tory,— to  something  past  and  inevitable,  if  it 
KING   LEAR  ^^  ^^  anything  to  do  with  time  at  all.    The  sub- 

lime  images,  the  poetry  alone,  is  that  which  is 
(From  The  Tragedies  of  Shakespeare,  Collected      present  to  our  minds  in  the  reading. 

Works,  1818)  go  ^q  g^g  Lear  acted, — to  see  an  old  man 

The  truth  is,  the  Characters  of  Shakespeare  tottering  about  the  stage  with  a  walking-stick, 
are  so  much  the  objects  of  meditation  rather  40  turned  out  of  doors  by  his  daughters  in  a  rainy 
than  of  interest  or  curiosity  as  to  their  actions,  night,  has  nothing  in  it  but  what  is  painful  and 
that  while  we  are  reading  any  of  his  great  disgusting.  We  want  to  take  him  into  shelter 
criminal  characters, — Macbeth,  Richard,  even  and  relieve  him.  That  is  all  the  feeling  which 
lago, — we  think  not  so  much  of  the  crimes  the  acting  of  Lear  ever  produced  in  me.  But 
which  they  commit,  as  of  the  ambition,  the  45  the  Lear  of  Shakespeare  cannot  be  acted.  The 
aspiring  spirit,  the  intellectual  activity,  which  contemptible  machinery  by  which  they  mimic 
prompts  them  to  overleap  those  moral  fences,  the  storm  which  he  goes  out  in,  is  not  more 
Barnwell^  is  a  wretched  murderer;  there  is  a  inadequate  to  represent  the  horrors  of  the  real 
certain  fitness  between  his  neck  and  the  rope;  elements,  than  any  actor  can  be  to  represent 
he  is  the  legitimate  heir  to  the  gallows;  nobody  50  Lear;  they  might  more  easily  propose  to  per- 
who  thinks  at  all  can  think  of  any  alleviating  sonate  the  Satan  of  Milton  upon  a  stage,  or 
circumstances  in  his  case  to  make  him  a  fit  one  of  Michael  Angelo's  terrible  figures.  The 
object  of  mercy.  Or  to  take  an  instance  from  greatness  of  Lear  is  not  in  corporal  dimension, 
the   higher   tragedy,    what   else   but   a   mere      but  in  intellectual:  the  explosions  of  his  passion 

M.  e.  from  Greek  or  Hebrew  literature,  or  perhaps  55  are  terrible  as  a  volcano:  they  are  storms  turn- 
more  generally  from  profane  or  sacred  letters. 

2  Coleridge  had  found  a  refuge  in  his  last  years  in  the  2  A  character  in  John  Home's  tragedy  Douglas,  acted 

house  of  Mr.  Gilnian,  a  physician  who  had  helped  him       in  Edinburgh,  1756. 
in  his  struggle  against  the  opium  habit.  3  Edmund  Kean  (1787?-1833),  the  most  famous  Eng- 

1  A  character  in  a  prose  tragedy  of  that  name  by  lish  tragedian  of  hia  day,  esi^ecially  in  Shakespearean 
George  Lillo  (1693-1739).  r61es. 


$64  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

ins  up  and  disclosing  to  the  bottom,  that  sea,  dicious  and  dispassionate  as  thou  art,  the  real 
his  mind  with  all  ite  vast  riches.  It  is  his  state  of  things  in  that  distracted  country;  it 
mind  which  is  laid  bare.  This  case  of  flesh  and  having  pleased  the  Queen's  Majesty  to  think 
blood  seems  Uw  insignificant  to  be  thought  on;  of  appointing  me  her  deputy,  in  order  to  bring 
even  as  he  himself  neglects  it.  On  the  stage  6  the  rebellious  to  submission. 
we  see  nothing  but  corporal  infirmities  and  Spenser.  Wisely  and  well  considered;  but 
woakneflB,  the  impotence  of  rage;  while  we  more  worthily  of  her  judgment  than  her  affec- 
rcad  it»  we  see  not  Lear,  but  we  are  Lear,— we  tion.  May  your  lordship  overcome,  as  you 
arc  in  his  mind,  we  are  sustained  by  a  grandeur  have  ever  done,  the  difficulties  and  dangers 
which   baffles  the  maUce   of  daughters  and  10  you  foresee. 

storms;  in  the  aberrations  of  his  reason,  we  Essex.  We  grow  weak  by  striking  at  random ; 
discover  a  mighty  irregular  power  of  reasoning,  and  knowing  that  I  must  strike,  and  strike 
imraethodized  from  the  ordinary  purposes  of  heavily,  I  would  fain  see  exactly  where  the 
life,  but  exerting  its  powers,  as  the  wind  blows     stroke  shall  fall.  ,     ^  .  ,      .. 

whore  it  listeth,  at  will  upon  the  corruptions  15  Some  attribute  to  the  Irish  all  sorts  of  ex- 
ond  abuses  of  mankind.  What  have  looks,  or  cesses;  others  tell  us  that  these  are  old  stories; 
tones,  to  do  with  that  sublime  identification  of  that  there  is  not  a  more  inoffensive  race  of 
his  age  with  that  of  the  heavens  themselves,  merry  creatures  under  heaven,  and  that  their 
when,  in  his  reproaches  to  them  for  conniving  crimes  are  all  hatched  for  them  here  in  Eng- 
at  the  injustice  of  his  children,  he  reminds  20  land,  bv  the  incubation  of  printers'  boys,  and 
them  that  "they  themselves  are  old?"  What  are  brought  to  market  at  times  of  distressing 
gesture  shall  we  appropriate  to  this?  What  has  dearth  in  news.  From  all  that  I  myself  have 
the  voice  or  the  eye  to  do  with  such  things?  seen  of  them,  I  can  only  say  that  the  civihzed 
But  the  play  is  beyond  all  art,  as  the  tamper-  (I  mean  the  richer  and  titled)  are  as  susceptible 
ings  with  it  show;  it  is  too  hard  and  stony;  it  25  of  heat  as  iron,  and  as  impenetrable  to  hght  as 
must  have  love-scenes,  and  a  happy  ending,  granite.  The  half-barbarous  are  probably 
It  is  not  enough  that  Cordelia  is  a  daughter,  worse;  the  utterly  barbarous  may  be  some- 
she  must  shine  as  a  lover  too.  Tate*  has  put  what  better.  Like  game-cocks,  they  must 
his  hook  in  the  nostrils  of  this  Leviathan,  for  spur  when  they  meet.  One  fights  because  he 
Garrick'  and  his  followers,  the  showmen  of  30  fights  an  Englishman;  another,  because  the 
the  scene,  to  draw  the  mighty  beast  about  fellow  he  quarrels  with  comes  from  a  distant 
more  easily.  A  happy  ending! — as  if  the  living  county;  a  third,  because  the  next  parish  is  an 
martyrdom  that  Lear  had  gone  through, —  eyesore  to  him,  and  his  fist-mate  is  from  it. 
the  flaying  of  his  feeUngs  alive,  did  not  make  a  The  only  thing  in  which  they  all  agree  as  proper 
fair  dismissal  from  the  stage  of  life  the  only  35  law  is  the  tooth-for-tooth  act.^  Luckily,  we 
decorous  thing  for  him.  If  he  is  to  five  and  have  a  bishop  who  is  a  native,  and  we  call  him 
be  happy  after,  if  he  could  sustain  this  before  the  Queen.  He  represented  to  Her 
world's  burden  after,  why  all  this  pudder  and  Majesty  that  everything  in  old  Ireland  tended 
preparation, — why  torment  us  with  all  this  to  re-produce  its  kind, — crimes  among  others; 
unnecessary  sympathy?  As  if  the  childish  40  and  he  declared  frankly  that  if  an  honest  man 
pleasure  of  getting  his  gilt  robes  and  sceptre  is  murdered,  or,  what  is  dearer  to  an  honest 
again  could  tempt  him  to  act  over  again  his  man,  jf  his  honour  is  wounded  in  the  person  of 
misused  station,— as  if ,  at  his  years  and  with  his  his  wife,  it  must  be  expected  that  he  will  re- 
experience,  anything  was  left  but  to  die.  taliate.    Her  Majesty  delivered  it  as  her  opin- 

45 

^altn:    ^abaClt    iLanHOt  *°  ^^^  Grey,  the  Lord  Deputy  of  Ireland,  who  under- 

w^        ♦»     ^Mw».2>v    .«i^«*^vv  jqqJ^  ^^  p^^  ^^^^  ^jjg  rebellion  of  Desmond,  a  powerful 

1 775_i  gA4  Munster  chief.    The  English  policy  involved  extermina- 
tion of  the  natives  and  the  desolation  of  the  country.    In 

T?csaTr»v     A  xT-rv    dimxTci-n-nt  J^®  ®^^^  °^  EngUshmen  the  Irish  chiefs  were  a  band  of 

JbooHiA    AJNL)    oiriiiWoxLiR*  barbarians,  the  enemies  of  law  and  order,  and  Spenser 
,,          .            _                 .          ,„«.v                  50  came  to  look  upon  the  Irish  with  the  loathing  that  ani- 

{Jmaginary  Conversations,  1834)  inated  most  Englishmen  of  his  time.     He  spent  prac- 

,15,            T     1.      i.1              1-        •           *     1              .  tically  the  rest  of  his  life  in  Ireland  as  an  agent  of  the 

iLSSex.   instantly   on   neanng  of   thy   arrival  government,  and  was  rewarded  for  his  services  by  the 

from  Ireland     I  spnf.  a  mpHsn^P  in  +V1A0    tTr\r\A  grant  of  Kilcolman  Castle,  formerly  a  Desmond  posses- 

rvJ^.     A    ]^u\  T      "   u^  message  to  tnee,  good  gjon.  in  County  Cork.    In  1594  there  was  a  new  uprising 

lUimunrt,  that  1  might  learn,  from  one  so  JU-  m  Ulster,  headed  by  Hugh  O'Neill,  Earl  of  Tyrone.    By 

♦Nahum  Tate   (1652-1715),  a  poet  and  playwright  ^i^^S  the  rebellion  had  spread  to  Munster,  and  Kilcolman 

who  gained  an  unenviable  reputation  as  an  adapter  of  r.^^  „'®  ,^?^  .^^?'^?^  ^^^  b^f^A-     Spenser  and  his  wife 


•everal  o(  Shukcsfjeare's  plays,  among  them  Kir^  Lear.  escaped,  but  their  young  child  perished  in  the  flames. 

In  hiavereion.  Cordelia  survives  and  marries  Edgar  ^°®  P?®*  returned  to  England  just  as  the  Queen  waa 

«  David  Garrick,  the  celebrated  English  actor,  a  con-  Pjepanng  to  send  her  favorite  Essex  to  end  the  rebellion. 

temporary  of  Dr.  Johnson  ^^  ^f  ^^  ^^'^  juncture  that  the  conversation  between  Essex 

I  In  i«yjn  ti,..  «^*  a..««-     „     **    t    i     j               x  and  Spenser  is  imagined  by  Landor  to  have  taken  place. 

In  1580  the  poet  Spenaer  went  to  Ireland  aa  secretary  a  The  law  of  retaliation,  as  "an  eye  for  an  eye."  etc 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR  565 

ion,  that  the  latter  case  of  vindictiveness  was  deeper,  they  joked,  and  croaked  and  hie- 
more  likely  to  take  effect  than  the  former.  But  coughed,  and  wept  over  sweet  Ireland;  and, 
the  bishop  replied,  that  in  his  conscience  he  when  they  could  neither  stand  nor  sit  any 
could  not  answer  for  either  if  the  man  was  up.  longer,  they  fell  upon  their  knees  and  their 
The  dean  of  the  same  diocese  gave  us  a  more  5  noddles,  and  swore  that  limbs,  life,  liberty, 
favourable  report.  Being  a  justice  of  the  peace,  Ireland,  and  God  himself,  were  all  at  the 
he  averred  most  solemnly  that  no  man  ever  Queen's  service.  It  was  only  their  holy  religion, 
had  complained  to  him  of  murder,  excepting  the  religion  of  their  forefathers, — here  sobs 
one  who  had  lost  so  many  fore-teeth  by  a  interrupted  some,  howls  others,  execrations 
cudgel  that  his  deposition  could  not  be  taken  lo  more,  and  the  liquor  they  had  engulfed  the  rest, 
exactly;  added  to  which,  his  head  was  a  little  I  looked  down  on  them  with  stupor  and  aston- 
clouded  with  drunkenness;  furthermore,  that  ishment,  seeing  faces,  forms,  dresses,  much  like 
extremely  few  women  had  adduced  sufficiently  ours,  and  recollecting  their  ignorance,  levity, 
clear  proofs  of  violence,  excepting  those  who  and  ferocity.  My  pages  drew  them  gently 
were  wilful,  and  resisted  with  tooth  and  nail.  15  by  the  heels  down  the  steps;  my  grooms  set 
In  all  which  cases,  it  was  difficult — nay,  im-  them  upright  (inasmuch  as  might  be)  on  their 
possible — to  ascertain  which  violence  began  horses;  and  the  people  in  the  streets,  shouting 
first  and  lasted  longest.  and  pelting,  sent  forward  the  beasts  to  their 

There  is  not  a  nation  upon  earth  that  pre-      straw, 
tends  to  be  so  superlatively  generous  and  high-  20     Various  plans  have  been  laid  before  us  for 
minded;  and  there  is  not  one  (I  speak  from  ex-      civilizing  or  coercing  them.    Among  the  pacific, 
perience)  so  utterly  base  and  venal.     I  have      it  was  proposed  to  make  an  offer  to  five  hun- 
positive  proof  that  the  nobility,  in  a  mass,  are      dred  of  the  richer  Jews  in  the  Hansetowns^  and 
agreed  to  sell,  for  a  stipulated  sum,  all  their      in  Poland,  who  should  be  raised  to  the  dignity 
rights  and  privileges,  so  much  per  man;  and 25 of  the  Irish  peerage,  and  endowed  with  four 
the  Queen  is  inclined  thereunto.     But  would      thousand  acres  of  good  forfeited  land,  on  condi- 
our  Parliament  consent  to  pay  money  for  a     tion  of  each  paying  two  thousand  pounds,  and 
cargo  of  rotten  pilchards?^     And  would  not      of  keeping  up  ten  horsemen  and  twenty  foot, 
our  captains  be  readier  to  swamp  than  to  im-      Germans  or  Poles,  in  readiness  for  service, 
port  them?    The  noisiest  rogues  in  that  king- 30     The   Catholics   bear   nowhere   such   ill-will 
dom,  if  not  quieted  by  a  halter,  may  be  quieted      toward  Jews  as  toward  Protestants.     Brooks 
by  making  them  brief-collectors,*  and  by  allow-      make  even  worse  neighbors  than  oceans  do. 
ing  them,  first,  to  encourage  the  incendiary;  I  myself  saw  no  objection  to  the  measure; 

then,  to  denounce  and  hang  them;  and,  lastly,  but  our  gracious  Queen  declared  she  had  an 
to  collect  all  the  money  they  can,  running  up  35  insuperable  one, — they  stank!  We  all  acknowl- 
and  down  with  the  whining  ferocity  of  half-  edged  the  strength  of  the  argument,  and  took 
starved  hyenas,  under  pretence  of  repairing  out  our  handkerchiefs.  Lord  Burleigh  almost 
the  damages  their  exhausted  country  hath  fainted;  and  Raleigh  wondered  how  the  Em- 
sustained.  Others  ask,  modestly,  a  few  thou-  peror  Titus  could  bring  up  his  men  against 
sands  a  year,  and  no  more,  from  those  whom  40  Jerusalem. 

they  represent  to  us  as  naked  and  famished;  and  "Ah!"  said  he,  looking  reverentially  at  Her 

prove  clearly,  to  every  dispassionate  man  who  Majesty,  "the  star  of  Berenice  shone  above 
hath  a  single  drop  of  free  blood  in  his  veins,  him!^  And  what  evil  influence  could  that  star 
that  at  least  this  pittance  is  due  to  them  for  not  quell!  what  malignancy  could  it  not  anni- 
abandoning  their  liberal  and  lucrative  profes-45hilate!" 

sions,  and  for  endangering  their  valuable  lives         Hereupon  he  touched  the  earth  with  his 
on  the  tempestuous  seas,  in  order  that  the      brow,  until  the  Queen  said, — 
voice  of  truth  may  sound  for  once  upon  the  "Sir  Walter!  lift  me  up  those  laurels." 

shores   of   England,   and   humanity   cast  her  At  which  manifestation  of  princely  good-will 

shadow  on  the  council-chamber.  50  he  was  advancing  to  kiss  Her  Majesty's  hand: 

I  gave  a  dinner  to  a  party  of  these  fellows  a      but  she  waved  it,  and  said  sharply, — 
few  weeks  ago.    I  know  not  how  many  kings  "Stand  there,  dog!" 

and  princes  were  among  them,  nor  how  many  b  The  towns  of  the  Hanseatic  League,  of  northern  Ger- 

r^,^r>fa  ar^A  T^fr»T^>>o+G  QTiH  Ipfrklnf.ors  flTld  saffPS  many  and  the  neighboring  countries,  which  were  leagued 
poets  and  propnetS  ana   legislators  ana   sages.        ^^^/^^^^^    for    commercial    protection    and    the    general 

When  they  were  half-drunk,  they  coaxed  and  55  benefit  of  trade. 

fV,ron+on*irl-    whan    tViPv    hfld    ffonp    SOmewhat  6i.e.  above  Titus  during  his  siege  of  Jerusalem,  70  A.  D. 

threatened,    wnen    tney    naa    gone    SOmewnat       during  this  expedition,  Titus  became  infatuated  with 

the  beautiful  Jewess  Berenice  and  the  star  of  Berenice  is 
3  A  fish  similar  to  a  herring.  supposed  to  have  been  potent  enough  to  enable  Titus 

*  Men  holding  licenses  to  collect  money  for  the  repair-       to  "bring  up  his  men  against  Jerusalem"  in  spite  of  the 

ing  of  churches,  or  for  the  payment  of  losses  by  fire,  etc.       evil  odors  of  the  Jews. 


566  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

Now  what  talc  have  you  for  us?  to  remove  thy  sorrow;  but,  really,  I  am  not  in 

Spenaer.  Interrogate  me,  my  lord,  that  I  the  habit  of  seemg  men  grieve  at  anythmg 
may  answer  each  question  distinctly,  my  mind  except  the  loss  of  favour  at  court,  or  of  a  hawk, 
being  in  sad  confusion  at  what  I  have  seen  or  of  a  buckhound.  And  were  I  to  swear  out 
and  undergone.  5  my  condolences  to  a  man  of  thy  discernment, 

Essex.  Give  me  thy  account  and  opinion  of  in  the  same  round  roll-call  phrases  we  employ 
thc«c  very  affairs  as  thou  leftest  them;  for  I  with  one  another  upon  these  occasions,  I  should 
would  rather  know  one  part  well  than  all  im-  be  guilty,  not  of  insincerity,  but  of  insolence. 
[perfectly;  and  the  violences  of  which  I  have  True  grief  hath  ever  something  sacred  in  it; 
heard  within  the  day  surpass  belief.  10  and,  when  it  visiteth  a  wise  man  and  a  brave 

Why    weepest   thou,    my   gentle   Spenser?     one,  is  most  holy. 
Have  the  rebels  sacked  thy  house?  Nay,  kiss  not  my  hand:  he  whom  God  smit- 

Spenser.  They  have  plundered  and  utterly  eth  hath  God  with  him.  In  his  presence  what 
destroyed  it.  am  I? 

Essex.  I  grieve  for  thee,  and  will  see  thee  15  Spenser.  Never  so  great,  my  lord,  as  at  this 
righted.  hour,  when  you  see  aright  who  is  greater.    May 

Spenser.  In  this  they  have  Uttle  harmed  me.     he  guide  your  counsels,  and  preserve  your  life 

Essex.  Howl    I  have  heard  it  reported  that      and  glory! 
thy  grounds  are  fertile,  and  thy  mansion  large         Essex.  Where  are  thy  friends?     Are  they 
and  pleasant.  20  with  thee? 

Spenser.  If  river  and  lake  and  meadow-  Spenser.  Ah,  where,  indeed!  Generous, 
ground  and  mountain  could  render  any  place  true-hearted  Philip!  where  art  thou,  whose 
the  abode  of  pleasantness,  pleasant  was  mine,  presence  was  unto  me  peace  and  safety;  whose 
indeed!  smile  was  contentment,  and  whose  praise  re- 

On  the  lovely  banks  of  Mulla''  I  found  deep25nown?  My  lord!  I  cannot  but  think  of  him 
contentment.  Under  the  dark  alders  did  I  among  still  heavier  losses:  he  was  my  earliest 
muse  and  meditate.  Innocent  hopes  were  my  friend,  and  would  have  taught  me  wisdom. 
gravest  cares,  and  my  playfullest  fancy  was  Essex.  Pastoral  poetry,  my  dear  Spenser, 
with  kindly  wishes.  Ah!  surely  of  all  cruelties  doth  not  require  tears  and  lamentations.  Dry 
the  worst  is  to  extinguish  our  kindness.  Mine  30  thine  eyes;  rebuild  thine  house:  the  Queen  and 
is  gone:  I  love  the  people  and  the  land  no  Council,  I  venture  to  promise  thee,  will  make 
longer.  My  lord,  ask  me  not  about  them:  I  ample  amends  for  everyevil  thou  hast  sustained. 
may  speak  injuriously.  What!  does  that  enforce  thee  to  wail  yet  louder? 

Essex.  Think  rather,  then,  of  thy  happier  Spenser.  Pardon  me,  bear  with  me,  most 
hours  and  busier  occupations;  these  Ukewise  35  noble  heart!  I  have  lost  what  no  Council,  no 
may  instruct  me.  Queen,  no  Essex,  can  restore. 

Spenser.  The  first  seeds  I  sowed  in  the  gar-  Essex.  We  will  see  that.  There  are  other 
den,  ere  the  old  castle  was  made  habitable  for  swords,  and  other  arms  to  wield  them,  besides  a 
my  lovely  bride,  were  acorns  from  Penshurst.^  Leicester's  and  a  Raleigh's.  Others  can  crush 
I  planted  a  httle  oak  before  my  mansion  at  40  their  enemies,  and  serve  their  friends. 
the  birth  of  each  child.  My  sons,  I  said  to  Spenser.  O  my  sweet  child!  And  of  many 
myself,  shall  often  play  in  the  shade  of  them  so  powerful,  many  so  wise  and  so  beneficent, 
when  I  am  gone;  and  every  year  shall  they  take  was  there  none  to  save  thee?  None!  None! 
the  measure  of  their  growth,  as  fondly  as  I  Essex.  I  now  perceive  that  thou  lamentest 
take  theirs.  45  what  almost  every  father  is  destined  to  lament. 

Essex.  Well,  well;  but  let  not  this  thought  Happiness  must  be  bought,  although  the  pay- 
make  thee  weep  so  bitterly,  ment  may  be  delayed.     Consider;  the  same 

Spenser.  Poison  may  ooze  from  beautiful  calamity  might  have  befallen  thee  here  in 
plants;  deadly  grief  from  dearest  reminiscences.      London.     Neither  the  houses  of  ambassadors, 

I  mTxst  grieve,  I  must  weep:  it  seems  the  law  50  nor  the  palaces  of  kings^  nor  the  altars  of  God 
of  God,  and  the  only  one  that  men  are  not  dis-  himself,  are  asylums  against  death.  How  do 
posed  to  contravene.  In  the  performance  of  I  know  but  under  this  very  roof  there  may  sleep 
thw  alone  do  they  effectually  aid  one  another,      some  latent  calamity,  that  in  an  instant  shall 

Essex.  Spenser!    I  wish  I  had  at  hand  any      cover  with  gloom  every  inmate  of  the  house, 
arguments  or  persuasions,  of  force  sufficient  55  and  every  far  dependent? 
'Thi.  stream  flowed  near  Spenser's  castle  of  Kilcol-  Spenser.  God  avert  it! 

""•  pi!?.A?"^**'\i.      I    AA    .  .    i.u  o  J        .     .  ^^^^^'  Every  day,  every  hour  of  the  year, 

•  PCTiMur«<  was  the  splendid  estate  of  the  Sidneys  in  the  A^^  \^,.r.A..^Ar.  J.  i,   j.  A.  .. 

western  part  of  Kent     Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  one  of  "°  hundreds  moum  what  thou  mournest. 
Spenser's  heroes  and  patrons.  Spenser.  Oh,  no,  no,  no!    Calamities  there 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  567 

are  around  us;  calamities  there  are  all  over     perishes.     Spare  me:  ask  me  nothing;  let  me 
the  earth;  calamities  there  are  in  all  seasons:      weep  before  you  in  peace, — the  kindest  act  of 
but  none  in  any  season,  none  in  any  place,  like     greatness, 
mine.  Essex.  I  should  rather  have  dared  to  lAount 

Essex.  So  say  all  fathers,  so  say  all  husbands.  5  into  the  midst  of  the  conflagration  than  I  now 
Look  at  any  old  mansion-house,  and  let  the  dare  entreat  thee  not  to  weep.  The  tears  that 
sun  shine  as  gloriously  as  it  may  on  the  golden  overflow  thy  heart,  my  Spenser,  will  stanch 
vanes,  or  the  arms  recently  quartered  over  and  heal  it  in  their  sacred  stream;  but  not  with- 
the  gateway  or  the  embayed  window,  and  on      out  hope  in  God. 

the  happy  pair  that  haply  is  toying  at  it:  never-  lo  Spenser.  My  hope  in  God  is  that  I  may  soon 
thcless,  thou  mayest  say  that  of  a  certainty  see  again  what  he  has  taken  from  me.  Amid 
the  same  fabric  hath  seen  much  sorrow  within  the  myriads  of  angels,  there  is  not  one  so  beau- 
its  chambers,  and  heard  many  wailings;  and  tiful;  and  even  he  (if  there  be  any)  who  is 
each  time  this  was  the  heaviest  stroke  of  all.  appointed  my  guardian  could  never  love  me 
Funerals  have  passed  along  through  the  stout-  15  so.  Ahl  these  are  idle  thoughts,  vain  wander- 
hearted  knights  upon  the  wainscot,  and  amid  ings,  distempered  dreams.  If  there  ever  were 
the  laughing  nymphs  upon  the  arras.  Old  guardian  angels,  he  who  so  wanted  one — my 
servants  have  shaken  their  heads  as  if  some-  helpless  boy — would  not  have  left  these  arms 
body  had  deceived  them,  when  they  found  that  upon  my  knees, 
beauty  and  nobility  could  perish.  20     Essex.  God  help  and  sustain  thee  too,  gentle 

Edmund!  the  things  that  are  too  true  pass  Spenser!  I  never  will  desert  thee.  But  what 
by  us  as  if  they  were  not  true  at  all;  and  when  am  I?  Great  they  have  called  me!  Alas,  how 
they  have  singled  us  out,  then  only  do  they  powerless  then  and  infantile  is  greatness  in  the 
strike  us.  Thou  and  I  must  go  too.  Perhaps  presence  of  calamity!  Come,  give  me  thy  hand: 
the  next  year  may  blow  us  away  with  its  fallen  25  let  us  walk  up  and  down  the  gallery.  Bravely 
leaves.  done!     I  will  envy  no  more  a  Sidney  or  a 

Spenser.  For  you,  my  lord,  many  years  (I     Raleigh. 
trust)  are  waiting:  I  shall  never  see  those  fallen 

leaves.    No  leaf,  no  bud,  will  spring  upon  the  ^tlUattt    J^a^Utt 

earth  before  I  sink  into  her  breast  for  ever.         30  _* 

Essex.  Thou,  who  art  wiser  than  most  men,  1778-1830 

shouldst  bear  with  patience,  equanimity,  and  TTAMTFT 

courage  what  is  common  to  all.  MAMLJii  1 

Spenser.  Enough,  enough,  enough!  have  all  ^^^.^^  ^^^  Characters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays, 
men  seen  their  infant  burned  to  ashes  before  35  1817) 

their  eyes? 

Essex.  Gracious  God!  Merciful  Father!  This  is  that  Hamlet  the  Dane,  whom  we 
what  is  this?  read  of  in  our  youth,  and  whom  we  may  be  said 

Spenser.  Burned  alive!  burned  to  ashes!  almost  to  remember  in  our  after-years;  he  who 
burned  to  ashes!  The  flames  dart  their  serpent  40  made  that  famous  soliloquy  on  life,  who  gave 
tongues  through  the  nursery  window.  I  can-  the  advice  to  the  players,  who  thought  "this 
not  quit  thee,  my  Elizabeth!  I  cannot  lay  goodly  frame,  the  earth,  a  sterile  promontory, 
down  our  Edmund!  Oh,  these  flames!  They  and  this  brave  o'er-hanging  firmament,  the 
persecute,  they  enthrall  me;  they  curl  round  air,  this  majestical  roof  fretted  with  golden  fire, 
my  temples;  they  hiss  upon  my  brain;  they  45 a  foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vapours;", 
taunt  me  with  their  fierce,  foul  voices;  they  whom  "man  delighted  not,  nor  woman  nei- 
carp  at  me,  they  wither  me,  they  consume  me,  ther;"  he  who  talked  with  the  grave-diggers,  and 
throwing  back  to  me  a  little  of  life  to  roll  and  moralised  on  Yorick's  skull;  the  schoolfellow 
suffer  in,  with  their  fangs  upon  me.  Ask  me,  of  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  at  Witten- 
my  lord,  the  things  you  wish  to  know  from  me:  50  berg;  the  friend  of  Horatio;  the  lover  of  Ophelia ; 
I  may  answer  them;  I  am  now  composed  again,  he  that  was  mad  and  sent  to  England;  the  slow 
Command  me,  my  gracious  lord!  I  would  yet  avenger  of  his  father's  death;  who  lived  at  the 
serve  you:  soon  I  shall  be  unable.  You  have  court  of  Horwendillus  five  hundred  years  be- 
stooped  to  raise  me  up;  you  have  borne  with  fore  we  were  born,  but  all  whose  thoughts  we 
me;  you  have  pitied  me,  even  hke  one  not  55  seem  to  know  as  well  as  we  do  our  own,  be- 
powerful.  You  have  brought  comfort,  and  will  cause  we  have  read  them  in  Shakespeare, 
leave  it  with  me;  for  gratitude  is  comfort.  Hamlet  is  a  name:  his  speeches  and  sayings 

Oh!  my  memory  stands  all  a  tip-toe  on  one  but  the  idle  coinage  of  the  poet's  brain.  What 
burning  point:  when  it  drops  from  it,  then  it     then,  are  they  not  real?    They  are  as  real  as 


568  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

our  own  thouRhU.  Their  reality  is  in  the  read-  ^^come  and  go  like  sounds  of  music  borne  on  the 
er's  mind.  It  is  xce  who  are  Hamlet.  This  wind.  The  whole  play  is  an  exact  transcript 
play  has  a  prophetic  truth,  which  is  above  that  of  what  might  be  supposed  to  have  taken  place 
oC  history.  Whoever  has  become  thoughtful  at  the  court  of  Denmark,  at  the  remote  period 
and  mdancholv  thr<3ugh  his  own  mishaps  or  5  of  time  fixed  upon,  before  the  modern  re- 
those  of  others;  whoever  has  born  about  with  finements  in  morals  and  manners  were  heard 
him  the  clouded  brow  of  reflection,  and  thought  of.  It  would  have  been  interesting  enough  to 
himself  ''too  much  i'  the  sun;"  whoever  has  have  been  admitted  as  a  by-stander  m  such  a 
seen  the  golden  Ijimp  of  day  dimmed  by  envious  scene,  at  such  a  time,  to  have  heard  and  wit- 
mists  rising  in  his  own  breast,  and  could  find  10  nessed  something  of  what  was  going  on.  But 
in  the  world  before  him  only  aiduU  blank  with  here  we  are  more  than  spectators.  We  have 
nothing  left  remarkable  in  it;  whoever  has  not  only  "the  outward  pageants  and  the  signs 
known  "the  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  in-  of  grief;"  but  "we  have  that  within  which 
solenoe  of  office,  or  the  spurns  which  patient  passes  show."  We  read  the  thoughts  of  the 
merit  of  the  unworthy  takes;"  he  who  has  felt  16 heart,  we  catch  the  passions  living  as  they  rise. 
his  mind  sink  within  him,  and  sadness  cling  to  Other  dramatic  writers  give  us  very  fine  ver- 
bis heart  like  a  mahidy;  who  has  had  his  hopes  sions  and  paraphrases  of  nature;  but  Shake- 
blighted  and  his  youth  staggered  by  the  appari-  speare,  together  with  his  own  comments,  gives 
tions  of  strange  things;  who  cannot  be  well  at  us  the  original  text,  that  we  may  judge  for 
ease,  while  he  sees  evil  hovering  near  him  like  20  ourselves.  This  is  a  very  great  advantage, 
a  ^)ectre;  whose  powers  of  action  have  been  The  character  of  Hamlet  stands  quite  by 
eatoi  up  by  thought,  he  to  whom  the  universe  itself.  It  is  not  a  character  marked  by  strength 
seems  infinite,  and  himself  nothing;  whose  of  will,  or  even  of  passion,  but  by  refinement 
bitterness  of  soul  makes  him  careless  of  conse-  of  thought  and  sentiment.  Hamlet  is  as  little 
qucnces,  and  who  goes  to  a  play  as  his  best  25  of  the  hero  as  a  man  can  well  be;  but  he  is  a 
resource  to  shove  off,  to  a  second  remove,  the  young  and  princely  novice,  full  of  high  en- 
evils  of  life  by  a  mock  representation  of  them —  thusiasm  and  quick  sensibility — the  sport  of 
this  is  the  true  Hamlet.  circumstances,  questioning  with  fortune  and 
We  have  been  so  used  to  this  tragedy  that  refining  on  his  own  feelings,  and  forced  from 
we  hardly  know  how  to  criticise  it  any  more  30  the  natural  bias  of  his  disposition  by  the 
than  we  should  know  how  to  describe  our  own  strangeness  of  his  situation.  He  seems  in- 
faoes.  But  we  must  make  such  observations  capable  of  deliberate  action,  and  is  only  hurried 
as  we  can.  It  is  the  one  of  Shakespeare's  into  extremities  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion, 
plays  that  we  think  of  the  oftenest,  because  it  when  he  has  no  time  to  reflect,  as  in  the  scene 
abounds  most  in  striking  reflections  on  human  35  where  he  kills  Polonius,  and  again,  where  he 
life,  and  because  the  distresses  of  Hamlet  are  alters  the  letters  which  Rosencrantz  and  Guild- 
transferred,  by  the  turn  of  his  mind,  to  the  enstern  are  taking  with  them  to  England,  pur- 
general  account  of  humanity.  Whatever  hap-  porting  his  death.  At  other  times,  when  he  is 
pens  to  him  we  apply  to  ourselves,  because  he  most  bound  to  act,  he  remains  puzzled,  un- 
applies  It  so  himself  as  a  means  of  general  rea-  40  decided  and  skeptical,  dallies  with  his  purposes, 
somng.  He  is  a  great  moraliser,  and  what  till  the  occasion  is  lost,  and  finds  out  some  pre- 
mak«  him  worth  attending  to  is,  that  he  tence  to  relapse  into  indolence  and  thoughtful- 
morahses  on  his  own  feelings  and  experience,  ness  again.  For  this  reason  he  refuses  to  kill 
He  IS  not  a  common-place  pedant.  If  Lear  is  the  King  when  he  is  at  his  prayers.  .  .  . 
^tinguished  by  the  greatest  depth  of  passion,  45  He  is  the  prince  of  philosophical  speculators, 
Hamlet  is  the  most  remarkable  for  the  inge-  and  because  he  cannot  have  his  revenge  perfect, 
nuity,  ongmahty,  and  unstudied  development  according  to  the  most  refined  idea  his  wish 
of  character.  Shakespeare  had  more  mag-  can  form,  he  declines  it  altogether.  So  he 
nammity  than  any  other  poet,  and  he  has  scruples  to  trust  the  suggestions  of  the  ghost, 
shown  more  of  it  m  this  play  than  in  any  other.  50  contrives  the  scene  of  the  play  to  have  surer 
rhcre  IS  no  attempt  to  force  an  interest:  every-  proof  of  his  uncle's  guilt,  and  then  rests  satis- 
thjng  isleft  for  tune  and  circumstances  to  un-  fied  with  this  confirmation  of  his  suspicions, 
fold.  The  attentionifl  excited  without  effort,  and  the  success  of  his  experiment,  instead  of 
«f  J.^^^^  T""^.  ^?u.  °^^^^«^  ^^tt«^  acting  upon  it.  Yet  he  is  sensible  of  his  own 
«^^.TLo  I  ^^•''ur^^^'^i'w'^  'P^^^,  and  55  weakness,  taxes  himself  with  it,  and  tries  to 
Mtjust  as  they  might  do,  if  left  entirely  to     reason  himself  out  of  it StiU,  he  does 

,W?«''^fn.     ?i! '" k""  ^* ?"'P'^^'  ""^  '^'^^""     ^°^^^°S;  and  this  very  speculation  on  his  own 

b^LT«^'nJ^        !;r^'°°'*^r^''^^     '''^'^^y  °^^y  ^ff°^d«  ^^  another  occasion 
by  the  passing  scene-the  gusts  of  passion     for  indulging  it.    It  is  not  from  any  want  of 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

attachment  to  his  father  or  of  abhorrence  of  principal  object,  gather  our  force  to  make  a 
his  murder  that  Hamlet  is  thus  dilatory,  but  it  great  blow,  bring  it  down,  and  relapse  into 
is  more  to  his  taste  to  indulge  his  imagination  sluggishness  and  indifference  again.  Materiam 
in  reflecting  upon  the  enormity  of  the  crime  superabat  opus,^  cannot  be  said  of  us.  We  may 
and  refining  on  his  schemes  of  vengeance,  than  5  be  accused  of  grossness,  but  not  of  flimsiness; 
to  put  them  into  immediate  practice.  His  of  extravagance,  but  not  of  affectation;  of 
ruling  passion  is  to  think,  not  to  act;  and  any  want  of  art  and  refinement,  but  not  of  a  want 
vague  pretext  that  flatters  this  propensity  in-  of  truth  and  nature.  Our  literature,  in  a  word, 
stantly  diverts  him  from  his  previous  purposes,     is  Gothic  and  grotesque;  unequal  and  irregular; 

10  not  cast  in  a  previous  mould,  nor  of  one  uni- 

TTTF   FNPTTCJR   AMR  TWT^TR  form  texture,  but  of  great  Weight  in  the  whole, 

THE  ENGLISH  AND  THEIR  ^^^  ^f  incomparable  value  in  the  best  parts. 

LilEKAlUKili  j^  ^jjjjg  ^^  ^^  excess  of  beauty  or  power,  hits 

(From  The  Age  of  Elizabeth,  1821)  <^r  ™^sses,  and  is  either  very  good  indeed,  or 

15  absolutely  good  for  nothing.  This  character 
We  are  a  nation  of  islanders,  and  we  cannot  applies  in  particular  to  our  literature  in  the 
help  it;  nor  mend  ourselves  if  we  would.  We  age  of  Elizabeth,  which  is  its  best  period,  before 
are  something  in  ourselves,  nothing  when  we  the  introduction  of  a  rage  for  French  rules  and 
try  to  ape  others.  Music  and  painting  are  not  French  models;  for  whatever  may  be  the  value 
our  forte:  for  what  we  have  done  in  that  way  20  of  our  own  original  style  of  composition,  there 
has  been  little,  and  that  borrowed  from  others  can  be  neither  offense  nor  presumption  in  say- 
with  great  difficulty.  But  we  may  boast  of  our  ing,  that  it  is  at  least  better  than  our  second- 
poets  and  philosophers.  That's  something,  hand  imitations  of  others.  Our  understanding 
We  have  had  strong  heads  and  sound  hearts  (such  as  it  is,  and  must  remain  to  be  good  for 
among  us.  Thrown  on  one  side  of  the  world,  25  anything)  is  not  a  thoroughfare  for  common 
and  left  to  bustle  for  ourselves,  we  have  fought  places,  smooth  as  the  palm  of  one's  hand,  but 
out  many  a  battle  for  truth  and  freedom.  That  full  of  knotty  points  and  jutting  excrescences, 
is  our  natural  style;  and  it  were  to  be  wished  rough,  uneven,  overgrown  with  brambles;  and 
we  had  in  no  instance  departed  from  it.  Our  I  like  this  aspect  of  the  mind  (as  some  one  said 
situation  has  given  us  a  certain  cast  of  thought  30  of  the  country),  where  nature  keeps  a  good  deal 
and  character;  and  our  liberty  has  enabled  us  of  the  soil  in  her  own  hands.  Perhaps  the  gen- 
to  make  the  most  of  it.  We  are  of  a  stiff  clay,  ius  of  our  poetry  has  more  of  Pan  than  of 
not  moulded  into  every  fashion,  with  stubborn  Apollo;'  "but  Pan  is  a  God,  Apollo  is  no 
joints  not  easily  bent.  We  are  slow  to  think,  more!"* 
and  therefore  impressions  do  not  work  upon  35 

us  till  they  act  in  masses.    We  are  not  forward  TMMORTAT  TTY 

to  express  our  feelings,  and  therefore  they  do  ON  THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY 
not  come  from  us  till  they  force  their  way  in  IN    lOUlH 

the  most  impetuous  eloquence.    Our  language  ^^1^.^^^^^  Winterslow,  1850)  0-^^  ^  '^  " 

is,  as  it  were,  to  begin  anew,  and  we  make  use  of  40  G       v 

the  most  singular  and  boldest  combinations  to  No  young  man  believes  he  shall  ever  die. 
explain  ourselves.  Our  wit  comes  from  us,  It  was  a  saying  of  my  brother's,  and  a  fine  one. 
"like  birdlime,  brains  and  all.''^  We  pay  too  There  is  a  feeling  of  Eternity  in  youth  which 
little  attention  to  form  and  method,  leave  our  makes  us  amends  for  everything.  To  be  young 
works  in  an  unfinished  state,  but  still  the  ma-  45  is  to  be  one  of  the  Immortals.  One  haK  of 
terials  we  work  in  are  solid  and  of  nature's  time  indeed  is  spent — the  other  half  remains 
mint;  we  do  not  deal  in  counterfeits.  We  both  in  store  for  us  with  all  its  countless  treasures, 
under  and  overdo,  but  we  keep  an  eye  to  the  for  th^e  is  no  line  drawn,  and  we  see  no  limit 
prominent  features,  the  main  chance.  We  to  our  hopes  and  wishes.  We  make  the  coming 
are  more  for  weight  than  show;  care  only  about  50  age  our  own — 

what  interests  ourselves,  instead  of  trying  to  „^^  ^^^  ^^^  unbounded  prospect  lies  before 
impose  upon  others  by  plausible  appearances,  ^g  »i 

and  are  obstinate  and  intractable  in  not  con- 
forming to  common  rules,  by  which  many  ar-     Death,  old  age,  are  words  without  a  meaning, 
rive  at  their  ends  with  half  the  real  waste  of  55  a  dream,  a  fiction,  with  which  we  have  nothing 

thought  and  trouble.     We  neglect  all  but  the  2  xhe  work  ever  excelled  the  matter.    Ovid,  Met.  II.  5. 

8  i.  e.  more  of  nature  than  of  art. 
'  Quoted  from  memory  from  Othello,  Il/i.  127.     Bird-  *  Quoted  from  Lyly's  play  Midas,  Act  IV.  1 

lime  is  a  sticky  substance  used  to  spread  on  twigs  for  i  "The  wide,  th   unbounded  prospect  hes  before  me.  , 

the  purpose  of  catching  birds.  Addison's  Cato,  V.  x.  13.     V.  p.  295- 


670  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

to  do.    Others  may  have  undergone,  or  may  has  no  effect  upon  us.     Casualties  we  avoid; 

still    undergo    them— we    "bear    a    charmed  the  slow  approaches  of  age  we  play  at  Aic?e  ond 

life,"*  which  laughs  to  scorn  all  such  idle  fan-  seek  with.     Like  the  foolish  fat  scullion  in 

ciea.    As,  in  setting  out  on  a  deUghtful  journey,  Sterne/  who  hears  that  Master  Bobby  is  dead, 

we  strain  our  eager  sight  forward,  Sour  only  reflection  is,  "So  am  not  I!"     The 

_. . ..       ,     ,      ,                  ,  J.  ^         u  -1  »a  idea  of  death,  instead  of  staggering  our  con- 

"Bidding  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail,  g^^^^^^  ^^ly  ^^^^^  ^^  strengthen  and  enhance 

and  see  no  end  to  prospect  after  prospect,  new  our  sense  of  the  possession  and  enjoyment  of 
objects  presenting  themselves  as  we  advance,  life.  Others  may  fall  around  us  like  leaves,  or 
80  in  the  outset  of  life  we  see  no  end  to  our  de- 10  be  mowed  down  by  the  scythe  of  Time  like 
ares  nor  to  the  opportunities  of  gratifying  grass:  these  are  but  metaphors  to  the  unre- 
them.  We  have  as  yet  found  no  obstacle,  no  fleeting,  buoyant  ears  and  overweening  pre- 
diapoeition  to  flag,  and  it  seems  that  we  can  sumption  of  youth.  It  is  not  till  we  see  the 
go  on  so  forever.  We  look  round  in  a  new  flowers  of  Love,  Hope,  and  Joy  withering 
world,  full  of  life  and  motion,  and  ceaseless  15  around  us,  that  we  give  up  the  flattering  de- 
progress,  and  feel  in  ourselves  all  the  vigour  lusions  that  before  led  us  on,  and  that  the 
and  spirit  to  keep  pace  with  it,  and  do  not  fore-  emptiness  and  dreariness  of  the  prospect  be- 
see  from  any  present  signs  how  we  shall  be  fore  us  reconciles  us  hypothetically  to  the 
left  behind  in  the  race,  decline  into  old  age,     silence  of  the  grave. 

and  drop  into  the  grave.  It  is  the  simplicity  20  Life  is  indeed  a  strange  gift,  and  its  privi- 
and,  as  it  were,  abstractedness  of  our  feelings  leges  are  most  mysterious.  No  wonder  when 
in  youth  that  (so  to  speak)  identifies  us  with  it  is  first  granted  to  us,  that  our  gratitude,  our 
nature  and  (our  experience  being  weak  and  admiration,  and  our  delight  should  prevent 
our  passions  strong)  makes  us  fancy  ourselves  us  from  reflecting  on  our  own  nothingness,  or 
immortal  like  it.  Our  short-Uved  connection  25  from  thinking  it  will  ever  be  recalled.  Our 
with  being,  we  fondly  flatter  ourselves,  is  an  first  and  strongest  impressions  are  borrowed 
indissoluble  and  lasting  union.  As  infants  from  the  mighty  scene  that  is  opened  to  us,  and 
■mile  and  sleep,  we  are  rocked  in  the  cradle  of  we  unconsciously  transfer  its  durability  as 
our  desires,  and  hushed  into  fancied  security  well  as  its  splendour  to  ourselves.  So  newly 
by  the  roar  of  the  universe  around  us— we  quaff  30  found,  we  cannot  think  of  parting  with  it  yet, 
the  cup  of  life  with  eager  thirst  without  drain-  or  at  least  put  off  that  consideration  sine  die.^ 
ing  it,  and  joy  and  hope  seem  ever  mantling  Like  a  rustic  at  a  fair,  we  are  full  of  amazement 
to  the  brim — objects  press  around  us,  filling  and  rapture,  and  have  no  thought  of  going 
the  mind  with  their  magnitude  and  with  the  home,  or  that  it  will  soon  be  night.  We  know 
throng  of  desires  that  wait  upon  them,  so  that  35  our  existence  only  by  ourselves,  and  confound 
there  is  no  room  for  the  thoughts  of  death.  We  our  knowledge  with  the  objects  of  it.  We  and 
are  too  much  dazzled  by  the  gorgeousness  and  Nature  are  therefore  one.  Otherwise  the  illu- 
novelty  of  the  bright  waking  dream  about  us  sion,  the  "feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul,"^ 
to  discern  the  dim  shadow  lingering  for  us  in  to  which  we  are  invited,  is  a  mockery  and  a 
the  distance.  Nor  would  the  hold  that  life  40  cruel  insult.  We  do  not  go  from  a  play  till  the 
has  taken  of  us  permit  us  to  detach  our  thoughts  last  act  is  ended,  and  the  lights  are  about  to 
that  way,  even  if  we  could.  We  are  too  much  be  extinguished.  But  the  fairy  face  of  Nature 
absorbed  in  present  objects  and  pursuits,  still  shines  on:  shall  we  be  called  away  before 
While  the  spint  of  youth  remains  unimpaired,  the  curtain  falls,  or  ere  we  have  scarce  had  a 
ere  "the  wine  of  Ufe  is  drunk,"^  we  are  like  45  glimpse  of  what  is  going  on?  Like  children,  our 
people  intoxicated  or  in  a  fever,  who  are  hurried  step-mother  Nature  holds  us  up  to  see  the 
away  by  the  violence  of  their  own  sensations:  raree-show^  of  the  universe,  and  then,  as  if 
It  18  only  as  present  objects  begin  to  paU  upon  we  were  a  burden  to  her  to  support,  lets  us  fall 
the  sense,  as  we  have  been  disappointed  in  our  down  again.  Yet  what  brave  sublunary  things 
favounte  pursmts,  cut  off  from  our  closest  60  does  not  this  pageant  present,  like  a  baU  or 
tics,  that  we  by  degrees  become  weaned  from     fUe  of  the  universe! 

the  world,  that  passion  loosens  its  hold  upon         To  see  the  golden  sun,  the  azure  sky,  the 
futurity,  Mid  that  we  begin  to  contemplate  as     out-stretched  ocean;  to  walk  upon  the  green 

!r?.?^!!^^^n^^t^'!u'^^^''^^^^l"«r*^     ^^^*^'  ^^^  be  lord  of  a  thousand  creatures; 
It  for  good.    Till  then,  the  example  of  others  65 

«Cf.  MacbHh  V  viiL  12  ^^r?V^"*J""*  Shandy,  Bk.  V,  ch.  7. 

•  "Still  it  whisoered  nromiwvi  r»fp«j.iir«  *      Without  day,  '  a  legal  or  parliamentary  phrase  used 

And  bid  TheTydy  £™n^1r&'S^hailF''  lembS"'^"^'^*  '"''"^  ^^'^^'^^  ^^^^^  ^  ^^^  ^°^  '^ 


,-,-   „    ,    ,    Collins,  Ode  On  The  Passions.  ^  Pone  Satirpa  T   19R 

•Cf.  !/«»«*,  n.ui.  100.  ••Tbewiae.rflif.i.dr.wB.-         •iXwSSd'kblui  in  a  box.  like,  puppet  show. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  571 

to  look  down  yawning  precipices  or  over  distant  intricacies  of  nature.  What  a  prospect  for 
sunny  vales;  to  see  the  world  spread  out  under  the  future!  What  a  task  have  we  not  begun  I 
one's  feet  on  a  map;  to  bring  the  stars  near;  to  And  shall  we  be  arrested  in  the  middle  of  it? 
view  the  smallest  insects  through  a  microscope;  We  do  not  count  our  time  thus  employed  lost, 
to  read  history,  and  consider  the  revolutions  5  or  our  pains  thrown  away;  we  do  not  flag  or 
of  empire  and  the  successions  of  generations;  grow  tired,  but  gain  new  vigour  at  our  endless 
to  hear  of  the  glory  of  Tyre,  of  Sidon,  of  Baby-  task.  Shall  Time,  then,  grudge  us  to  finish 
Ion,  and  of  Susa,^  and  to  say  all  these  were  be-  what  we  have  begun,  and  have  formed  a  com- 
fore  me  and  are  now  nothing;  to  say  I  exist  in  pact  with  Nature  to  do?  Why  not  fill  up  the 
such  a  point  of  time,  and  in  such  a  point  of  lo  blank  that  is  left  us  in  this  manner?  I  have 
space;  to  be  a  spectator  and  a  part  of  its  ever-  looked  for  hours  at  a  Rembrandt  without  being 
moving  scene;  to  witness  the  change  of  season,  conscious  of  the  flight  of  time,  but  with  ever 
of  spring  and  autumn,  of  winter  and  summer;  new  wonder  and  delight,  have  thought  that 
to  feel  hot  and  cold,  pleasure  and  pain,  beauty  not  only  my  own  but  another  existence  I  could 
and  deformity,  right  and  wrong;  to  be  sensible  15  pass  in  the  same  manner.  This  rarefied,  re- 
to  the  accidents  of  nature;  to  consider  the  fined  existence  seemed  to  have  no  end,  nor 
mighty  world  of  eye  and  ear;  to  listen  to  the  stint,  nor  principle  of  decay  in  it.  The  print 
stock-dove's  notes  amid  the  forest  deep;  to  would  remain  long  after  I  who  looked  on  it 
journey  over  moor  and  mountain;  to  hear  the  had  become  the  prey  of  worms.  The  thing 
midnight  sainted  choir;  to  visit  lighted  halls,  20  seems  in  itself  out  of  all  reason:  health,  strength, 
or  the  cathedral's  gloom,  or  sit  in  crowded  appetite  are  opposed  to  the  idea  of  death,  and 
theatres  and  see  life  itself  mocked;  to  study  we  are  not  ready  to  credit  it  till  we  have  found 
the  works  of  art  and  refine  the  sense  of  beauty  our  illusions  vanished,  and  our  hopes  grown  cold. 
to  agony;  to  worship  fame,  and  to  dream  of  Objects  in  youth,  from  novelty,  &c.,  are 
immortality;  to  look  upon  the  Vatican,  and  to  25  stamped  upon  the  brain  with  such  force  and 
read  Shakespeare;  to  gather  up  the  wisdom  of  integrity  that  one  thinks  nothing  can  remove 
the  ancients,  and  to  pry  into  the  future;  to  or  obliterate  them.  They  are  riveted  there, 
listen  to  the  trump  of  war,  the  shout  of  vie-  and  appear  to  us  as  an  element  of  our  nature, 
tory;  to  question  history  as  to  the  movements  It  must  be  a  mere  violence  that  destroys  them, 
of  the  human  heart;  to  seek  for  truth;  to  plead  30  not  a  natural  decay.  In  the  very  strength  or 
the  cause  of  humanity;  to  overlook  the  world  this  persuasion  we  seem  to  enjoy  an  age  by 
as  if  time  and  nature  poured  their  treasures  anticipation.  We  melt  down  years  into  a 
at  our  feet — to  be  and  to  do  all  this  and  then  single  moment  of  intense  sympathy,  and  by 
in  a  moment  to  be  nothing — to  have  it  all  anticipating  the  fruits  defy  the  ravages  of  time, 
snatched  from  us  as  by  a  juggler's  trick,  or  a  35  If,  then,  a  single  moment  of  our  hves  is  worth 
phantasmagoria!  There  is  something  in  this  years,  shall  we  set  any  limits  to  its  total  value 
transition  from  all  to  nothing  that  shocks  us  and  extent?  Again,  does  it  not  happen  that 
and  damps  the  enthusiasm  of  youth  new  so  secure  do  we  think  ourselves  of  an  indefinite 
flushed  with  hope  and  pleasure,  and  we  cast  period  of  existence,  that  at  times,  when  left  to 
the  comfortless  thought  as  far  from  us  as  we  40  ourselves,  and  impatient  of  novelty,  we  feel 
can.  In  the  first  enjoyment  of  the  estate  of  annoyed  at  what  seems  to  us  the  slow  and 
life  we  discard  the  fear  of  debts  and  duns,  and  creeping  progress  of  time,  and  argue  that  if  it 
never  think  of  the  final  payment  of  our  great  always  moves  at  this  tedious  snail's  pace  it 
debt  to  Nature.  Art  we  know  is  long;  life,  we  will  never  come  to  an  end?  How  ready  are  we 
flatter  ourselves,  should  be  so  too.  We  see  no  45  to  sacrifice  any  space  of  time  which  separates 
end  of  the  difficulties  and  delays  we  have  to  us  from  a  favourite  object,  little  thinking  that 
encounter:  perfection  is  slow  of  attainment,  before  long  we  shall  find  it  move  too  fast, 
and  we  must  have  time  to  accomplish  it  in.  For  my  part,  I  started  in  life  with  the  French 
The  fame  of  the  great  names  we  look  up  to  is  Revolution,  and  I  have  lived,  alas!  to  see  the 
immortal:  and  shall  not  we  who  contemplate  50  end  of  it.  But  I  did  not  foresee  this  result 
it  imbibe  a  portion  of  ethereal  fire,  the  divince  My  sun  arose  with  the  first  dawn  of  liberty, 
particula  auroe,^^  which  nothing  can  extinguish?  and  I  did  not  think  how  soon  both  must  set. 
A  wrinkle  in  Rembrandt  or  in  Nature  takes  The  new  impulse  to  ardour  given  to  men's 
whole  days  to  resolve  itself  into  its  component  minds  imparted  a  congenial  warmth  and  glow 
parts,  its  softenings  and  its  sharpnesses;  we  55  to  mine;  we  were  strong  to  run  a  race  together, 
refine  upon  our  perfections,  and  unfold  the     and  I  little  dreamed  that  long  before  mme  was 

» A  royal  Persian  residence.  ^        .  Set,  the  SUn  of  liberty ^^  WOuld  turn  tO  blood,  or 

'0  "  Particles  of  divine  air."    It  was  the  doctrine  of  the  ..     ti  •        *  rr,  j  .  v 

Pythagoreans  and  the  Stoics  that  our  souls  were  emana-  "  An  allusion  to  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and  the  accession 

tions  from  the  Divine  mind.  of  Napoleon. 


572  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

•et  once  more  in  the  night  of  despotism.  Since  bodily  infirmity,  and  frame  our  minds  to  the 
then  I  oonfefls,  1  have  no  longer  felt  myself  cahn  and  respectable  composure  of  shll-hfe 
youn'g,  for  with  that  my  hopes  fell.  before  we  return  to  physical  nothmgness   it  is 

I  live  since  turned  my  thoughts  to  gather-  a^  much  as  we  can  expect.  We  do  not  die 
ing  up  8ome  of  the  fragments  of  my  early  recol-  6  wholly  at  our  deaths:  we  have  mouldered  away 
lectioDS.  and  putting  them  into  a  form  to  which  gradually  long  before.  Faculty  after  faculty, 
I  might  occasionaUy  revert.  The  future  was  interest  after  interest,  attachment  after  attach- 
barredl  to  my  progress,  and  I  turned  for  con-  ment  disappear:  we  are  torn  from  ourselves 
eolation  and  encouragement  to  the  past.  It  while  hving,  year  after  year  sees  us  no  longer 
is  thus  that,  while  we  find  our  personal  and  10  the  same,  and  death  only  consigns  the  last 
substantial  identity  vanishing  from  us,  we  fragment  of  what  we  were  to  the  grave.  That 
strive  to  gain  a  reflected  and  vicarious  one  in  we  should  wear  out  by  slow  stages,  and  dwindle 
our  thoughts:  we  do  not  hke  to  perish  wholly,  at  last  into  nothing,  is  not  wonderful,  when 
and  wish  to  bequeath  our  names,  at  least,  even  in  our  prime  our  strongest  impressions 
to  posterity.  As  long  as  we  can  make  our  15  leave  little  trace  but  for  the  moment,  and 
cherished  thoughts  and  nearest  interests  live  we  are  the  creatures  of  petty  circumstance. 
in  the  minds  of  others,  we  do  not  appear  to  How  little  effect  is  made  on  us  in  our  best 
have  retired  altogether  from  the  stage.  We  days  by  the  books  we  have  read,  the  scenes 
still  occupy  the  breasts  of  others,  and  exert  an  we  have  witnessed,  the  sensations  we  have 
influence  and  power  over  them,  and  it  is  only  20  gone  through  I  Think  only  of  the  feelings  we 
our  bodies  that  are  reduced  to  dust  and  powder,  experience  in  reading  a  fine  romance  (one  of 
Our  favourite  speculations  still  find  encourage-  Sir  Walter's,  for  instance) ;  what  beauty,  what 
ment,  and  we  make  as  great  a  figure  in  the  eye  sublimity,  what  interest,  what  heart-rending 
of  the  world,  or  perhaps  a  greater,  than  in  our  emotions!  You  would  suppose  the  feelings 
lifetime.  The  demands  of  our  seK-love  are  25  you  then  experienced  would  last  for  ever,  or 
thus  satisfied,  and  these  are  the  most  imperious  subdue  the  mind  to  their  own  harmony  and 
and  unremitting.  Besides,  if  by  our  intellec-  tone:  while  we  are  reading  it  seems  as  if  nothing 
tual  superiority  we  survive  ourselves  in  this  could  ever  put  us  out  of  our  way,  or  trouble 
world,  by  our  virtues  and  faith  we  may  attain  us: — the  first  splash  of  mud  that  we  get  on 
an  interest  in  another,  and  a  higher  state  of  30  entering  the  street,  the  first  twopence  we  are 
being,  and  may  thus  be  recipients^''  at  the  cheated  out  of,  the  feeling  vanishes  clean  out 
same  time  of  men  and  of  angels.  of  our  minds,  and  we  become  the  prey  of  petty 

irr^i      e        xt.    x      i_  xi.        •       /•  xt  x  •  ^nd  aunoying  circumstance.    The  mind  soars 

"E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  ones,      .     ,,  ^  i«fl„.  u  ,0  „+  Ur.r ;,.  +1,^  ^^„«iii^„ 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires."^^  I?  *^^  ^^^^^ '  '\  '^  ^*  ^i'^l!!',  ^^\  grovelling, 

35  the  disagreeable,  and  the  little.  And  yet  we 
As  we  grow  old,  our  sense  of  the  value  of  time  wonder  that  age  should  be  feeble  and  queru- 
beoomes  vivid.  Nothing  else,  indeed,  seems  of  lous, — that  the  freshness  of  youth  should  fade 
any  consequence.  We  can  never  cease  wonder-  away.  Both  worlds  would  hardly  satisfy  the 
ing  that  that  which  has  ever  been  should  cease  extravagance  of  our  desires  and  of  oui-  pre- 
to  be.  We  find  many  things  remain  the  same:  40  sumption, 
why  then  should  there  be  change  in  us.  This 
adds  a  convulsive  grasp  of  whatever  is,  a  sense 

of  a  fallacious  hoUowness  in  all  we  see.    Instead  ©J^Ottiaiflf   SDf    ^^ttttlC^ 

of  the  full,  pulpy  feeUng  of  youth,  tasting  exist- 
ence and  every  object  in  it,  all  is  flat  and  45  (1785-1859) 
vapid, — a  whited  sepulchre,  fair  without,  but 

fuU  of  ravening  and  all  uncleanness  within.  LEVANA  AND  OUR  LADIES  OF 

The  world  is  a  witch  that  puts  us  off  with  false  SORROW 

shows  and   appearances.     The  simpHcity  of  /'t?    _    c       •  •     j     r.    i-     j.      10^1- \ 

youth,  the  confiding  expectation,  the  bound- 50  ^^'^"^  '^^'^^^  ^^  Profundzs,  1845) 
less  raptures,  are  gone:  we  only  think  of  getting  Oftentimes  at  Oxford  I  saw  Levana  in  my 
out  of  It  as  weU  as  we  can,  and  without  any  dreams.  I  knew  her  by  her  Roman  symbols. 
great  mischance  or  annoyance.  The  flush  of  Who  is  Levana?  Reader,  that  do  not  pretend 
Illusion,  even  the  complacent  retrospect  of  ^  have  leisure  for  very  much  scholarship  you 
past  joys  and  hopes.  18  over:  if  we  can  slip  out  55  will  not  be  angry  with  me  for  telling  you. 
of  Me  without  indignity,  can  escape  with  httle  Levana  was  the  Roman  goddess  that  per- 
-biillitS  ■3ri«ri*.v  "  innTA*''*^  °K  ^^'^^.^y  o^r     formed  for  the  newborn  infant  the  earliest 

imeiieciuBj  supenonty,    and  m  heaven  by  our    virtues       ^a; r  i_t         i  •     i  .     ■,     ,        . 

»ndf«ith."andK,  be  received  by  men  and  by  angels.  ^™^^   O^   ennobling  kindness, — tvpical,   by  itS 

"Or»y'8  Eleoy.  mode,  of  that  grandeur  which  belongs  to  man 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  573 

everywhere,  and  of  that  benignity  in  powers  of  Eton^  require  that  a  boy  on  the  foundation^ 
invisible  which  even  in  Pagan  worlds  some-  should  be  there  twelve  years:  he  is  superan- 
times  descends  to  sustain  it.  At  the  very  nuated^  at  eighteen,  consequently  he  must  come 
moment  of  birth,  just  as  the  infant  tasted  for  at  six.  Children  torn  away  from  mothers  and 
the  first  time  the  atmosphere  of  our  troubled  5  sisters  at  that  age  not  unfrequently  die.  I 
planet,  it  was  laid  on  the  ground.  That  might  speak  of  what  I  know.  The  complaint  is  not 
bear  different  interpretations.  But  immedi-  entered  by  the  registrar  as  grief;  but  that  it  is. 
ately,  lest  so  grand  a  creature  should  grovel  Grief  of  that  sort,  and  at  that  age,  has  killed 
there  for  more  than  one  instant,  either  the  more  than  ever  have  been  counted  among  its 
paternal  hand,  as  proxy  for  the  goddess  Levana,  lo  martyrs. 

or  some  near  kinsman,  as  proxy  for  the  father.  Therefore  it  is  that  Levana  often  communes 

raised  it  upright,  bade  it  look  erect  as  the  king  with  the  powers  that  shake  man's  heart:  there- 
of all  this  world,  and  presented  its  forehead  to  fore  it  is  that  she  dotes  upon  grief.  ''These 
the  stars,  saying,  perhaps  in  his  heart,  "Behold  ladies,"  said  I  softly  to  myself,  on  seeing  the 
what  is  greater  than  yourselves!"  This  sym- 15 ministers  with  whom  Levana  was  conversing, 
bolic  act  represented  the  function  of  Levana.  "these  are  the  Sorrows;  and  they  are  three  in 
And  that  mysterious  lady,  who  never  revealed  number,  as  the  Graces  are  three,  who  dress 
her  face  (except  to  me  in  dreams),  but  always  man's  life  with  beauty:  the  ParcoB  are  three, 
acted  by  delegation,  had  her  name  from  the  who  weave  the  dark  arras  of  man's  life  in  their 
Latin  verb  (as  still  it  is  the  Italian  verb)  levare,  20  mysterious  loom  always  with  colours  sad  in 
to  raise  aloft.  part,  sometimes  angry  with  tragic  crimson  and 

This  is  the  explanation  of  Levana.  And  black;  the  Furies  are  three,  who  visit  with 
hence  it  has  arisen  that  some  people  have  retributions  called  from  the  other  side  of  the 
understood  by  Levana  the  tutelary  power  that  grave  offences  that  walk  upon  this;  and  at  once 
controls  the  education  of  the  nursery.  She,  25  even  the  Muses^  were  but  three,  who  fit  the 
that  would  not  suffer  at  his  birth  even  a  pre-  harp,  the  trumpet,  or  the  lute,^  to  the  great 
figurative  or  mimic  degradation  for  her  awful  burdens  of  man's  impassioned  creations, 
ward,  far  less  could  be  supposed  to  suffer  the  These  are  the  Sorrows,  all  three  of  whom  I 
real  degradation  attaching  to  the  non-develop-  know."  The  last  words  I  say  now;  but  in 
ment  of  his  powers.  She  therefore,  watches  30  Oxford^  I  said,  "one  of  whom  I  know,  and  the 
over  human  education.  Now,  the  word  educo,  ,  others  too  surely  I  shall  know."  For  already, 
with  the  penultimate  short,  was  derived  (by  a  in  my  fervent  youth,  I  saw  (dimly  relieved 
process  often  exemplified  in  the  crystallization  upon  the  dark  background  of  my  dreams)  the 
of  languages)  from  the  word  edOco,  with  the  imperfect  Hneaments  of  the  awful  sisters. 
penultimate  long.  Whatsoever  educes,  or  de-  35  These  sisters — by  what  name  shall  we  call 
velops,  educates.    By  the  education  of  Levana,      them? 

therefore,  is  meant, — not  the  poor  machinery  If  I  say  simply,  "The  Sorrows,"  there  will  be 

that  moves  by  spelling-books  and  grammars,  a  chance  of  mistaking  the  term;  it  might  be 
but  by  that  mighty  system  of  central  forces  hid-  understood  of  individual  sorrow, — separate 
den  in  the  deep  bosom  of  human  fife,  which  by  40  cases  of  sorrow, — whereas  I  want  a  term  ex- 
passion,  by  strife,  by  temptation,  by  the  ener-  pressing  the  mighty  abstractions  that  incar- 
gies  of  resistance,  works  forever  upon  children,  nate  themselves  in  all  individual  sufferings  of 
— resting  not  day  or  night,  any  more  than  the  man's  heart;  and  I  wish  to  have  these  abstrac- 
mighty  wheel  of  day  and  night  themselves,  tions  presented  as  impersonations,  that  is,  as 
whose  moments,  like  restless  spokes,  are  ghm-  45  clothed  with  human  attributes  of  life,  and  with 
mering  forever  as  they  revolve.  functions  pointing  to  flesh.    Let  us  call  them 

If,  then,  these  are  the  ministries  by  which  therefore.  Our  Ladies  of  Sorrow.  I  know  them 
Levana  works,  how  profoundly  must  she  rever-         ,  ^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  aristocratic  of  the  "public 

ence  the  agencies  of  grief!  But  you,  reader!  schools"  in  England.  It  is  situated  on  the  Thames  op- 
think,— that  children  generally  are  not  liable  50  PO|ig^Windsor,and^wa9  founded  by  Henry  VI  in  1441. 
to  grief  such  as  mine.     There  are  two  senses  in  2  There  are  about  seventy  boys  on  the  foundation  or 

the  word  generally -the  sense  of  Euclid,  where      -??™Si'red  t"'^vl  "oo'ttift  age. 

it   means   universally    (or   in    the   whole   extent  <  Pausanius  states  that  originally  three  muses   were 

^f  fV.«  /»«*,-., o^  oTirl  o  fr^r>li"c>^  Q^nQP  nf  tViiq  wnrld  Worshipped  on  Mount  Helicon,  namely,  MeletS  (Medita- 
Ot  the  genus),  and  a  tOOllsn  sense  01  tniS  WOria,        ^.^^^^  Mneme  (Memory),  and  AoedS  (Song). 

where  it  means  usually.     Now,  I  am  far  from  55      5  Each  instrument  seems  chosen  by  De  Quincey  to 

saying  that  children  universally  are  capable  of      ^^It^.f^^Hhe  VrnZp^ttr^a'So tif^  "^^  'Z^ 

grief  like  mine.     But  there  are  more  than  you       ardor;  and  the  lute  for  love  and  sentiment. 

ever  heard  of  who  die  of  grief  in  this  island  of  ,,;  De  quincg,  ^"'V^^^-\:[':ZXliS'ifflSy 
ours.    I  will  tell  you  a  common  case.    The  rules       there  that  he  began  the  use  of  opium. 


674  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

thorouahly.  and  have  walked  in  all  their  king-  open  every  cottage  and  every  palace.  She, 
doms  Three  sisters  they  are,  of  one  mys-  to  my  knowledge,  sat  all  last  summer  by  the 
terioiia  household;  and  their  paths  are  wide  bedside  of  the  bUnd  beggar,  him  that  so  often 
apart'  but  of  their  dominion  there  is  no  end.  and  so  gladly  I  talked  with,  whose  pious 
xSem  I  saw  often  conversing  with  Levana,  and  5  daughter  eight  years  old,  with  the  sunny 
sometimes  about  myself.  Do  they  talk,  then?  countenance,  resisted  the  temptations  of  play 
Oh  no!  Mighty  phantoms  like  these  disdain  and  viUage  mirth  to  travel  all  day  long  on 
the  infirmities  of  language.  They  may  utter  dusty  roads  with  her  afflicted  father.  For  this 
voioes  through  the  organs  of  man  when  they  did  God  send  her  a  great  reward.  In  the  spring- 
dweU  in  human  hearts,  but  amongst  themselves  10  time  of  the  year,  and  whilst  yet  her  own  spring 
is  no  voice  nor  sound;  eternal  silence  reigns  in  was  budding,  he  recalled  ner  to  himself.  But 
their  kingdoms.  They  spoke  not,  as  they  talked  her  blind  father  mourns  forever  oyer  her;  still 
with  Levana;  they  whispered  not;  they  sang  he  dreams  at  midnight  that  the  little  guiding 
not;  though  oftentimes  methought  they  might  hand  is  locked  within  his  own;  and  still  he 
have  sung:  for  1  upon  earth  had  heard  their  15  wakens  to  a  darkness  that  is  now  within  a 
mysteries  oftentimes  deciphered  by  harp  and  second  and  a  deeper  darkness.  This  Mater 
timbrel,  by  dulcimer  and  organ.  Like  God,  Lachrymarum  also  has  been  sitting  all  this 
wboee  servants  they  are,  they  utter  their  winter  ^  of  1844^5  within  the  bedchamber  of  the 
pleasure  not  by  sounds  that  perish,  or  by  Czar,  bringing  before  his  eyes  a  daughter  (not 
wonls  that  go  astray,  but  by  signs  in  heaven,  20  less  pious)  that  vanished  to  God  not  less  sud- 
by  changes  on  earth,  by  pulses  in  secret  rivers,  denly,  and  left  behind  her  a  darkness  not  less 
heraldries  painted  on  darkness,  and  hiero-  profound.  By  the  power  of  the  keys  it  is  that 
gl><phics  written  on  the  tablets  of  the  brain.  Our  Lady  of  Tears  glides  a  ghostly  intruder 
They  wheeled  in  mazes;  /  spelled  the  steps,  into  the  chambers  of  sleepless  men,  sleepless 
They  telegraphed  from  afar;  /  read  the  signals.  25  women,  sleepless  children,  from  Ganges  to  the 
They  conspired  together;  and  on  the  mirrors  of  Nile,  from  Nile  to  Mississippi.  And  her,  be- 
darkness  my  eye  traced  the  plots.  Theirs  were  cause  she  is  the  first-born  of  her  house,  and 
the  symbols;  mine  are  the  words.  has  the  widest  empire,  let  us  honour  with  the 

What  is  it  the  sisters  are?  What  is  it  that  title  of  "Madonna." 
they  do?  Let  me  describe  their  form,  and  their  30  The  second  sister  is  called  Mater  SiLspiriorum, 
presence;  if  form  it  were  that  still  fluctuated  Our  Lady  of  Sighs.  She  never  scales  the 
in  its  outUne;  or  presence  it  were  that  forever  clouds,  nor  walks  abroad  upon  the  winds. 
advanced  to  the  front,  or  forever  receded  She  wears  no  diadem.  And  her  eyes,  if  they 
amongst  shades.  were  ever  seen,  would  be  neither  sweet  nor 

The  eldest  of  the  three  is  named  Afo^er  35  subtle;  no  man  could  read  their  story;  they 
Lachrymarum,  Our  Lady  of  Tears.  She  it  is  would  be  found  filled  with  perishing  dreams, 
that  night  and  day  raves  and  moans,  calUng  and  with  wrecks  of  forgotten  deUrium.  But 
for  vanished  faces.  She  stood  ii^  Rama,^  she  raises  not  her  eyes;  her  head,  on  which  sits  a 
where  a  voice  was  heard  of  lamentation, —  dilapidated  turban,  droops  forever,  forever 
Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and  refused  40  fastens  on  the  dust.  She  weeps  not.  She 
to  be  comforted.  She  it  was  that  stood  in  groans  not.  But  she  sighs  inaudibly  at  in- 
Bethlehem  on  the  night  when  Herod's  sword  tervals.  Her  sister.  Madonna,  is  oftentimes 
swept  its  nurseries  of  Innocents,  and  the  httle  stormy  and  frantic,  raging  in  the  highest 
feet  were  stiffened  forever,  which,  heard  at  against  heaven,  and  demanding  back  her 
times  as  they  tottered  along  floors  overhead,  45  darlings.  But  Our  Lady  of  Sighs  never  clam- 
woke  pulses  of  love  in  household  hearts  that  ours,  never  defies,  dreams  not  of  rebellious 
were  not  unmarked  in  heaven.  aspirations.      She   is   humble   to    abjectness. 

Her  eyes  are  sweet  and  subtle,  wild  and  Hers  is  the  meekness  that  belongs  to  the  hope- 
sleepy,  by  turns;  oftentimes  rising  to  the  less.  Murmur  she  may,  but  it  is  in  her  sleep. 
cbuds,  oftentimes  chaUenging  the  heavens.  50  Whisper  she  may,  but  it  is  to  herself  in  the 
She  X7^  a  diadem  round  her  head.  And  I  twilight.  Mutter  she  does  at  times,  but  it  is 
knew  by  childish  memones  that  she  could  go  in  solitary  places  that  are  desolate  as  she  is 
abroad  unon  the  winds,  when  she  heard  that  desolate,  in  ruined  cities,  and  when  the  sun 
Bobbmg-of  htanies,  or  the  thundering  of  organs,  has  gone  down  to  his  rest.  This  sister  is  the 
and  when  she  beheld  the  mustering  of  summer  55 

clouds.     This  sister,  the  elder,  it  is  that  carries       ^  ^^^  Pope,  as  the  successor  of  St.  Peter,  are  given  the 

keys  more  than  papal'  at  her  girdle,  which     "'TT^.'hlSXZit'T^^i  London  in  June.  1844. 

»J«r«niaA  Tirt   l=i«T,HW    Tif^tt    a   ta  The  death  of  his  daughter,  the  Princess  Alexandra,  in  the 

.irXiio"£-.'£  t^^Jin^'aS'e'fc^  Chuxeh  th.t      IS 'fend^"*""'  ^""^  ""^"''"  '^'^""^  '"  "" 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  575 

visitor  of  the  Pariah,  1°  of  the  Jew,^^  of  the  for  ebbing  or  for  flowing  tide,  may  be  read  from 
bondsman  to  the  oar  in  the  Mediterranean  the  very  ground.  She  is  the  defier  of  God. 
galleys;  of  the  English  criminal  in  Norfolk  She  also  is  the  mother  of  lunacies,  and  the 
Island,  12  blotted  out  from  the  books  of  remem-  suggestress  of  suicides.  Deep  Ue  the  roots  of 
brance  in  sweet  far-off  England;  of  the  baffled  5 her  power;  but  narrow  is  the  nation  that  she 
penitent  reverting  his  eyes  forever  upon  a  rules.  For  she  can  approach  only  those  in 
solitary  grave,  which  to  him  seems  the  altar  whom  a  profound  nature  has  been  upheaved 
overthrown  of  some  past  and  bloody  sacrifice,  by  central  convulsions;  in  whom  the  heart 
on  which  altar  no  obligations  can  now  be  trembles  and  the  brain  rocks  under  conspiracies 
availing,  whether  towards  pardon  that  heioof  tempest  from  without  and  tempest  from 
might  implore,  or  towards  reparation  that  he  within.  Madonna  moves  with  uncertain 
might  attempt.  Every  slave  that  at  noonday  steps,  fast  or  slow,  but  still  with  tragic  grace, 
looks  up  to  the  tropical  sun  with  timid  re-  Our  Lady  of  Sighs  creeps  timidly  and  stealthily, 
proach,  as  he  points  with  one  hand  to  the  earth,  But  this  youngest  sister  moves  with  incalculable 
our  general  mother,  but  for  him  a  stepmother,  is  motions,  bounding,  and  with  a  tiger's  leaps. 
— as  he  points  with  the  other  hand  to  the  Bible,  She  carries  no  key;  for,  though  coming  rarely 
our  general  teacher,  but  against  him  sealed  and  amongst  men,  she  storms  all  doors  at  which 
sequestered; — every  woman  sitting  in  dark-  she  is  permitted  to  enter  at  all.  And  her  name 
iess,  without  love  to  shelter  her  head,  or  hope  is  Mater  Tenebrarum, — Our  Lady  of  Darkness, 
to  illumine  her  solitude,  because  the  heaven- 20  These  were  the  Semnai  Theai,^^  or  Sublime 
born  instincts  kindling  in  her  nature  germs  of  Goddesses,  these  were  the  Eumenides,  or  Gra- 
holy  affections,  which  God  implanted  in  her  cious  Ladies  (so  called  by  antiquity  in  shudder- 
womanly  bosom,  having  been  stifled  by  social  ing  propitiation),  of  my  Oxford  dreams.  Ma- 
necessities,  now  burn  sullenly  to  waste,  Uke  donna  spoke.  She  spoke  by  her  mysterious 
sepulchral  lamps  amongst  the  ancients;  every  25  hand.  Touching  my  head,  she  beckoned  to 
nun  defrauded  of  her  unreturning  May-time  by  Our  Lady  of  Sighs;  and  what  she  spoke,  trans- 
wicked  kinsman,  whom  God  will  judge;  every  lated  out  of  the  signs  which  (except  in  dreams) 
captive  in  every  dungeon;  all  that  are  be-  no  man  reads;  was  this: — 
trayed,  and  all  that  are  rejected;  outcasts  by  "Lo!  here  is  he,  whom  in  childhood  I  dedi- 

traditionary  law,  and  children  of  hereditary  30  csLted  to  my  altars.  This  is  he  that  once  I 
disgrace, — all  these  walk  with  Our  Lady  of  made  my  darling.  Him  I  led  astray,  him  I 
Sighs.  She  also  carries  a  key;  but  she  needs  it  beguiled,  and  from  heaven  I  stole  away  his 
httle.  For  her  kingdom  is  chiefly  amongst  the  young  heart  to  mine.  Through  me  did  he  be- 
tents  of  Shem,i3  and  the  houseless  vagrant  of  come  idolatrous;  and  through  me  it  was,  by 
every  chme.  Yet  in  the  very  highest  ranks  of  35  languishing  desires,  that  he  worshipped  the 
man  she  finds  chapels  of  her  own;  and  even  in  worm  and  prayed  to  the  wormy  grave.  Holy 
glorious  England  there  are  some  that,  to  the  was  the  grave  to  him;  lovely  was  its  darkness; 
world,  carry  their  heads  as  proudly  as  the  saintly  its  corruption.  Him,  this  young  idolater, 
reindeer,  yet  who  secretly  have  received  her  I  have  seasoned  for  thee,  dear  gentle  Sister  of 
mark  upon  their  foreheads.  40  Sighs!     Do  thou  take  him  now  to  thy  heart. 

But  the  third  sister,  who  is  also  the  young-  and  season  him  for  our  dreadful  sister.  And 
est — I  Hush!  whisper  whilst  we  talk  of  her!  thou," — turning  to  the  Mater  Tenebrarum,  she 
Her  kingdom  is  not  large,  or  else  no  flesh  should  said,  "wicked  sister,  that  temptest  and  hatest, 
live;  but  within  that  kingdom  all  power  is  hers,  do  thou  take  him  from  her.  See  that  thy 
Her  head,  turreted  Uke  that  of  Cybele,!*  raises  45  sceptre  ijg  heavy  on  his  head.  Suffer  not 
her  almost  beyond  the  reach  of  sight.  She  woman  and  her  tenderness  to  sit  near  him  in 
droops  not;  and  her  eyes  rising  so  high  might  his  darkness.  Banish  the  frailties  of  hope, 
be  hidden  by  distance.  But,  being  what  they  wither  the  relenting  of  love,  scorch  the  foun- 
are,  they  cannot  be  hidden;  through  the  treble  tains  of  tears,  curse  him  as  only  thou  canst 
veil  of  crape  that  she  wears,  the  fierce  light  of  50  curse.  So  shall  he  be  accomplished ^^  in  the 
a  blazing  misery,  that  rests  not  for  matins  or  furnace,  so  shall  he  see  the  things  that  ought 
for  vespers,  for  noon  of  day  or  noon  of  night,      not  to  be  seen,  sights  that  are  abominable,  and 

secrets  that  are  unutterable.    So  shall  he  read 

10  A  low  caste  Hindoo,  employed  in  India  for  menial  elder  truths,  sad  truths,  grand  truths,  fearful 
'^^lUn^lSnToTe^ierrible  persecutions  of  ^^  55  truths.     So  shall  he  rise  again  before  he  dies. 

"  A  British  Island  off  the  east  coast  of  Austraha,  form-  J^^  gO  ghall  our  commission  be  accomplished 
erly  the  site  of  a  penal  colony.  ,  ,      xu    t^    •  n  j  •  u 

13  Cf  Genesis  ix    27  "  Another  name  for  the  Furies,  called  setnnat,  or  sub- 

i<The  wife  of  Chro'nos  and  mother  of  the  gods;  in       lime,  in  "shuddering  propitiation"  by  the  Athenians, 
early  Greek  mythology,  represented  as  sitting  between       who  worshipped  them, 
lions  with  a  mural  orown  on  her  head.  "  Perfected,  made  complete. 


676  THE   AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

which  from  God  we  had-to  plague  his  heart  of  discord  yet  all  obedient  as  slaves  to  the 
un  U  wrSadunfolded  the  capacities  of  his  supreme  bdton  of  some  great  leader  termmate 
uniii  wc  uau  uti  f  .^  ^  perfection  of  harmony  like  that  of  heart, 

*'P"'  brain,  and  lungs,  in  a  healthy  animal  organisa- 

5tion.     But,   finally,   that   particular   element 

THE  ENGLISH   MAIL-COACH  in   this  whole  combination  which  most  im- 

jg49  pressed  myself,  and  through  which  it  is  that 

to  this  hour  Mr.  Palmer's  mail-coach  system 

(Abridged)  tyrannises   over   my   dreams   by   terror   and 

Sfption  the  First  lO  terrific  beauty,  lay  in  the  awful  polilical  mis- 

Section  the  l-iRST  ^.^^  ^^.^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^.^^  .^  fulfiUed.    The  mail- 

THE  GLORY  OF  MOTION  coach  it  was  that  distributed  over  the  face  of 

Some  twenty  or  more  years  before  I  matricu-  the  land,  Uke  the  opening  of  apocalyptic  vials, 
lated  at  Oxford,  Mr.  Palmer,^  at  that  time  the  heart-shaking  news  of  Trafalgar  of  Sala- 
M.P.  for  Bath,  had  accomplished  two  things,  I5manca,  of  Vittona,  of  Waterloo.^  These  were 
very  haid  to  do  on  our  little  planet,  the  Earth,  the  harvests  that,  in  the  grandeur  of  their 
however  cheap  they  may  be  held  by  eccentric  reaping,  redeemed  the  tears  and  blood  m 
people  in  comets— he  had  invented  mail-  which  they  had  been  sown.  Neither  was  the 
coaches,  and  he  had  married  the  daughter  of  a  meanest  peasant  so  much  below  the  grandeur 
duke.  He  was,  therefore,  just  twice  as  great  20  and  the  sorrow  of  the  times  as  to  confound 
a  man  as  Galileo,  who  did  certainly  invent  battles  such  as  these,  which  were  gradually 
(or,  which  is  the  same  thing,  discover)  the  moulding  the  destinies  of  (^hristendom,  with 
satellites  of  Jupiter,  those  very  next  things  the  vulgar  conflicts  of  ordinary  warfare,  so 
extant  to  mail-cf)aches  in  the  two  capital  pre-  often  no  more  than  gladiatorial  trials  of  na- 
tensions  of  speed  and  keeping  time,  but,  on25tional  prowess.  The  victories  of  England  in 
the  other  hand,  who  did  not  marry  the  daughter  this  stupendous  contest  rose  of  themselves  as 
of  a  duke.  natural  Te  Deums  to  heaven;  and  it  was  felt 

These  mail-coaches,  as  organised  by  Mr.  by  the  thoughtful  that  such  victories,  at  such 
Palmer,  are  entitled  to  a  circumstantial  notice  a  crisis  of  general  prostration,  were  not  more 
from  myself,  having  had  so  large  a  share  in  30  beneficial  to  ourselves  than  finally  to  France, 
developing  the  anarchies  of  ray  subsequent  our  enemy,  and  to  the  nations  of  all  w^tern 
dreams;  an  agency  which  they  accomplished,  or  central  Europe,  through  whose  pusillanimity 
1st,  through  velocity,  at  that  time  unprece-  it  was  that  the  French  domination  had  pros- 
dented— for  they  first  revealed  the  glory  of     pered.  ... 

motion;  2ndly,  through  grand  effects  for  the  35  No  dignity  is  perfect  which  does  not  at  some 
eye  between  lamp-light  and  the  darkness  upon  point  ally  itself  with  the  mysterious.  The 
solitary  roads;  3rdly,  through  animal  beauty  connection  of  the  mail  with  the  state  and  the 
and  power  so  often  displayed  in  the  class  of  executive  government — a  connection  obvious, 
horses  selected  for  this  mail  service;  4thly,  but  yet  not  strictly  defined — gave  to  the  whole 
through  the  conscious  presence  of  a  central  40  mail  establishment  an  official  grandeur  which 
intellect,  that,  in  the  midst  of  vast  distances —  did  us  service  on  the  roads,  and  invested  us 
of  storms,  of  darkness,  of  danger — overruled  all  with  seasonable  terrors.  Not  the  less  impres- 
obetacles  into  one  steady  co-operation  to  a  sive  were  those  terrors,  because  their  legal 
national  result.  For  my  own  feeling,  this  post-  hmits  were  imperfectly  ascertained.  Look  at 
office  service  spoke  as  by  some  mighty  or- 45  those  turnpike  gates;  with  what  deferential 
chestra,  where  a  thousand  instruments,  all  hurry,  with  what  an  obedient  start,  they  fly 
disregarding  each  other,  and  so  far  in  danger  open  at  our  approach!  Look  at  that  long  line 
» John  Palmer  (1742-1818).  a  public-anirited  citizen  ?^  ^^^^^^  and  Carters  ahead,  audaciously  usurp- 
o(  Bath,  obeerving  "that  the  state-post  wns  the  slowest  mg  the  very  crest  of  the  road.  Ah!  traitors, 
SSj;1h^°Xr.o'°piL'  KS^^^B'Sl'l'li'  &^^^y  do  -ot  hear  us  as  yet;  but  as  soon  as  the 

don.  while  be  could  cover  the  distance  in  one  day.  i&id       dreadful  blast  of  OUT  horn  reaches  them  With 

^ToSJieJ.  ?,tch'°i.rtot.°S,t2n  aT.iiti^rr.'A'e'd  Proclamation  of  our  approach,  see  with  what 
of  8  to  10  miles  an  hour.   After  much  discussion,  in  which      frenzy  of  trepidation  they  fly  to  their  horses' 

Palmer  was  supported  by  Pitt,  but  opposed  by  the  postal  he-ids  and  dpnrppaf  p  our  wrnth  hv  f  hp  nrpoini- 
aulhonties,  a  service  between  Bristol  and  London  was  in-       "^aas,  ana  aeprecaie  OUr  Wratn  oy  ine  precipi- 

Buguratcd.  and  Palmer  himself  despatched  the  first  mail-  55  tation  of  their  crane-neck  Quarterings.'    Trea- 

ooach  from  Bristol.  Aug.  2,  1784.     By  the  autumn  of  1785  g^n  f  hpv  fppl  to  Hp  f  hpir  primP-  papH  individiiflJ 

mail-coaches  were  running  to  most  of  the  important  Eng-  ^""  ^"^J^  ^^®^  ^"  "®  ^"^^^  Crime,  eaCH  maiVlQUai 

lish  cities  and  towns,  and  in  the  following  year  the  service 

was  extended  to  Edinburgh.     Palmer  was  rewarded  by  2  AH  battles  in  the  Napoleonic  wars. 

i?  .  ?2iP  *"  appointment  as  comptroller-general  of  the  » Crossing  the  road  from  side  to  side  so  as  to  avoid 

i'ort  UfBoe.  ruts.  etc. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  577 

carter  feels  himself  under  the  ban  of  confisca-  of  fifty  minutes  for  eleven  miles,  could  the 
tion  and  attainder;*  his  blood  is  attainted  royal  mail  pretend  to  undertake  the  offices  of 
through  six  generations;  and  nothing  is  want-  sympathy  and  condolence?  Could  it  be  ex- 
ing  but  the  headsman  and  his  axe,  the  block  pected  to  provide  tears  for  the  accidents  of 
and  the  saw-dust,  to  close  up  the  vista  of  his  5  the  road?  If  even  it  seemed  to  trample  on 
horrors.  What!  shall  it  be  within  benefit  of  humanity,  it  did  so,  I  felt,  in  discharge  of  its 
clergy^  to  delay  the  king's  message  on  the  own  more  peremptory  duties, 
high  road? — to  interrupt  the  great  respirations,  Upholding  the  morality  of  the  mail,  d  for' 

ebb  and  flood,  systole  and  diastole,^  of  the  na-  tiori^  I  upheld  its  rights;  as  a  matter  of  duty 
tional  intercourse? — to  endanger  the  safety  10 1  stretched  to  the  uttermost  its  privilege  of 
of  tidings,  running  day  and  night  between  all  imperial  precedency,  and  astonished  weak 
nations  and  languages?  Or  can  it  be  fancied  minds  by  the  feudal  powers  which  I  hinted  to 
amongst  the  weakest  of  men,  that  the  bodies  be  lurking  constructively  in  the  charters  of 
of  the  criminals  will  be  given  up  to  their  widows  this  proud  establishment.  Once  I  remember 
for  Christian  burial?  Now  the  doubts  which  15  being  on  the  box  of  the  Holyhead  mail,  between 
were  raised  as  to  our  powers  did  more  to  wrap  Shrewsbury  and  Oswestry,  when  a  tawdry 
them  in  terror,  by  wrapping  them  in  uncer-  thing  from  Birmingham,  some  "Tallyho"  or 
tainty,  than  could  have  been  effected  by  the  "Highflyer,"  all  flaunting  with  green  and  gold, 
sharpest  definitions  of  the  law  from  the  Quarter  came  up  alongside  of  us.  What  a  contrast  to 
Sessions.^  We,  on  our  parts  (we,  the  collective  20  our  royal  simplicity  of  form  and  colour  in  this 
mail,  I  mean),  did  our  utmost  to  exalt  the  idea  plebeian  wretch!  The  single  ornament  on 
of  our  privileges  by  the  insolence  with  which  we  our  dark  ground  of  chocolate  colour  was  the 
wielded  them.  Whether  this  insolence  rested  mighty  shield  of  the  imperial  arms,  but  em- 
upon  law  that  gave  it  a  sanction,  or  upon  con-  blazoned  in  proportions  as  modest  as  a  signet- 
scious  power  that  haughtily  dispensed  with  25  ring  bears  to  a  seal  of  office.  Even  this  was 
that  sanction,  equally  it  spoke  from  a  potential  displayed  only  on  a  single  panel,  whispering, 
station,  and  the  agent,  in  each  particular  in-  rather  than  proclaiming,  our  relations  to  the 
solence  of  the  moment,  was  viewed  reveren-  mighty  state;  whilst  the  beast  from  Birming- 
tially,  as  one  having  authority.  ham,    our   green-and-gold   friend   from   false, 

Sometimes  after  breakfast  his  majesty's  3C  fleeting,  perjured  Brummagem,  1°  had  as  much 
mail  would  become  frisky;  and  in  its  difficult  writing  and  painting  on  its  sprawling  flanks 
wheelings  amongst  the  intricacies  of  early  as  would  have  puzzled  a  decipherer  from  the 
markets,  it  would  upset  an  apple-cart,  a  cart  tombs  of  Luxor. ^^  For  some  time  this  Bir- 
loaded  with  eggs,  &c.  Huge  was  the  affliction  mingham  machine  ran  along  by  our  side — a 
and  dismay,  awful  was  the  smash.  I,  as  far  35  piece  of  familiarity  that  already  of  itself  seemed 
as  possible,  endeavoured  in  such  a  case  to  to  me  sufficiently  Jacobinical.  But  all  at  once 
represent  the  conscience  and  moral  sensibilities  a  movement  of  the  horses  announced  a  des- 
of  the  mail;  and,  when  wildernesses  of  eggs  perate  intention  of  leaving  us  behind.  "Do 
were  lying  poached  under  our  horses'  hoofs,  you  see  thatf  I  said  to  the  coachman. — -"I 
then  would  I  stretch  forth  my  hands  in  sorrow,  40  see,"  was  his  short  answer.  He  was  wide 
saying  (in  words  too  celebrated  at  that  time,  awake,  yet  he  waited  longer  than  seemed 
from  the  false  echoes  of  Marengo) ,8  "Ah!  prudent;  for  the  horses  of  our  audacious  op- 
wherefore  have  we  not  time  to  weep  over  ponent  had  a  disagreeable  air  of  freshness  and 
you?"  which  was  evidently  impossible,  since,  power.  But  his  motive  was  loyal;  his  wish 
in  fact,  we  had  not  time  to  laugh  over  them.  45  was,  that  the  Birmingham  conceit  should  be 
Tied  to  post-office  allowance,  in  some  cases      full-blown  before  he  froze  it.    When  <^ai  seemed 

right,  he  unloosed,  or,  to  speak  by  a  stronger 

4  Attainder,  deprived  the  Attainted  of  all  the  civil  rights  word,  he  Sprang,  his  known  resources:  he  slipped 
^dcotfld'oSrSleTn;ft'iln°m*Vr^^^^^^^^^^^  our  royal  horses  like  cheetahs,   or  hunting- 

5  A  technical  phrase  in  Old  English  Law,  signifying  the     leopards,  after  the  affrighted  game.    How  they 

?he  mng'"  clS  '^''^"^  ^"''"  '"""^^  proceedmgs  m      ^^^^^  ^^^^.^  ^^^^  ^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^^^  p^^^^  ^^^^^ 

6  In  physiology  the  alternate  contraction  and  expansion  ^Jj^  work  they  had  accomplished,  seemed  hard 
of  the  heart  by  which  the  circulation  of  the  blood  is  ef- 

^  7  A  Court  originally  so  called  from  the  fact  that  its  »  A  technical  term  in  logic  equivalent  to  "all  the  more 

sessions  were  held  quarterly.    The  administration  of  the  so."  ,  ^.      .     ,_  ..„  .         „       .  . 

highway  laws  was  one  of  its  functions.  ">  An  old  form  of  Birmingham,  still  in  colloquial  use, 

8  At  the  battle  of  Marengo.  June  14,  1800,  the  French  and  often  applied  to  cheap  jewelry,  for  the  manufacture 

General  Desaix  by  his  timely  arrival,  saved  Napoleon  of  which  Birmingham  is  noted.  Cf.  Rich.  Ill,  I.  iv.  55: — 
from  defeat,  but  was  himself  killed.     The  story  that  "Clarence  is  come,— false,  fleeting,  perjured  Clarence, 

Napoleon  on  hearing  of  his  death  said:  "Ah.  wherefore  That  stabbed  me  in  the  field  by  lewksbury. 

have  we  not  time  to  weep  over  you!"  is  called  by  De  "  In  upper  Egypt,  on  the  site  of  the  ancient  capital  of 

Quincey  a  "theatrical  fiction."  Egypt,  is  famous  for  its  temples  and  tombs. 


578  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

to  explain.  But  on  our  side,  besides  the  physi-  with  Birmingham  tinsel,  with  paste  diamonds, 
cal  Buperiority,  was  a  tower  of  moral  strength,  and  Roman  pearls,  ^^  and  then  led  off  to  instant 
namely,  the  king's  name,  "which  they  upon  execution."  The  Welshman  doubted  if  that 
the  adverse  faction  wanted."  Passing  them  could  be  warranted  by  law.  And  when  I 
without  an  effort,  as  it  seemed,  we  threw  them  5  hinted  at  the  6th  of  Edward  Longshanks, 
into  the  rear  with  so  lengthening  an  interval  chap.  18,^*  for  regulating  the  precedency  of 
between  us,  as  proved  in  itself  the  bitterest  coaches  as  being  probably  the  statute  relied 
mockery  of  their  presumption;  whilst  our  on  for  the  capital  punishment  of  such  offences, 
guard  blew  back  a  shattering  blast  of  triumph,  he  replied  drily,  that  "if  the  attempt  to  pass 
that  was  really  too  painfully  full  of  derision.  10  a  mail  really  were  treasonable,  it  was  a  pity 
I  mention  this  little  incident  for  its  connec-  that  the  'Tallyho'  appeared  to  have  so  imper- 
tion  with  what  followed.  A  Welsh  rustic  feet  an  acquaintance  with  law." 
sitting  behind  me,  asked  if  I  had  not  felt  my  The  modern  modes  of  travelling  cannot  corn- 
heart  bum  within  me  during  the  progress  of  pare  with  the  old  mail-coach  system  in  grandeur 
the  race?  I  said,  with  philosophic  cahnness,  is  and  power.  They  boast  of  more  velocity,  not, 
No;  because  we  were  not  racing  with  a  mail,  however,  as  a  consciousness,  but  as  a  fact 
80  that  no  glory  could  be  gained.  In  fact,  it  of  our  lifeless  knowledge,  resting  upon  alien 
was  sufficiently  mortifying  that  such  a  Bir-  evidence;  as,  for  instance,  because  somebody 
mingham  thing  should  dare  to  challenge  us.  says  that  we  have  gone  fifty  miles  in  the  hour. 
The  Welshman  repHed,  that  he  didn't  see  that;  20  though,  we  are  far  from  feeling  it  as  a  personal 
for  that  a  cat  might  look  at  a  king,  and  a  Brum-  experience,  or  upon  the  evidence  of  a  result, 
magem  coach  might  lawfully  race  the  Holy-  as  that  actually  we  find  ourselves  in  York 
head  mail.  "Race  us,  if  you  like,"  I  replied,  four  hours  after  leaving  London.  Apart  from 
"though  even  that  has  an  air  of  sedition,  but  such  an  assertion,  or  such  a  result,  I  myself  am 
not  beat  us.  This  would  have  been  treason ;  25  little  aware  of  the  pace.  But,  seated  on  the 
for  its  own  sake  I  am  glad  that  the  'Tallyho'  old  mail-coach,  we  needed  no  evidence  out 
was  disappointed."  So  dissatisfied  did  the  of  ourselves  to  indicate  the  velocity.  On  this 
Welshman  seem  with  this  opinion,  that  at  system  the  word  was,  Non  magna  loquimur, 
last  I  was  obUged  to  tell  him  a  very  fine  story  as  upon  railways,  but  vivimus.^^  Yes,  "magna 
from  one  of  our  elder  dramatists — viz.,  tha.t  so  vivimus;"  we  do  not  make  verbal  ostentation 
once,  in  some  far  oriental  kingdom,  when  the  of  our  grandeurs,  we  realise  our  grandeurs  in 
sultan  of  all  the  land,  with  his  princes,  ladies,  act,  and  in  the  very  experience  of  life.  The 
and  chief  omrahs,"  were  flying  their  falcons,  vital  experience  of  the  glad  animal  sensibilities 
a  hawk  suddenly  flew  at  a  majestic  eagle;  and  made  doubts  impossible  on  the  question  of  our 
in  defiance  of  the  eagle's  natural  advantages,  35  speed;  we  heard  our  speed,  we  saw  it,  we  felt 
in  contempt  also  of  the  eagle's  traditional  it  as  a  thrilling;  and  this  speed  was  not  the 
royalty,  and  before  the  whole  assembled  field  product  of  blind  insensate  agencies,  that  had 
of  astonished  spectators  from  Agra  and  La-  no  sympathy  to  give,  but  was  incarnated  in 
hore,  killed  the  eagle  on  the  spot.  Amazement  the  fiery  eyeballs  of  the  noblest  amongst 
seized  the  sultan  at  the  unequal  contest,  and  40  brutes,  in  his  dilated  nostril,  spasmodic  muscles, 
burning  admiration  for  its  unparalleled  result,  and  thunder-beating  hoofs.  The  sensibility  of 
He  commanded  that  the  hawk  should  be  the  horse,  uttering  itself  in  the  maniac  light 
brought  before  him;  he  caressed  the  bird  with  of  his  eye,  might  be  the  last  vibration  of  such  a 
enthusiasm;  and  he  ordered  that,  for  the  com-  movement;  the  glory  of  Salamanca  might  be 
memoration  of  his  matchless  courage,  a  diadem  45  the  first.  But  the  intervening  links  that  con- 
of  gold  and  rubies  should  be  solemnly  placed  nected  them,  that  spread  the  earthquake  of 
on  the  hawk's  head;  but  then  that,  immediately  battle  into  the  eyeball  of  the  horse,  were  the 
after  this  solemn  coronation,  the  bird  should  heart  of  man  and  its  electric  thrillings— kindling 
be  led  off  to  execution,  as  the  most  valiant  in-  in  the  rapture  of  the  fiery  strife,  and  then  prop- 
deed  of  traitors,  but  not  the  less  a  traitor,  as  50  agating  its  own  tumults  by  contagious  shouts 
having  dared  to  rise  rebelliously  against  his  and  gestures  to  the  heart  of  his  servant  the 
liege  lord  and  anointed  sovereign,  the  eagle,      horse. 

"Now,"  said  I  to  the  Welshman,  "to  you  and  But  now,  on  the  new  system  of  travelling, 

me,  aa  men  of  refined  sensibilities,  how  painful     iron  tubes  and  boilers  have  disconnected  man's 
It  would  have  been  that  this  poor  Brummagem  55  heart  from  the  ministers  of  his  locomotion. 
brute,  the  'Tallyho,'  in  the  impossible  case  of 
a  victory  over  us,  should  have  been  crowned        "^dl^^S^on  of  De  Quin»eya.    The  e,k 

•rK  plur.1  of  th.  Arabic  «»..>,  .  commaudor,  a  noble-      ffi/tterSwrrJIsolll^^Taai'r.fh^l^^^^^^^^ 

>*  "We  do  Dot  talk  great  things,  we  live  them." 


\ 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  579 

Nile  nor  Trafalgar^^  has  power  to  raise  an  extra  much  more  loudly  must  this  proclamation  have 
bubble  in  a  steam-kettle.  The  galvanic  cycle  spoken  in  the  audacity  of  having  bearded  the 
is  broken  up  for  ever;  man's  imperial  nature  no  elite  of  their  troops,  and  having  beaten  them 
longer  sends  itself  forward  through  the  electric  in  pitched  battles!  Five  years  of  life  it  was 
sensibility  of  the  horse;  the  interagencies  are  5  worth  paying  down  for  the  privilege  of  an 
gone  in  the  mode  of  communication  between  outside  place  on  a  mail-coach,  when  carrying 
the  horse  and  his  master,  out  of  which  grew  down  the  first  tidings  of  any  such  event.  And 
so  many  aspects  of  subhmity  under  accidents  it  is  to  be  noted  that,  from  our  insular  situation, 
of  mists  that  hid,  or  sudden  blazes  that  re-  and  the  multitude  of  our  frigates  disposable 
vealed,  of  mobs  that  agitated,  or  midnight  soli- 10  for  the  rapid  transmission  of  intelhgence, 
tudes  that  awed.  Tidings,  fitted  to  convulse  rarely  did  an  unauthorised  rumour  steal  away 
all  nations,  must  henceforwards  travel  by  a  prelibation^^  from  the  first  aroma  of  the 
cuhnary  process;  and  the  trumpet  that  once  regular  despatches.  The  government  news  was 
announced  from  afar  the  laurelled  mail,  heart-  generally  the  earliest  news, 
shaking,  when  heard  screaming  on  the  wind,  15  From  eight  p.  m.  to  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes 
and  proclaiming  itself  through  the  darkness  later,  imagine  the  mails  assembled  on  parade 
to  every  village  or  solitary  house  on  its  route,  in  Lombard  Street, 2°  where,  at  that  time,  and 
has  now  given  way  for  ever  to  the  pot-  not  in  St.  Martin's-le-Grand,  was  seated  the 
wallopings^^  of  the  boiler.  General  Post-office.    In  what  exact  strength  we 

Thus  have  perished  multiform  openings  for  20  mustered  I  do  not  remember;  but,  from  the 
public  expressions  of  interest,  scenical  yet  length  of  each  separate  allelage,  we  filled  the 
natural,  in  great  national  tidings;  for  revela-  street,  though  a  long  one,  and  though  we  were 
tions  of  faces  and  groups  that  could  not  offer  drawn  up  in  double  file.  On  any  night  the 
themselves  amongst  the  fluctuating  mobs  of  a  spectacle  was  beautiful.  The  absolute  per- 
railway  station.  The  gatherings  of  gazers  about  25  fection  of  all  the  appointments  about  the  car- 
a  laurelled  mail  had  one  centre,  and  acknowl-  riages  and  the  harness,  their  strength,  their 
edged  one  sole  interest.  But  the  crowds  at-  brilliant  cleanliness,  their  beautiful  simphcity — 
tending  at  a  railway  station  have  as  little  unity  but,  more  than  all,  the  royal  magnificence  of 
as  running  water,  and  own  as  many  centres  the  horses — were  what  might  first  have  fixed 
as  there  are  separate  carriages  in  the  train.  ...  30  the  attention.  Every  carriage,  on  every  morn- 
ing in  the  year,  was  taken  down  to  an  official 
GOING  DOWN  WITH  VICTORY  inspector  for  examination— wheels,  axles,  hnch- 

But  the  grandest  chapter  of  our  experience,  pins,  pole,  glasses,  lamps,  were  all  critically 
within  the  whole  mail  coach  service,  was  on  probed  and  tested.  Every  part  of  every  car- 
those  occasions  when  we  went  down  from  35  riage  had  been  cleaned,  every  horse  had  been 
London  with  the  news  of  victory.  A  period  groomed,  with  as  much  rigour  as  if  they  be- 
of  about  ten  years  stretched  from  Trafalgar  to  longed  to  a  private  gentleman;  and  that  part 
Waterloo;  the  second  and  third  years  of  which  of  the  spectacle  offered  itself  always.  But  the 
period  (1806  and  1807)  were  comparatively  night  before  us  is  a  night  of  victory;  and,  behold 
sterile;  but  the  other  nine  (from  1805  to  1815  40  to  the  ordinary  display,  what  a  heart-shaking 
inclusively)  furnished  a  long  succession  of  addition! — horses,  men,  carriages,  all  are 
victories;  the  least  of  which,  in  such  a  contest  dressed  in  laurels  and  flowers,  oak-leaves  and 
of  Titans,  had  an  inappreciable  value  of  posi-  ribbons.  The  guards,  as  being  officially  his 
tion — partly  for  its  absolute  interference  with  Majesty's  servants,  and  of  the  coachmen  such 
the  plans  of  our  enemy,  but  still  more  from  its  45  as  are  within  the  privilege  of  the  post-office, 
keeping  aUve  through  central  Europe  the  sense  wear  the  royal  hveries  of  course;  and  as  it  is 
of  a  deep-seated  vulnerabihty  in  France.  Even  summer  (for  all  the  land  victories  were  natur- 
to  tease  the  coasts  of  our  enemy,  to  mortify  ally  won  in  summer),  they  wear,  on  this  fine 
them  by  continual  blockades,  to  insult  them  evening,  these  liveries  exposed  to  view,  with- 
by  capturing  if  it  were  but  a  baubling^^  schooner  50  out  any  covering  of  upper  coats.  Such  a 
under  the  eyes  of  their  arrogant  armies,  re-  costume,  and  the  elaborate  arrangement  of 
peated  from  time  to  time  a  sullen  proclamation  the  laurels  in  their  hats,  dilate  their  hearts, 
of  power  lodged  in  one  quarter  to  which  the  by  giving  to  them  openly  a  personal  connection 
hopes  of  Christendom  turned  in  secret.    How      with  the  great  news,  in  which  already  they 

w  Nelson  destroyed  the  French  fleet  in  the  battle  of  the  55  have  the  general  interest  of  patriotism.  That 
Nile,  fought  in  Aboukir  Bay,  Aug.  1, 1798.   For  Trafalgar      oreat  national  sentiment  surmounts  and  quells 

see  Southey's  account,  p.  548,  supra.  ° 

"  The  sound  made  as  a  pot  in  boiling.     The  design  of 
the  whole  passage  is  to  belittle  the  steam  engine  by  com-  » Foretaste.  ,      ,     ^.     ^  .  ^       ^^ 

paring  it  to  a  tea-kettle.  ^  Near  the  Bank  of  England.    The  General  Post  Office 

i»  Petty,  trifling.  in  St.  Martin  le  Grand,  was  built  in  1825-29. 


580  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

all  sense  of  ordinary  distinctions.  Those  evening,  the  sun,  perhaps,  only  just  at  the 
passengers  who  happen  to  be  gentlemen  are  point  of  setting,  we  are  seen  from  every  storey 
now  hardly  to  be  distinguished  as  such  except  of  every  house.  Heads  of  every  age  crowd 
by  dwss;  for  the  usual  reserve  of  their  manner  to  the  windows— young  and  old  understand 
in  speaking  to  the  attendants  has  on  this  5  the  language  of  our  victorious  symbols— and 
night  melted  away.  One  heart,  one  pride,  one  rolling  volleys  of  sympathising  cheers  run 
glory,  connects  every  man  by  the  transcen-  along  us,  behind  us,  and  before  us.  The  beggar, 
dent  'bond  of  his  national  blood.  The  spec-  rearing  himself  against  the  wall,  forgets  his 
tators,  who  are  numerous  beyond  precedent,  lameness — real  or  assumed — thinks  not  of  his 
express  their  sympathy  with  these  fervent  lO  whining  trade,  but  stands  erect  with  bold 
feelings  by  continual  hurrahs.  Every  moment  exulting  smiles,  as  we  pass  him.  The  victory 
are  shouted  aloud  by  the  post-office  servants,  has  healed  him,  and  says,  Be  thou  whole! 
and  summoned  to  draw  up,  the  great  ancestral  Women  and  children,  from  garrets  alike  and 
names  of  cities  known  to  historythrough  a  thou-  cellars,  through  infinite  London,  look  down 
sand  years— Lincoln,  Winchester,  Portsmouth,  15  or  look  up  with  loving  eyes  upon  our  gay 
Gloucester,  Oxford,  Bristol,  Manchester,  York,  ribbons  and  our  maitial  laurels:  sometimes 
Newcastle,  Edinburgh,  Glasgow,  Perth,  Stir-  kiss  their  hands;  sometimes  hang  out,  as 
ling,  Aberdeen — expressing  the  grandeur  of  signals  of  affection,  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
the  empire  by  the  antiquity  of  its  towns,  aprons,  dusters,  anything  that,  by  catching 
and  the  grandeur  of  the  mail  establishment  by  20  the  summer  breezes,  will  express  an  aerial 
the  diffusive  radiation  of  its  separate  missions,  jubilation.  On  the  London  side  of  Barnet,22  to 
Every  moment  you  hear  the  thunder  of  hds  which  we  draw  near  within  a  few  minutes  after 
locked  down  upon  the  mail-bags.  That  sound  nine,  observe  that  private  carriage  which  is 
to  each  individual  mail  is  the  signal  for  drawing  approaching  us.  The  weather  being  so  warm, 
off,  which  process  is  the  finest  part  of  the  en- 25  the  glasses  are  all  down;  and  one  may  read,  as 
tire  spectacle.  Then  come  the  horses  into  play,  on  the  stage  of  a  theatre,  everything  that  goes 
Horses!  can  these  be  horses  that  bound  off  on  within.  It  contains  three  ladies — one 
with  the  action  and  gestures  of  leopards?  hkely  to  be  "mamma,"  and  two  of  seventeen 
What  stir! — what  sea-hke  ferment! — what  a  or  eighteen,  who  are  probably  her  daughters. 
thundering  of  wheels! — what  a  trampling  of  30  What  lovely  animation,  what  beautiful,  un- 
hoofs! — what  a  sounding  of  trumpets! — what  premeditated  pantomime,  explaining  to  us 
farewell  cheers! — what  redoubling  peals  of  every  syllable  that  passes  in  these  ingenuous 
brotherly  congratulation,  connecting  the  name  girls!  By  the  sudden  start  and  raising  of  the 
of  the  particular  mail — "Liverpool  for  ever!" —  hands,  on  first  discovering  our  laurelled  equi- 
with  the  name  of  the  particular  victory — 35page!— by  the  sudden  movement  and  appeal  to 
"Badajoz"  for  ever!"  or  "Salamanca  for  the  elder  lady  from  both  of  them— and  by  the 
ever!"  The  half-slumbering  consciousness  heightened  colour  on  their  animated  coun- 
that,  all  night  long,  and  all  the  next  day — per-  tenances,  we  can  almost  hear  them  saying, 
haps  for  even  a  longer  period— many  of  these  "See,  see!  Look  at  their  laurels!  Oh,  mamma! 
mails,  like  fire  racing  along  a,  train  of  gunpowder,  40  there  has  been  a  great  battle  in  Spain;  and  it 
will  be  kindling  at  every  instant  new  succes-  has  been  a  great  victory."  In  a  moment  we 
sions  of  burning  joy,  has  an  obscure  effect  of  are  on  the  point  of  passing  them.  We  passen- 
multiplying  the  victory  itself,  by  multiplying  gers— I  on  the  box,  and  the  two  on  the  roof 
to  the  imagination  into  infinity  the  stages  of  behind  me— raise  our  hats  to  the  ladies;  the 
its  progressive  diffusion.  A  fiery  arrow  seems  45  coachman  makes  his  professional  salute  with 
to  be  let  loose,  which  from  that  moment  is  the  whip;  the  guard  even,  though  punctilious 
destined  to  travel,  without  intermission,  west-  on  the  matter  of  his  dignity  as  an  officer  under 
wards  for  three  hundred  miles— northwards  for  the  crown,  touches  his  hat.  The  ladies  move 
SIX  hundred;  and  the  sympathy  of  our  Lombard  to  us,  in  return,  with  a  winning  graciousness 
Street  friends  at  parting  is  exalted  a  hundred- 50  of  gesture;  all  smile  on  each  side  in  a  way 
fold  by  a  sort  of  visionary  sympathy  with  the  that  nobody  could  misunderstand,  and  that 
yet  slumbering  sympathies  which  in  so  vast  nothing  short  of  a  grand  national  sympathy 
a  succession  we  are  going  to  awake.  could  so  instantaneously  prompt.    Will  these 

Liberated  from  the  embarrassments  of  the  ladies  say  that, we  are  nothing  to  themf  Oh, 
City,  and  issuing  into  the  broad  uncrowded55no;  they  willnotsay  i/ia^  They  cannot  deny— 
avenues  of  the  northern  suburbs,  we  soon  begin  they  do  not  deny— that  for  this  night  they 
to  enter  upon  our  natural  pace  of  ten  miles  are  our  sisters;  gentle  or  simple,  scholar  or 
an  hour.  In  the  broad  light  of  the  summer  illiterate  servant,  for  twelve  hours  to  come, 
"  In  Spain,  taken  by  Wellington  in  1812.  22  Eleven  miles  north  of  London. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  581 

we  on  the  outside  have  the  honour  to  be  their  amongst  Celtic  Highlanders  is  called  fey^^ 
brothers.  Those  poor  women,  again,  who  stop  This  was  at  some  little  town  where  we  changed 
to  gaze  upon  us  with  delight  at  the  entrance  horses  an  hour  or  two  after  midnight.  Some 
of  Barnet,  and  seem,  by  their  air  of  weariness,  fair  or  wake  had  kept  the  people  up  out  of 
to  be  returning  from  labour— do  you  mean  to  5  their  beds,  and  had  occasioned  a  partial  illumi- 
say  that  they  are  washerwomen  and  char-  nation  of  the  stalls  and  booths,  presenting  an 
women?  Oh,  my  poor  friend,  you  are  quite  unusual  but  very  impressive  effect.  We  saw 
mistaken.  I  assure  you  they  stand  in  a  far  many  Hghts  moving  about  as  we  drew  near; 
higher  rank;  for  this  one  night  they  feel  them-  and  perhaps  the  most  striking  scene  on  the 
selves  by  birth-right  to  be  daughters  of  Eng-  lo  whole  route  was  our  reception  at  this  place, 
land,  and  answer  to  no  humbler  title.  The    flashing    of   torches    and    the    beautiful 

Every  joy,  however,  even  rapturous  joy—  radiance  of  blue  lights  (technically,  Bengal 
such  is  the  sad  law  of  earth — may  carry  with  lights)  upon  the  heads  of  our  horses;  the  fine 
it  grief,  or  fear  of  grief,  to  some.  Three  miles  effect  of  such  a  showery  and  ghostly  illumina- 
beyond  Barnet,  we  see  approaching  us  another  15  tion  falling  upon  our  flowers  and  ghttering 
private  carriage,  nearly  repeating  the  circum-  laurels;  whilst  all  around  ourselves,  that 
stances  of  the  former  case.  Here,  also,  the  formed  a  centre  of  light,  the  darkness  gathered 
glasses  are  all  down — here,  also,  is  an  elderly  on  the  rear  and  flanks  in  massy  blackness;  these 
lady  seated;  but  the  two  daughters  are  missing;  optical  splendours,  together  with  the  prodi- 
for  the  single  young  person  sitting  by  the  lady's  20  gious  enthusiasm  of  the  people,  composed  a 
side,  seems  to  be  an  attendant— so  I  judge  from  picture  at  once  scenical  and  affecting,  theatrical 
her  dress,  and  her  air  of  respectful  reserve,  and  holy.  As  we  stayed  for  three  or  four 
The  lady  is  in  mourning;  and  her  countenance  minutes,  I  alighted;  and  immediately  from  a 
expresses  sorrow.  At  first  she  does  not  look  dismantled  stall  in  the  street,  where  no  doubt 
up;  so  that  I  believe  she  is  not  aware  of  our  25  she  had  been  presiding  through  the  earher 
approach,  until  she  hears  the  measured  beating  part  of  the  night,  advanced  eagerly  a  middle- 
of  our  horses'  hoofs.  Then  she  raises  her  eyes  aged  woman.  The  sight  of  my  newspaper  it 
to  settle  them  painfully  on  our  triumphal  was  that  had  drawn  her  attention  upon  myself, 
equipage.  Our  decorations  explain  the  case  The  victory  which  we  were  carrying  down  to 
to  her  at  once;  but  she  beholds  them  with  ap-  30  the  provinces  on  this  occasion,  was  the  im- 
parent  anxiety,  or  even  with  terror.  Some  perfect  one  of  Talavera^^ — imperfect  for  its 
time  before  this,  I,  finding  it  difficult  to  hit  a  results,  such  was  the  virtual  treachery  of  the 
flying  mark,  when  embarrassed  by  the  coach-  Spanish  general,  Cuesta,  but  not  imperfect 
man's  person  and  reins  intervening,  had  given  in  its  ever-memorable  heroism.  I  told  her  the 
to  the  guard  a  "Courier"  evening  paper,  35  main  outline  of  the  battle.  The  agitation  of 
containing  the  gazette,^'  for  the  next  carriage  her  enthusiasm  had  been  so  conspicuous  when 
that  might  pass.  listening,  and  when  first  applying  for  informa- 

Accordingly  he  tossed  it  in,  so  folded  that  tion,  that  I  could  not  but  ask  her  if  she  had  not 
the  huge  capitals  expressing  some  such  legend  some  relative  in  the  Peninsular  army.  Oh  yes; 
as — GLORIOUS  VICTORY,  might  catch  the  eye  40  her  only  son  was  there.  In  what  regiment? 
at  once.  To  see  the  paper,  however,  at  all,  He  was  a  trooper  in  the  23rd  Dragoons.  My 
interpreted  as  it  was  by  our  ensigns  of  triumph,  heart  sank  within  me  as  she  made  that  answer, 
explained  everything;  and,  if  the  guard  were  This  sublime  regiment,  which  an  Englishman 
right  in  thinking  the  lady  to  have  received  it  should  never  mention  without  raising  his  hat 
with  a  gesture  of  horror,  it  could  not  be  doubt-  45  to  their  memory,  had  made  the  most  memor- 
ful  that  she  had  suffered  some  deep  personal  able  and  effective  charge  recorded  in  mihtary 
affliction  in  connection  with  this  Spanish  war.         annals.      They    leaped    their    horses — over    a 

Here,  now,  was  the  case  of  one  who,  having  trench  where  they  could,  into  it,  and  with 
formerly  suffered,  might,  erroneously  perhaps,  the  result  of  death  or  mutilation  when  they 
be  distressing  herself  with  anticipations  of  50  could  not.  What  proportion  cleared  the  trench 
another  similar  suffering.  That  same  night,  is  nowhere  stated.  Those  who  did,  closed  up 
and  hardly  three  hours  later,   occurred  the     and  went  down  upon  the  enemy  with  suci 

reverse  case.     A  poor  woman,  who  too  prob-  24  Not  a  Gaelic  word,  but  an  Old  English  word  retained 

hHIv  wniilri   finri    hprdplf    in   n    Hflv  or  two     to  in  the  Scotch.     In  Old  English  poetry  it  was  applied  to 

aOly  WOUia  nna  nersell,  in  a  aay  or  wo,  10  warriors  who  were  "doomed"  to  fall  in  battle.  In  Its 
have  suffered  the  heaviest  of  afflictions  by  the  55  Scottish  use  it  implies  a  state  of  high  spirits  and  wild 

hflftlp     hlinrllv    nllnwpH    fiprsplf   to    PxnrPSS    an  exaltation  in  the  person  unconscious  of  his  doom, 

oattie,    DUnaiy   ailOWea   nerseu    10   express    mi  25  T^a^aDcm  de  Za /eei»a,  at  the  confluence  of  the  Alberche 

exultation  so  unmeasured  in  the  news  and  its  and    the    Tagus,  where   the  English    under   Sir  Arthur 

dptflils    flp  0-nvP  to  lipr  fhp  annearance  which  Wellesley    (afterward    Duke    of    Wellington)    and    the 

aeiailS,  as  gave  to  ner  tne  appearauoe  wuicu  gpanish  under  Cuesta  were  attacked  by  the  French  under 

»  L  e.  the  official  report  of  the  battle.  Marshal  Victor  and  Joseph  Bonaparte,  July  27, 1809. 


582  THE  AGE  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  SCOTT 

divinity  of  fervour  (I  use  the  word  divinity  showed  her  not  the  funeral  banners  under 
by  design:  the  inspiration  of  God  must  have  which  the  noble  regiment  was  sleeping.  I 
jirompted  this  movement  to  those  whom  even  lifted  not  the  overshadowing  laurels  from  the 
then  He  was  calling  to  His  presence),  that  two  bloody  trench  in  which  horse  and  rider  lay 
results  followed.  As  regarded  the  enemy,  6  mangled  together.  But  I  told  her  how  these 
this  23rd  Dragoons,  not,  I  believe,  originally  dear  children  of  England,  officers  and  privates, 
three  hundred  and  fifty  strong,  paralysed  a  had  leaped  their  horses  over  all  obstacles  as 
French  column,  six  thousand  strong,  then  gaily  as  hunters  to  the  morning's  chase.  I| 
ascended  the  hill,  and  fixed  the  gaze  of  the  told  her  how  they  rode  their  horses  into  the 
whole  French  army.  As  regarded  themselves,  10  mists  of  death  (saying  to  myself,  but  not  saying 
tbo  23rd  were  supposed  at  first  to  have  been  to  her),  and  laid  down  their  young  Hves  for 
barely  not  annihilated;  but  eventually,  I  thee,  O  mother  England!  as  willingly — poured 
believe,  about  one  in  four  survived.  And  out  their  noble  blood  as  cheerfully — as  ever, 
this,  then,  was  the  regiment — a  regiment  after  a  long  day's  sport,  when  infants,  they 
already  for  some  hours  glorified  and  hallowed  15  had  rested  their  wearied  heads  upon  their 
to  the  ear  of  all  London,  as  lying  stretched,  by  a  mother's  knees,  or  had  sunk  to  sleep  in  her 
large  majority,  upon  one  bloody  aceldama^^ —  arms.  Strange  it  is,  yet  true,  that  she  seemed 
in  which  the  young  trooper  served  whose  to  have  no  fears  for  her  son's  safety,  even  after 
mother  was  now  talking  in  a  spirit  of  such  this  knowledge  that  the  23rd  Dragoons  had 
joyous  enthusiasm.  Did  I  tell  her  the  truth?  20 been  memorably  engaged;  but  so  much  was 
Had  I  the  heart  to  break  up  her  dreams?  No.  she  enraptured  by  the  knowledge  that  his 
Tomorrow,  said  I  to  myself — to-morrow,  or  regiment,  and  therefore  that  he,  had  rendered 
the  next  day,  will  publish  the  worst.  For  one  conspicuous  service  in  the  dreadful  conflict — 
night  more,  wherefore  should  she  not  sleep  in  a  service  which  had  actually  made  them,  within 
peace?  After  to-morrow,  the  chances  are  too  25  the  last  twelve  hours,  the  foremost  topic  of 
many  that  peace  will  forsake  her  pillow.  This  conversation  in  London — so  absolutely  was 
brief  respite,  then,  let  her  owe  to  my  gift  and  fear  swallowed  up  in  joy — that,  in  the  mere 
my  forbearance.  But,  if  I  told  her  not  of  the  simplicity  of  her  fervent  nature,  the  poor 
bloody  price  that  had  been  paid,  not,  therefore,  woman  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  as 
was  I  silent  on  the  contributions  from  her  son's  30  she  thought  of  her  son,  and  gave  to  me  the  kiss 
regiment  to  that  day's  service  and  glory.     I      which  secretly  was  meant  for  him. 

»  "The  field  of  blood."    See  Acts  I  19. 


\i 


VIII.  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


c.  1837-1900 


1809-1892 

SONG— THE  OWL 
(From  Poems  Chiefly  Lyrical,  1830) 
I 
When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round. 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch. 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay, 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch  10 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay. 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

THE  PALACE  OF  ART* 

(From  Poems,  1832) 

To    .     .    . 

WITH   THE   FOLLOWING   POEM 

I  send  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 
(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a  soul, 
A  sinful  soul  possess'd  of  many  gifts, 
A  spacious  garden  full  of  flowering  weeds, 
A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and  brain,  5 

That  did  love  Beauty  only  (Beauty  seen 
In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind), 
And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty;  or  if  Good, 
Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 
That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge,  are  three 
sisters  lo 

That  doat  upon  each  other,  friends  to  man. 
Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 
And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without  tears. 
And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn  shall  be 
Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  threshold  lie  15 
Howling  in  outer  darkness.    Not  for  this 
Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  common  earth, 
Moulded  by  God,  and  temper'd  with  the  tears 
Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 

'  Tennyson  wrote  the  following  notes  on  this  poem  in 
1890:  "Trench  said  to  me,  when  we  were  at  Trinity  to- 
gether, 'Tennyson,  we  cannot  live  in  art.'"  "'The  Pal- 
ace of  Art'  is  the  embodiment  of  my  own  belief  that  the 
Godlike  life  is  with  man  and  for  man,  that  'Beauty,  Good, 
and  Knowledge  are  three  sisters,'  etc." 

(Memoir,  by  H.  Tennyson,  I.  118.) 
Tennyson  made  a  number  of  changes  in  this  poem,  es- 
pecially for  the  edition  of  1842.  The  version  here  given 
IS  the  final  and  more  familiar  one. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART 

I  built  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house, 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell, 
I  said  "O  soul,  make  merry  and  carouse, 

Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well." 

A  huge  crag-platform,   smooth  as  bumish'd 
brass,  5 

I  chose.    The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 

Suddenly  scaled  the  hght. 


Thereon  I  built  it  firm.   Of  ledge  or  shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 

My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 


10 


And  "while  the  world  runs  round  and  round," 
I  said 
"Reign  thou  apart  a  quiet  king. 
Still   as,   while   Saturn   whirls,   his  steadfast 
shade  15 

Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring." 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily: 

"Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me, 

So  royal-rich  and  wide."  20 


Four  courts  I  made,  East,  West  and  South 
and  North, 

In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 

A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there  ran  a 
row  25 

Of  cloisters,  branch'd  like  mighty  woods. 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 

Of  spouted  fountain-floods; 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge^  to  distant  lands,     30 

Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the  sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one  swell 
Across  the  mountain  streamed  below 

In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell  35 

Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam'd 

From  out  a  golden  cup.  40 


»  Horizon;  a  peculiarly  Tennysonian  use. 


583 


584 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


So  that  she  thought,  "And  who  shall  gaze  upon 

My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 

And  that  sweet  incense  rise?" 

For  that  sweet  incense  rosie  and  never  fail'd  45 
And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted  higher, 

The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  yvindows,  stain'd  and 
traced. 

Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires  50 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  interlaced, 

And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 

Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 
That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom, 

Thro'  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul  did 
pass,  55 

Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace  stood. 

All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 

And  change  of  my  still  soul.  60 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green  and  blue, 

Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where  with  puff'd  cheek  the  belted  hunter  blew 

His  wreatned  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red — a  tract  of  sand,  65 
And  some  one  pacing  there  alone. 

Who  paced  for  ever  in  a  glimmering  land. 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves. 

You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall  70 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing  caves. 

Beneath  the  windy  wall. 


And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 
By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain. 

The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low, 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 


75 


And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil. 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.    Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 

And  hoary  to  the  wind.*  80 

And  one  a  foreground  black  with  stones  and 
slags; 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights;  and  higher 
All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the  scornful 
crags; 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire.  84 

And  one,  an  English  home — gray  twilight  pour'd 

On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep— all  things  in  order  stored, 

A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 

*"To  appreciate  this  touch,  one  must  have  seen  a 
grove  of  olive-trees,  when  the  peculiar  whitish-gray 
underside  of  the  leaves  is  turned  up  by  the  wiad."  Rolfe. 


Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape  fair, 
As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind,  90 

Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix. 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm, 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx        95 

Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-walled  city  on  the  sea, 

Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  slept  Saint  Cecily;' 

An  angel  look'd  at  her.  lOO 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 

That  said,  we  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply-wounded  son*       105 
In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 

Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  footfall,  ere  he  saw  no 

The  wood-nymph,  stay'd  the  Ausonian  king*^ 
to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 
And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice. 

The  throne  of  Indian  Cama^  slowly  sail'd     115 
A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasp'd. 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne; 

From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus;  one  hand 
grasp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn.  120 

Or  else  flush'd  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half  buried  in  the  eagle's  down. 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 

Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone;  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 

Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself  was  there, 
Not  less  than  life  design'd. 


125 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells  that 

swung, 

Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound ;  120 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I  hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

'  St.  Cecilia,  the  patron  saint  of  music,  whose  har- 
monies brought  an  angel  down  from  heaven.  Cf.  Dry- 
den's  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  p.  277,  and  his  Alexan- 
der's Feast,  p.  278,  supra. 

*  King  Arthur,  according  to  legend  the  son  of  Uther 
Pendragon. 

*  Numa  Pompilius,  according  to  legend  the  second 
King  of  Rome.  The  "wood-nymph,"  Egeria,  met  him 
in  a  grove  near  the  city,  and  there  taught  him  how  to 
frame  laws  and  religious  ceremonies  for  his  people. 

6  Or  Kama,  the  Hindoo  god  of  love. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


585 


For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong, 
Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and  mild; 

And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasped  his 
^  song,  135 

And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest;^ 
A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin; 

A  hundred  winters  snow'd  upon  his  breast, 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin.  140 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift, 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 

With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd  145 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 

So  wrought  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 
Toil'd    onward,    prick'd    with    goads    and 
stings;  150 

Here  play'd,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings; 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or  bind 
All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure. 

And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man  de- 
clined, 155 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod;  and  those  great  bells 
Began  to  chime.    She  took  her  throne; 

She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  oriels, 

To  sing  her  songs  alone.  160 

[  And  thro'  the  topmost  oriels'  colored  flame 

,  Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below; 

I  Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow'd  Verulam,* 

I  The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names  that  in  their  motion  were 
Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change,       166 

Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd  fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange; 

Thro'  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber,  emerald, 
blue, 
Flush'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes,  170 

And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from  Memnon,' 
drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd  song    175 

Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful  mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive. 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  earth. 

Lord  of  the  senses  five;  180 

^  Homer. 

*  Francis  Bacon,  who  was  made  Baron  Verulam. 

9  A  hero  in  the  Trojan  war.  His  name  was  erroneously 
given  by  the  Greeks  to  a  colossal  statue  at  Thebes,  which 
was  said  to  give  forth  a  musical  sound  when  the  rays  of 
the  rising  sun  touched  the  stone. 


Communing  with  herself:  "All  these  are  mine, 
And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 

'Tis  oiie  to  me."     She — when  young  might 
divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  deUcious  toils —    185 
Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems,i° 

And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 
In  hoUow'd  moons  of  gems. 

To  mimic  heaven;  and  clapt  her  hands  and 
cried, 

"I  marvel  if  my  still  delight  190 

In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich  and  wide 

Be  flattered  to  the  height. 

"O  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various  eyes! 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well! 

0  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise,  195 
My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell! 

"O  Godlike  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain. 

What  time  I  watch  the  darkening  droves  of 
swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain.  200 

"In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient  skin, 
They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and  sleep; 

And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in. 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep."  ^^ 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate  205 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead. 
As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplished  Fate; 

And  at  the  last  she  said: 

"I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl.         210 

1  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 
But  contemplating  all." 

Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 
Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone. 

Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn  mirth,  215 
And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper'd;  so  three  years 
She  prosper'd;  on  the  fourth  she  fell, 

Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his  ears,^^ 
Struck  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell.  220 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  personality, 

Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where'er  she  turn'd  her 
sight  225 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 
Wrote,  "Mene,  mene,"^^  and  divided  quite 

The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

10  Garlands,  chaplets.  "  St.  Matt.,  viii.  32. 

12  V.  Acts,  xii.  21-23. 

1*  Dan.,  V.  23-29,  but  read  the  whole  chapter  and  note 
the  points  of  resemblance  between  the  "sinful  soul" 
and  both  Nebuchadnezzar  and  Belshazzar. 


586 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 

Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was  born    230 

Scorn  of  herself;  again,  from  out  that  mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

"What!  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength," 
she  said, 
"My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof   the   strong   foundation-stones   were 
laid  235 

Since  my  first  memory?" 

But  in  dark  comers  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes;  and  unawares 
On  white^yed  phantasms  weeping  tears  of 
blood. 

And  horrible  nightmares,  240 

And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of  flame, 
And  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 

On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon  she  came, 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light        245 
Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my  soul, 

Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal; 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of  sand. 
Left  on  the  shore,  that  hears  all  night       250 

The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the 
land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white; 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 
Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 

The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance       255 
Roird  round  by  one  fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had  curl'd. 

"No  voice,"  she  shrieked  in  that  lone  hall, 
"No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness  of  this 
world; 

One  deep,  deep  silence  all  I"  260 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth's  moulder- 
ing sod, 

Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God. 

Lost  to  her  place  and  name; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally,  265 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 

No  comfort  anywhere; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears, 

And  ever  worse  with  growing  time,  270 

And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears. 
And  all  alone  in  crime. 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall. 
Far  off  she  seem'd  to  hear  the  dully  sound  275 

Of  human  footsteps  fall; 


As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking  slow. 

In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moonrise  hears  the  low 

Moan  of  an  unknown  sea;  280 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder,  or  a  sound 
Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  cry 

Of  great  wild  beasts;  then  thinketh,  "I  have 
found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die." 


285 


She  howl'd  aloud,  "  I  am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin. 

And  save  me  lest  I  die?" 


So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished, 
She  threw  her  royal  robes  away.  290 

"Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she  said, 
"Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray." 

"Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers,  that  are 

So  lightly,  beautifully  built; 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there    295 

When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS 
(From  Poems,  1832) 

"Courage!"  he  said,^  and  pointed  toward  the 

land, 
"This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward 

soon," 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did  swoon,  5 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon; 
And,  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did 

seem. 

A  land  of  streams!  some,  like  a  downward 
smoke,  lo 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go; 

And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shadows 
broke. 

Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land;  far  off,  three  mountain- 
tops,  15 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow. 

Stood  sunset-flushed;  and,  dew'd  with  showery 
drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven 
copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 
In  the  red  West;  thro'  mountain  clefts  the 
dale  20 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding  vale 

^  i.  e.  Ulysses.     The  poem  is  founded  on  a  paasage  in 
Homer's  Odyssey,  Bk.  IX.  ^'--—o 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


587 


And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale;^ 
A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd  the  same! 
And  round  about  the  keel  vvith  faces  pale,     25 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 
The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem. 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they  gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them         30 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far,  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  ahen  shores;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake,      35 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did 
make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave;  but  evermore  40 
Most  Weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "We  will  return  no  more;" 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave;  we  will  no  longer 


» 


roam. 


45 


CHORIC  SONG 


There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleanaing  pass; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies,  5 

Than  tired  eyeUds  upon  tired  eyes; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the 

blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And   in   the  stream   the  long-leaved  flowers 

weep,  10 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in 

sleep. 

II 
by  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness, 
And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress. 
While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness? 
All  things  have  rest:  why  should  we  toil  alone,  15 
We  oHly  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 
And  make  perpetual  moan, 
Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown; 
Nor  ever  fold  our  wings. 

And  cease  from  wanderings,  20 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm ; 
Nor  barken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 
"There  is  no  joy  but  calm!" — 
Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown  of 

things? 

Ill 
Lo!  in  the  middle  of  the  wood,  25 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 

'  A  sedge  with  an  aromatic  root,  sometimes  called  the 
English  Galangal. 


Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 

Nightly  dew-fed;  and  turning  yellow  30 

Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo!  sweeben'd  with  the  summer  light. 

The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days  8S 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil, 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

IV 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 

Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea.  40 

Death  is  the  end  of  Ufe;  ah,  why 

Should  life  all  labor  be? 

Let  us  alone.    Time  driveth  onward  fast. 

And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.    What  is  it  that  will  last?  43 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 

Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  past. 

Let  us  alone.    What  pleasure  can  we  have 

To  war  with  evil?    Is  there  any  peace 

In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave?         50 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave 

In  silence — ripen,  fall  and  cease: 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or 

dreamful  ease. 

v 
How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward 

stream, 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem  55 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half -dream! 
To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light. 
Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the 

height; 
To  hear  each  other's  whispered  speech; 
Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day,  60 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach. 
And  tender  curving  fines  of  creamy  spray; 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy; 
To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  memory,  63 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass. 
Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn  of 

brass! 

VI 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives. 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives        70 
And  their  warm  tears;  but  all  hath  suffer'd 

change; 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are  cold. 
Our  sons  inherit  us,  our  looks  are  strange, 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble  joy. 
Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold  ^  75 

Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel  sings 
Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in  Troy, 
And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten  things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain.  SG 

The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile; 
'Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 


588 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Long  labor  unto  aged  breath,  85 

Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many  wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot- 
stars. 

VII 

But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth'  and  moly,^ 
How  sweet — while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blowing 

lowly — 
With  half-dropt  eyelid  still,  90 

Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing  slowly 
His  waters  from  the  purple  hill — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling  94 

F'rora  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined  vine — 
To  watch  the  emerald-color'd  water  falling 
Thro'  many  a  woven  acanthus- wreath  divine! 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling  brine, 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out  beneath 

the  pine. 

VIII 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak,       i  oo 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek; 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellower 

tone; 
Thro*  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yellow 

Lotos-dust  is  blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  motion 
we,  105 

Roll'd  to  starboard,  roU'd  to  larboard,  when  the 

surge  was  seething  free, 
Where   the   wallowing    monster   spouted   his 

foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an  equal 

mind, 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  re- 
clined 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,   careless  of 

mankind.  no 

For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts 

are  hurl'd 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the  clouds 

are  lightly  curl'd 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the 

gleaming  world; 
Where    they    smile   in    secret,    looking    over 

wasted  lands. 
Blight  and   famine,   plague  and  earthquake, 

roaring  deeps  and  fiery  sands,  115 

Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and  sinking 

ships,  and  praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred  in  a 

doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient 

tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words  are 

strong; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that 

cleave  the  soil,  120 

Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest,  with  en- 
during toil, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine 

and  oil; 

'  A  imaRinary  flower  which  was  supposed  never  to  fade. 
»  1  he  plant  Kiven  to  Ulyssea  by  Mercury;  it  was  to 
orotuct  turn  against  the  witchcraft  of  Circe. 


Till  they  perish  and  they  suLer — some,  'tis 
whisper'd — down  in  hell 

Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian  val- 
leys dwell, 

Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  asphodel. 

Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than  toil, 
the  shore  126 

Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and 
wave  and  oar; 

O,  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander 
more. 


YOU  ASK  ME  WHY  THOUGH  ILL  AT 
EASE! 

(Written  in  1833,  first  printed  1842) 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease. 
Within  this  region  I  subsist. 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist. 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till,  5 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or  foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown,  10 

Where  Freedom  slowly  broadens  down 

From  precedent  to  precedent; 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But,  by  degrees  to  fullness  wrought. 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought  15 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute,  2u 

Tho'  power  should  make  from  land  to  land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great — 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  fill  and  choke  with  golden  saiid — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth,  25 

Wild  wind:  I  seek  a  warmer  sky. 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 

OF  OLD  SAT  FREEDOM  ON  THE 
HEIGHTS 

(Written  in  1833,  first  published  1842) 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights. 

The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet; 
Above  her  shook  the  starrv  lights; 

She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

J  Aubrey  De  Vere  wrote  of  this  and  of  the  following 
poem  (0/0 W  Sat  Freedom  on  the  Heights):  "  If  I  re- 
member right  they  were  suggested  bv  some  popular 
demonstrations  connected  with  the  Reform  Bill  of  183?, 
and  Its  rejection  by  the  House  of  Lords."  See  the  whole 
passage  in  Memoir,  by  H.  Tennyson,  I.  506.  C 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


589 


There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice,  5 

Self-gather'd^  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  thro'  town  and  field 
To  mingle  with  the  human  race,  10 

And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 
The  fullness  of  her  face — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 
Who,  Godlike,  grasps  the  triple  forks,  15 

And,  king-like,  wears  the  crown. 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.    May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears;  20 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine. 
Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our  dreams, 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes! 


LOCKSLEY  HALLi 

(From  Poems,  1842) 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet 

'tis  early  morn: 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound 

upon  the  bugle-horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the 

curlews  call. 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over 

Locksley  Hall; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks 
the  sandy  tracts,  5 

And  the  hollow-ocean  ridges  roaring  into 
cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I 

went  to  rest. 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the 

West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the 

mellow  shade. 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a 

silver  braid.  lo 


Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a 

youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long 

result  of  Time; 

1  Wrapped  up  in  herself,  self-centered. 

1  Tennyson  says  of  this  poem:  "The  whole  poem  repre- 
sents young  life,  its  good  side,  its  deficiencies,  and  its 
yearnings."  He  tells  us  further  that  "'Locksley  Hall' 
is  an  imaginary  place  (tho'  the  coast  is  Lincolnshire),  and 
the  hero  is  imaginary,"  {Memoir,  by  H.  Tennyson,  L 
195).  But  the  poem  represents  not  merely  young  life  in 
general,  but  a  young  man  at  a  time  when  youth  in  Eng- 
land was  stirred  by  great  changes,  by  the  marvels  of 
invention  and  of  scientific  discovery. 


When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful 

land  reposed; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise 

that  it  closed. 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye 
could  see;  15 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder 
that  would  be. — 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the 

robin's  breast; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself 

another  crest; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  bur- 

nish'd  dove; 
In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly 

turns  to  thoughts  of  love.  20 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than 

should  be  for  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute 

observance  hung. 

And  I  said,   "My  Cousin  Amy,  speak,  and 

speak  the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being 

sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  colour 
and  a  light,  25 

As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the 
northern  night. 

And  she  turn'd — her  bosom  shaken  with  a 

sudden  storm  of  sighs — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of 

hazel  eyes — 

Saying,  "I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they 

should  do  me  wrong;" 
Saying,  "Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?"  weeping, 

' '  I  have  loved  thee  long . "  30 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in 

his  glowing  hands, 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in 

golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all 

the  chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd 

in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear 
the  copses  ring,  35 

And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the 
fullness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch 

the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching 

of  the  lips. 


690 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


O  my  couflin,  shallow-hearted!  O  my  Amy, 

mine  no  morel 

O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland!  O  the  barren, 

barren  shore!  40 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all 

songs  have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father^s  threat,  and  servile  to  a 

shrewi^  tongue! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy? — having  known 

me — to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower 

heart  than  mine! 

Yet  it  shaU  be:  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day 
by  day,  45 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sym- 
pathise with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is:  thou  art  mated 

with  a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight 

to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have 

spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer 

than  his  horse.  so 


Well— 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster!— Hadst 

thou  less  unworthy  proved — ' 
Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than 

ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which 
bears  but  bitter  fruit?  65 

I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be 
at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length 

of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd   crow  that  leads  the 

clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort?  in  division  of  the  records  of 

the  mind? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I 

knew  her,  kind?  70 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd:  sweetly  did  she 

speak  and  move: 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was 

to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the 

love  she  bore? 
No — she  never  loved  me  truly:  love  is  love  for- 

evermore. 


What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy:  think  not  they 

are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him:  it  is  thy  duty:  kiss  him:  take  his 

hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is 

over- wrought: 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him 

with  thy  hghter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to 
understand —  55 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho*  I  slew 
thee  with  my  hand! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the 

heart's  disgrace, 
RolI'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last 

embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the 

strength  of  youth  I^ 
Cursed  be  the  social  Ues  that  warp  us  from  the 

hving  truth!  60 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest 

Nature's  rule! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straitened 

forehead  of  the  fool! 

«  Tennjraon  is  generally  regarded  as  ultra-conservative, 
Out  on  some  points  he  differed  widely  from  the  accepted. 
npper-claaa  ppinion  of  the  time.  Like  Ruskin.  he  was 
uxipreflsed  with  the  danger  of  the  modern  monev-getting 
■pint,  and  he  protested  in  many  po»ems  against' allowing 
a  worship  of  wealth  and  social  position  to  atand  in  the 
ISL  i/°i*^^®li^  ^fsif^b'e  marriage.  (Cf.  Aylmer's 
Fiad,  Maud,  and  The  MtUer'a  Daughter.) 


Comfort?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils!  this  is 
truth  the  poet  sings,'  75 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering 
happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy 

heart  be  put  to  proof. 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain 

is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art 

staring  at  the  wall. 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the 

shadows  rise  and  fall.  80 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to 

his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears 

that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  never,"  whis- 

per'd  by  the  phantom  years. 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing 

of  thine  ears; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient 
kindness  on  thy  pain.  85 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow:  get  thee  to 
thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace;  for  a  tender 

voice  will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine;  a  lip  to  drain  thy 

trouble  dry. 

3  Dante.     "There  is  no  greater  pain  than  to  recall  a 
^appy  time  m  misery."    Inf.,  v.  121.  V 

\^ 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


591 


Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down:  my  latest  rival 

brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the 

mother's  breast.  90 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dear- 

ness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his:  it  will  be  worthy  of 

the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee,  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty 

part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a 

daughter's  heart. 

"They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — she 
herself  was  not  exempt —  95 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd" — Perish  in  thy 
self-contempt! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet — be  happy!  wherefore 

should  I  care? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by 


What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  hghting 

upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but 

to  golden  keys.  lOO 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  mar- 
kets overflow. 

I  have  but  an  angry  fancy:  what  is  that  which 
I  should  do? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling»on  the  foe- 
man's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapour,  and  the 
winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

i  But  the  jingHng  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt 
i  that  Honour  feels,  105 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at 
each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?  I  will  turn  that 
earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  won- 
drous Mother- Age! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt 

before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the 

tumult  of  my  life;  no 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  com- 
ing years  would  yield, 

Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his 
father's  field. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and 

nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like 

a  dreary  dawn; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone 
before  him  then,  115 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  alf,  in  among  the 
throngs  of  men; 


Men,   my  brothers,   men   the  workers,   ever 

reaping  something  new:* 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the 

things  that  they  shall  do: 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye 

could  see. 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder 

that  would  be;  120 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of 

magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down 

with  costly  bales; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there 

rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the 

central  blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south- 
wind  rushing  warm,  125 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging 
thro'  the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the 

battle-flags  were  furl'd, 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the 

world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a 

fretful  realm  in  awe, 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in 

universal  law.  130 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro' 

me  left  me  dry. 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with 

the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here 

are  out  of  joint: 
Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creeping  on 

from  point  to  point: 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion  creep- 
ing nigher,  135 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a 
slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing 

purpose  runs. 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the 

process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of 

his  youthful  joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever 

like  a  boy's?  140 

*  The  system  of  railroad  transportation  in  England 
dates  from  about  1830;  the  electric  telegraph  was  pat- 
ented in  1837,  and  steam-communication  between  Eng- 
land and  the  United  States  began  in  the  following  year. 
The  increasing  application  of  steam  and  electricity  worked 
a  great  and  inevitable  change  in  social  conditions. 


592 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he 
bears  a  laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  still- 
ness of  his  rest. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I 
linger  on  the  shore,  . 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is 
more  and  more. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on 
the  bugle-horn,  1*5 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target 
for  their  scorn: 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a 

moulder'd  string? 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved 

so  sUght  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness!  woman's 

pleasure,  woman's  pain — 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in 

a  shallower  brain:  150 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions, 

match'd  with  mine. 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water 

unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing. 

Ah  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life 

began  to  beat; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle^  fell  my  father, 
evil-starr'd; —  155 

I  was  left  a  tmmpled  orphan,  and  a  selfish 
uncle's  wara. 

Or  to  burst  all  hnks  of  habit — there  to  wander 

far  away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of 

the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons 

and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster, 

knots  of  Paradise.  160 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  Euro- 
pean flag, 

Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings 
the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the 

heavy-fruit'd  tree — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple 

spheres  of  sea. 

There  raethinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than 
in  this  march  of  mind,  165 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts 
that  shake  mankind. 

*  i.  e.  in  a  battle  with  the  Mahrattaa,  a  Hindoo  race  in 
India,  engaged  in  frequent  conflicts  with  the  British. 
They  were  decisively  beaten  in  1816-18. 


There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have 

scope  and  breathing  space; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear 

my  dudky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive, 

and  they  shall  run. 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their 

lances  in  the  sun ;  1 70 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the 

rainbows  of  the  brooks. 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable 

books — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy!  but  I  know 

my  words  are  wild. 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the 

Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our 
glorious  gains,  175 

Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast 
with  lower  pains! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — ^what  to  me  were 

sun  or  clime? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of 

time — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish 

one  by  one. 
Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like 

Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon i^  iso 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Forward, 
forward  let  us  range, 

Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ring- 
ing grooves  of  change.'' 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the 

younger  day: 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of 

Cathay. 

Mother-Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as 
when  life  begun:  185 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the 
hghtnings,  weigh  the  Sun. 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath 

not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my 

fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to 

Locksley  Hall! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me 

the  roof-tree  fall.  190 

•  Joshua,  X.,  12. 

^Tennyson  tella  us:  "When  I  went  by  the  first  train 
from  Liverpool  to  Manchester  (1830),  I  thought  that 
the  wheels  ran  in  a  groove.  It  was  black  night  and  there 
was  such  a  vast  crowd  round  the  train  at  the  station  that 
we  could  not  see  the  wheels.  Then  I  made  this  line." 
H.  Tennyson,  Memoirs,  I.  195. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


593 


Comes  a  vapour  from  the  margin,  blackening 

over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a 

thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail, 

or  fire  or  snow; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward, 

and  I  go. 


ULYSSESi 

(From  Poems,  1842) 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 
By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not 
me.  5 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel:  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees:  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and  when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades^         10 
Vext  the  dim  sea:  I  am  become  a  name; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities  of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 
Myself  not  least,  but  honour'd  of  them  all;     15 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin 
fades  20 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end. 
To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in  use! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.    Life  piled  on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me  25 

Little  remains:  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 
,  And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire  30 

/  To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star,     "^^ 
«  Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 
This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil  35 

This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail  40 

In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 

1  This  poem  is  a  contrast  study  to  the  Lotus  Eaters. 
Hallam  Tennyson  tells  us  {Memoirs,  I.,  196)  that  it  was 
written  soon  after  Arthur  Hallam's  death,  and  that  it 
gave  Tennyson's  "feeling  about  the  need  of  going  for- 
ward and  braving  the  struggle  of  life,  perhaps  more  sim- 
ply than  anything  in  In  Memoriam."  The  immediate 
source  of  the  poem  is  a  passage  in  Dante's  Inf.,  xxvi.,  90. 

2  A  group  of  stars  in  the  constellation  of  Taurus,  their 
rising  at  a  certain  time  of  the  year  was  associated  with 
the  beginning  of  the  rainy  season.  Cf.  Vergil.  jEneid,  I., 
744. 


Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods. 
When  I  am  gone.  He  works  ms  work,  I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail: 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.  My  mari- 
ners, 45 
Souls  that  have  toil'd  and  wrought,  and  thought 

with  me — ■ 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil;       50 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere  the  end, 
/Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done,  . 
I  Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods,  v 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 
The  long  day  wanes:  the  slow  moon  climbs:  the 
deep  55 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my 

friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
iThe  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds  ^ 
'To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths    -  60 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down: 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and  tho'    65 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven;  that  which  we  are, 
we  are; 
/  One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts,  ^\ 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in 

will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield,  70 


SIR  GALAHAD 

(From  Poems,  1842) 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high,  3 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel: 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands,  iO 

Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favours  fall! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end,  16 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall: 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine; 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love. 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine.  20 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam. 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 


594 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns: 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride; 

I  hear  a  voice  but  none  are  there; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
I'air  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth. 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chaunts  resound  between. 


25 


30 


35 


40 


45 


Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain- 

I  find  a  magic  bark; 
1  leap  on  board:  no  helmsmen  steers: 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail: 
\yith  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
\h,  blessed  vision!  blood  of  God! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 


When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  to\vns  I  go,  50 

The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn,. 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and  mail; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads,  55 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height; 

No  brancny  thicket  shelter  yields; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields.  60 

A  maiden  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease,  65 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace. 

Whose  odours  haunt  my  dreams; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand. 

This  mortal  armour  that  I  wear,  70 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony  75 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 
"O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on!  the  prize  is  near."  80 

So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
AJl-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide 

Until  I  find  the  holy  GraiL 


THE  EPIC 

(introduction  to  morte  d'arthub) 

(From  Poems,  1842) 

At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas-eve, — 
The  game  of  forfeits  done — the  girls  all  kiss'd 
Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past  away — 
The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard  Hall, 
The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassail-bowl,     5 
Then  half-way  ebb'd:  and  there  we  held  a  talk, 
How  all  the  old  honour  had  from  Christmas 

gone, 
Or  gone  or  dwindled  down  to  some  old  games 
In  some  odd  nooks  like  this;  till  I,  tired  out 
With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the  pond,  10 
Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the  outer  edge, 
I  bump'd  the  ice  into  three  several  stars. 
Fell  in  a  doze;  and  half-awake  I  heard 
The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider  sweeps, 
Now  harping  on  the  church-commissioners,    13 
Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism; 
Until  I  woke,  and  found  him  settled  down 
Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 
Right  thro'  the  world,  "  at  home  was  little  left, 
And  none  abroad :  there  was  no  anchor,  none,  20 
To  hold  by. "    Francis,  laughing,  clapt  his  hand 
On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  "I  hold  by  him." 
"And  I,"   quoth  Everard,   "by  the  wassail- 
bowl." 
"Why  yes,"  I  said,  "we  knew  your  gift  that  way 
At  college:  but  another  which  you  had,  25 

I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it  then). 
What  came  of  that?"  "You  know,"  said  Frank, 

"he  burnt 
His    epic,    his    King    Arthur,    *ome    twelve 

books" — 
And  then  to  me  demanding  why?  "Oh,  sir, 
He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said,  or  else  30 
Something  so  said  'twas  nothing — that  a  truth 
Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the  day: 
God  knows:  he  has  a  mint  of  reasons:  ask. 
It  pleased  me  well  enough."  "Nay,  nay,"  said 

Hall, 
"Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic  times?    35 
For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mastodon, 
Nor  we  those  times;  and  why  should  any  man 
Remodel  models?  these  twelve  books  of  mine 
Were  faint  Homeric  echoes,  nothing- worth"  .  .  . 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man. 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonesse  about  their  Lord, 
King  Arthur:  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him,  6 

Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights. 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land.    10 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


595 


The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights  15 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.  Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep— the  men  I  loved.  I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls  20 

Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm  25 

That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur,i 
Which  was  my  pride:  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  30 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  row'd  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king: 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  after  time,  this  also  shall  be  known:  35 

But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere: 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me 

word." 
To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus,    40 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  1  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
W^atch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept     45 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.    He,  stepping 

down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock,        50 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  bilt:55 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.    He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind,      60 
In  act  to  throw:  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags. 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King.  65 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  I  gave? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds,         70 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crags." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale: 
"Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 

»  King  Arthur's  magic  sword,  given  to  him  by  the  Lady 
^f  the  Lake.  For  the  passage  in  Malory  which  was 
Tennyson's  original  for  the  greater  part  of  this  Idyll, 
V.  supra,  p.  108,  I.  25,  etc. 


Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight:  73 

For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing    80 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere. 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fixed  in  thought; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt,        85 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud, 
"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth,    90 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many 

men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done? 
What  harm,  undone?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand    93 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumours  of  a  doubt?  but  were  this  kept,  1 00 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 
Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake.  104 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honour  and  much  fame  were 

lost." 
So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit,  110 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily: 
"What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?" 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere :         115 
"I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,   much  in 

wrath : 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted!    Woe  is  me!     120 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.    I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all,         125 
Thou  would'st  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,   get  thee 

hence:  lao 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 
Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran. 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among   the   bulrush-beds,   and   clutch'd   the 

sword,  135 


596 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.    The  great 

brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendour  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in 

an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  mom. 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock  140 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished 

him  145 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 
Then  s|)oke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker 

breath : 
"Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or 

seen?"  150 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"Sir  king,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die. 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men,     155 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling 

him; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd 

him  160 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing 

hard: 
"  My  end  draws  nigh;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight. 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I  fear  165 

My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.    Him  Sir  Bedivere  170 

Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 
But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed  177 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd  the 

king. 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  "Quick 

quick-  ' 

I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die."  iso 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he 

walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him,  like  a 

goad.  185 

Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him,  as  he 

based 


His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels — •  190 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo!  the  level  lake. 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath    them;    and    descending    they    were 

ware  195 

That  all  the  decks  were  densfe  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream — 'by 

these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — ^and  from 

them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice  an  agony  200 

Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 
Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "Place  me  in  the 

barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.   There  those  three 

Queens  205 

Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  king,  and 

wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chafed  his 

hands. 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow  211 
Striped  with  dark  blood:  for  all  his  face  was 

white 
And  colourless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with 

drops  215 

Of  onset;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parch'd  with 

dust; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed 

his  lips.  220 

So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  king; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest. 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings.  225 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
"Ah!  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead,   229 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that 

led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  round  table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world;    235 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years. 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 
And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge: 
"The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to 

new,  240 

And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways, 


\. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


597 


Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 

Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 

I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have 

done 
May  He  within  Himself  make  pure!  but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again,      246 
Pray  for  my  soul.    More  things  are  wrought  by 

prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.    Wherefore,  let  thy 

voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats  250 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them 

friend? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God.  255 
But  now  farewell.    I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island  valley  of  Avilion;^ 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow,     260 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,    happy,    fair   with   orchard- 
lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown 'd  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail  265 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted 

swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull  270 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn. 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light,  that  long 
Had  wink'd  and  threaten'd  darkness,  flared 

and  fell:  274 

At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with  sound, 
And  waked  with  silence,  grunted  "Good!"  but 

we 
Sat  rapt:  it  was  the  tone  with  which  he  read — 
Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here  and  there 
Redeem'd  it  from  the  charge  of  nothingness — 
Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized  his  work; 
I  know  not:  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said,  281 

The  cock  crew  loud;  as  at  that  time  of  year 
The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for  dawn: 
Then  Francis,  muttering,  like  a  man  ill-used, 
"There  now — that's  nothing!"  drew  a  little 

back,  285 

And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoulder' d  log. 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the  flue: 
And  so  to  bed ;  where  yet  in  sleep  I  seem'd 
To  sail  with  Arthur  under  looming  shores, 
Point  after  point;  till  on  to  dawn,  when  dreams, 
Begin  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of  day,  291 

To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with  a  crowd. 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  forward,  bore 

2  In  Celtic  legend  the  Island  of  Avilion,  or  Avalon,  was 
thought  to  be  an  earthly  paradise  for  great  heroes,  in  the 
western  seas.  Glastonbury  was  at  one  time  called 
Avalon,  and  in  Henry  II's  reign  a  tomb,  which  was 
■upposed  to  be  Arthur's,  was  discovered  there. 


King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest  port;  and  all  the  people  cried,  295 
"Arthur  is  come  again;  he  cannot  die." 
Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills  behind 
Repeated — "Come  again,  and  thrice  as  fair;" 
And,  further  inland,  voices  echoed — "Come 
With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be  no 

more."  300 

At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to  peal, 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard  indeed 
The  clear  church-bells  ring  in  the  Christmas^ 

morn. 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAKi 

(From  Poems,  1842) 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy,  5 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill;  ^  10 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand    ' 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags.  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  aay  that  is  dead  15 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


A  FAREWELL 

(From  Poems,  1842) 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver; 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea,         6 

A  rivulet,  then  a  river; 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder-tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver;  lo 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be,        15 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

1  Tennyson  says  that  this  poem  was  "made  in  a  Lin- 
colnshire lane  at  5  o'clock  in  the  morning  between  blos- 
soming hedges." 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


TEARS,  IDLE  TEARS 

(Song  from  The  Princess,  ed.  1850) 

"Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they 
mean, 
Teare  from  the  depth  of  some  divme  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
III  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more.      5 

"  Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail. 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under- 
world, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more.      10 

"Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 

dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The    casement    slowly    grows    a    glimmering 

square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more.l5 


"Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret: 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 


20 


IN  MEMORLAM* 
(1850) 


I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise. 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

IX 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains. 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 


If 


15 


•  This  poem  weuj  written  in  memory  of  the  poet's  dear- 
est frienu,  Arthur  Henry  Hallam,  who  died  suddenly  at 
Vienna,  in  1833.  in  his  twenty-third  year.  Hallam,'  the 
■on  of  Henry  Hallam,  the  historian,  became  intimate 
with  Tennyson  at  Cambridge.  He  was  a  brilliant  de- 
bater, and  (as  Tennyson  thought)  a  promising  poet.  In 
Memoriam  records  the  effect  of  this  crushing  sorrow  on 
the  poet  during  a  number  of  critical  years.  The  first 
"  jottings  "  for  the  poem  were  written  aa  early  as  1833. 


So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain;  a  favorable  speed 
Rufl3e  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn.  20 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above;  2S 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow; 
Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 

My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run;  30 

Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 
More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


I  hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 


35 


Thou  brings't  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  traveird  men  from  foreign  lands; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life.        40 

So  bring  him;  we  have  idle  dreams; 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies.    O,  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod,  45 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine,    60 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine. 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 

XVIII 

*Tis  well;  'tis  something  we  may  srand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid. 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made  55 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

'Tis  little;  but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blesii 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth.  60 

Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the  head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep, 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep, 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 


Ah  yet,  even  yet,  if  this  might  be, 
I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart, 
Would  breathing  thro'  his  lips  impart 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me; 


65 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


599 


That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind, 
Treasuring  the  look  i,t  cannot  find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 


The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 
70  The  same,  but  not  the  same;  and  last 

Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 
To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 


O,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood; 


75 


That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 

That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete;   80 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain; 

That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 

Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire. 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything;  85 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  ofiF— at  last,  to  all. 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream ;  but  what  am  I? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night;  90 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light, 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

Lxxxm 
Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 

0  sweet  new-year,  delaying  long; 

Thou  doest  expectant  Nature  wrong;      95 
Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons?  100 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spires 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue. 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long,  105 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 

That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud 
And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXVII 

1  past  beside  the  reverend  walls 

In  which  of  old  I  wore  the  gown;  110 

1  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 
And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The  storm  their  high-built  organs  make. 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake  115 

The  prophet  blazon'd  on  the  panes; 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout. 
The  meaured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows;  paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about  120 


Another  name  was  on  the  door.  125 

I  linger'd;  all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  boys 

That  crash'd  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor; 


Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art. 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land; 


130 


When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair. 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring,      135 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he, 

Would  cleave  the  mark.    A  willing  ear 
We  lent  him.    Who  but  hung  to  hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free  140 

From  point  to  point,  with  power  and  grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law. 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 


And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise; 
And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 

The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo?^ 


143 


cvi 


Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light; 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 


150 


Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow; 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go;  155 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor. 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind.  160 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin,         165 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite;  170 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

*"  Michael  Angelo  had  a  strong  bar  of  bone  over  his 
eyes."    (Tennyson  to  Gatty). 


600 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old,        176 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
Tne  l^ger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be.  180 


Who  loves  not  Knowledge?    Who  shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty?    May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prosper:    Who  shall  fix 

Her  pillars?    Let  her  work  prevail. 


185 


But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire; 
She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain — 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death.         190 
WTiat  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith. 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  demons?  fiery-hot  to  burst 

All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 

For  power.    Let  her  know  her  place;     195 
She  is  Uie  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 
If  fiJl  be  not  in  vain,  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 

With  Wisdom,  like  the  younger  child;      200 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 
But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul, 
O  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind. 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grcwest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 


205 


cxv 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of  quick'      210 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue        215 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea. 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea;  220 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood,  that  live  their  lives 

*  A  growing  hedge,  usually  of  hawthorn. 


From  land  to  land;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too,  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet. 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

CXVIII 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth. 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.    They  say, 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began. 
And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms. 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms. 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man; 


225 


230 


235 


240 


Who  throve  and  branched  from  clime  to  clime, 

The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 
If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more;  245 

Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore. 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears,  250 

And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears. 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.    Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast,       255 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

cxxi 

Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun 
And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him, 
Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done.  260 

The  team  is  loosen'd  from  the  wain. 
The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door. 

And  life  is  darken'd  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  iresher  for  the  night,         265 
By  thee  the  world's  greet  work  is  heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird; 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light. 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream. 

And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink;  270 

Thou  hear'st  the  village  hammer  clink. 

And  see'st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper-PhospTior,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last. 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my  past  275 

Thy  place  is  changed;  thou  art  the  same. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


601 


281 


CXXXI 

O  living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 

Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 
Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust. 


With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


283 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT 
BRIGADE! 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league. 
Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"Forward  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd. 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

VoUey'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well. 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

IV 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turned  in  air. 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wonder'd. 


10 


15 


20 


25 


30 


*  The  original  version  of  this  poem  app)eared  in  the 
London  "Examiner,"  Dec.  9,  1854.  Tennyson  "wrote 
the  poem  in  a  few  minutes"  after  reading  an  account  in 
the  "Times"  of  the  gallant  charge  at  Balaclava  of  the 
English  cavalry  under  Lord  Cardigan  against  the  Rus- 
sian artillery.  The  poet  was  struck  by  the  phrase  "some 
one  had  blundered"  in  the  newspaper  account,  "and  this 
was  the  origin  of  the  metre  of  his  poem."  H.  Tennyson's 
Memoirs. 


Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke  35 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them,  40 

Cannon  behind  them 

VoUey'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell. 
They  that  had  fought  so  well  45 

Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 


VI 

When  can  their  glory  fade?  so 

O  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred!  56 

MAUD 
(Prom  Maud,  1855) 

XVIII 


I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend. 
There  is  none  Hke  her,  none.  eoo 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 
And  sweetly,  on  and  on 
Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-for  end, 
Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good. 


None  like  her,  none.  eos 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  pattering 

talk 
Seem'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden  walk, 
And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes  once 

more; 
But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door, 
The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she  is 

gone.  610 

in 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  deceased. 
O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  delicious 

East, 
Sighing  for  Lebanon,  615 

Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here  increased, 
Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair. 
And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air, 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head  620 


602 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  iny  fate, 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar-flame; 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have  spread 
With  such  dcllKht  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers  of  the  thornhiss  garden,  there  625 
Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from  whom 
she  came. 

IV 

Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches  sway, 

And  yon  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy  day 

Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 

Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn,  630 

As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 

To  labour  and  the  mattock-harden'd  hand, 

Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  understand 

A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 

That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron  skies,     635 

Innumerable,  i)itiless,  passionless  eyes, 

Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and  brand 

His  nothingness  into  man. 


But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 
Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a  pearl    640 
The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky, 
And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would  die 
To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple  girl. 


Would  die;  for  sullen-seeming  Death  may  give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was  645 

In  our  low  world,  where  yet  'tis  sweet  to  live. 

Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass; 

It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 

A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 

A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea.  650 

VII 

Not  die;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 
And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal  wrongs. 
O  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drinking-songs, 
8pice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of  death? 
Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss,  655 

Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  loving  kiss, 
Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this? 
"The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 
With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself  more 
dear." 

vm 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell  660 

Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay? 

And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 

Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal  white. 

And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play; 

But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her  8ight665 

And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and  stol'n  away 

To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies  dwell 

Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 

May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  affright! 

Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy  spell.ero 

My  bnde  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 

My  own  heart's  heart,  my  ownest  own,  farewell* 

It  IS  but  for  a  little  space  I  go: 

And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 


Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night !  675 
Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the  glow 
Of  your  soft  splendours  that  you  look  so  bright? 
/  have  climbed  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 
Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  below. 
Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart  can 
tell,  680 

Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 
That  seems  to  draw — but  it  shall  not  be  so: 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 


SONG— LATE,  LATE,  SO  LATE 

(From  Guinevere,  1859) 

"Late,  late,  so  late!  and  dark  the  night  and 

chill! 
Late,  late,  so  late!  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"No  light  had  we;  for  that  we  do  repent. 

And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will  relent.    5 

Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"No  light!  so  late!  and  dark  and  chill  the  night! 
O,  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light! 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so 
sweet?  10 

O,  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet! 
No,  no,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now." 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM 

(From  The  Holy  Grail  and  Other  Poems,  1869) 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills 

and  the  plains, — 
Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who 

reigns? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He,  tho'  He  be  not  that  which 

he  seems? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not 

live  in  dreams? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and 

Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division 
from  Him? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee;  thyself  art  the  reason 

why. 
For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power  to 

feel  "I  am  I"? 

Glory  about  thee,   without   thee;   and   thou 

fulfillest  thy  doom. 
Making   Him   broken   gleams   and   a   stifled 

solendor  and  ffloom  i  n 


splendor  and  gloom 


10 


Speak  to  Him,  thou,  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit 

with  Spirit  can  meet — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than 

hands  and  feet. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


603 


God  is  law,  say  the  wise;  O  Soul,  and  let  us  re- 
joice, 

For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His 
voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some;  no  God  at  all,  says  the 
fool,  15 

For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff 
bent  in  a  pool; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of 

man  cannot  see; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision — were 

it  not  He? 


"FRATER  AVE  ATQUE  VALEI^" 
(Included  in  Teresias  and  Other  Poems,  1885) 

Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione 

row! 
So    they   row'd,    and    there    we   landed — "O 

venusta  Sirmio!^" 
There  to  me  thro'  all  the  groves  of  olive  in  the 

summer  glow, 
There  beneath  the  Roman  ruin  where  the  pur- 
ple flowers  grow. 
Came  that  "Ave  atque  Vale"'  of  the  Poet's 

hopeless  woe,  5 

Tenderest  of  Roman  poets  nineteen  hundred 

years  ago, 
"Frater  Ave  atque  Vale" — as  we  wander'd  to 

and  fro 
Gazing  at  the  Lydian  laughter  of  the  Garda 

Lake  below 
Sweet  CatuUus's  all-but-island,*  olive-silvery 

Sirmio! 

LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTERi 

(1887) 

Late,  my  grandson!  half  the  morning  have  I 

paced  these  sandy  tracts, 
Watch'd  again  the  hollow  ridges  roaring  into 

cataracts, 

Wander'd  back  to  living  boyhood  while  I  heard 

the  curlews  call, 
I  myself  so  close  on  death,  and  death  itself  in 

Locksley  Hall. 

1  This  poem  was  composed  in  1880,  after  a  day's  ramble 
over  the  peninsula  of  Sirmio,  which  stretches,  almost 
cut  off  from  the  mainland,  into  the  Lake  of  Garda,  Italy. 
Catullus,  the  Latin  lyric  poet,  had  a  villa  on  Sirmio, 
and  the  region  is  full  of  memories  of  him  and  his  poems. 
Tennyson  was  rowed  out  to  Sirmio  from  Desenzano,  a 
town  at  the  southern  end  of  the  lake. 

2  "O  delightful  Sirmio,"  from  Cat.  Carm.  31. 

8  "Brother,  hail  and  then  farewell!"  the  solemn  words 
of  farewell  to  the  dead.  The  reference  is  to  CatuUus's 
tribute  to  his  dead  brother,  Carm.  101. 

*  An  echo  of  Catullus'.  Carm.  vii.  31. 
"Paene  insularum,  Sirmio,  insularumque  Ocelle;" 
(Sirmio.  scarcely  an  island,  a  little  darling  of  an  island.) 

» Tennyson  believed  that  the  "two  Locksley  Halls 
were  likely  to  be  in  the  future  two  of  the  most  historically 
interesting  of  his  poems,  as  descriptive  of  the  tone  of  the 
age  at  two  distant  periods  of  his  life."  H.  Tennyson's 
Memoir,  ii.  329. 


So— your  happy  suit  was  blasted— she  the 
faultless,  the  divine;  5 

And  you  liken— boyish  babble — this  boy-love 
of  yours  with  mine. 

I  myself  have  often  babbled  doubtless  of  e 

foolish  past; 
Babble,  babble;  our  old  England  may  go  down 

in  babble  at  last. 

"Curse  him!"  curse  your  fellow-victim?  call 

him  dotard  in  your  rage? 
Eyes  that  lured  a  doting  boyhood  well  might 

fool  a  dotard's  age.  10 

Jilted  for  a  wealthier!  wealthier?  yet  perhaps 

she  was  not  wise; 
I  remember  how  you  kiss'd  the  miniature  with 

those  sweet  eyes. 

In  the  hall  there  hangs  a  painting — ^Amy's  arms 

about  my  neck — ■ 
Happy  children  in  a  sunbeam  sitting  on  the 

ribs  of  wreck. 

In  my  life  there  was  a  picture,  she  that  clasp'd 
my  neck  had  flown;  15 

I  was  left  within  the  shadow  sitting  on  the 
wreck  alone. 

Yours  has  been  a  slighter  ailment,  will  you 

sicken  for  her  sake? 
You,    not   you!   your   modern   amorist   is   of 

easier,  earthlier  make. 

Amy  loved  me.  Amy  fail'd  me.  Amy  was  a 

timid  child; 
But  your  Judith — but  your  worldling — she  had 

never  driven  me  wild.  20 

She  that  holds  the  diamond  necklace  dearer 

than  the  golden  ring. 
She  that  finds  a  winter  sunset  fairer  than  a  morn 

of  spring. 

She  that  in  her  heart  is  brooding  on  his  briefer 

lease  of  life, 
While  she  vows  **till  death  shall  part  us,"  she 

the  would-be-widow  wife. 

She  the  worldling  born  of  worldlings — father, 
mother — be  content,  25 

Even  the  homely  farm  can  teach  us  there  is 
something  in  descent. 

Yonder  in  that  chapel,  slowly  sinking  now  into 

the  ground. 
Lies  the  warrior,  my  forefather,  with  his  feet 

upon  the  hound. 

Crossed!*  for  once  he  sail'd  the  sea  to  crush  the 

Moslem  in  his  pride; 
Dead  the  warrior,  dead  his  glory,  dead  the 

cause  in  which  he  died.  30 

2  A  sign  that  he  had  fought  against  the  heathen  in  the 
Holy  Land. 


604 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Yet  how  often  I  and  Amy  in  the  mouldenng 

aisle  have  stood, 
Gazing  for  one  pensive  moment  on  that  founder 

of  our  blood. 

There  again  I  stood  to-day,  and  where  of  old 

we  knelt  in  prayer, 
Cloee  beneath  the  casement  crimson  with  the 
shield  of  Locksley — there, 

All  in  white  Italian  marble,  looking  still  as  if 
she  smiled,  35 

Lies  my  Amv  dead  in  childbirth,  dead  the 
mother,  dead  the  child. 

Dead — and  sixty  years  ago,  and  dead  her  aged 

husband  now — 
I,  this  old  white-headed  dreamer,  stoopt  and 

kiss'd  her  marble  brow. 

Gone  the  fires  of  youth,  the  follies,  furies, 

curses,  passionate  tears. 
Gone  like  fires  and  floods  and  earthquakes  of 

the  planet's  dawning  years.  40 

Fires  that  shook  me  once,  but  now  to  silent 

a^es  fallen  away. 
Cold  upon  the  dead  volcano  sleeps  the  gleam  of 

dying  day. 

Gone  the  tyrant  of  my  youth,  and  mute  below 

the  chancel  stones. 
All  his  virtues — I  forgive  them — black  in  white 

above  his  bones. 

Gone  the  comrades  of  my  bivouac,  some  in 
fight  against  the  foe,  45 

Some  thro'  age  and  slow  diseases,  gone  as  all 
on  earth  will  go. 

Gone  with  whom  for  forty  years  my  life  in 

golden  sequence  ran, 
She  with  all  the  charm  of  woman,  she  with  all 

the  breadth  of  man, 

Strong  in  will  and  rich  in  wisdom,  Edith,  yet  so 

lowly-sweet. 
Woman  to  her  inmost  heart,  and  woman  to  her 

tender  feet,  50 

Very  woman  of  very  woman,  nurse  of  aihng 

body  and  mind. 
She  that  Unk'd  again  the  broken  chain  that 

bound  me  to  my  kind. 

Here  to-day  was  Amy  with  me,  while  I  wan- 

der'd  down  the  coast. 
Near  us  Edith's  holy  shadow,  smilmg  at  the 

sUghter  ghost. 

Gone  our  sailor  son  thy  father,  Leonard  early 
lost  at  sea;  55 

Thou  alone,  my  boy,  of  Amy's  kin  and  mine  are 
left  to  me. 


Gone  thy  tender-natured  mother,  wearying  to 

be  left  alone. 
Pining  for  the  stronger  heart  that  once  had 

beat  beside  her  own. 

Truth,  for  truth  is  truth,  he  worshipt,  being 

true  as  he  was  brave; 
Good,  for  good  is  good,  he  foUow'd,  yet  he 

look'd  beyond  the  grave,  60 

Wiser  there  than  you,  that  crowning  barren 

Death  as  lord  of  all, 
Deem  this  over-tragic  drama's  closing  curtain 

is  the  pall! 

Beautiful  was  death  in  him,  who  saw  the  death, 

but  kept  the  deck, 
Saving  women  and  their  babes,  and  sinking 

with  the  sinking  wreck. 

Gone  for  ever!  Ever?  no — for  since  our  dying 
race  began  65 

Ever,  ever,  and  for  ever  was  the  leading  light  of 
man. 

Those  that  in  barbarian  burials  kill'd  the  slave, 

and  slew  the  wife 
Felt  within  themselves  the  sacred  passion  of  the 

second  life. 

Indian    warriors    dream    of    ampler    hunting 

grounds  beyond  the  night; 
Even  the  black  Australian  dying  hopes  he  shall 

return,  a  white.  70 

Truth  for  truth,  and  good  for  good!    The  good, 

the  true,  the  pure,  the  just — 
Take  the  charm  "For  ever"  from  them,  and 

they  crumble  into  dust. 

Gone  the  cry  of  "Forward,  Forward,"  lost 

within  a  growing  gloom; 
Lost,  or  only  heard  in  silence  from  the  silence  of 

a  tomb. 

Half  the  marvels  of  my  morning,  triumphs  over 
time  and  space,  75 

Staled  by  frequence,  shrunk  by  usage  into 
commonest  commonplace! 

"Forward"  rang  the  voices  then,  and  of  the 

many  mine  was  one. 
Let  us  hush  this  cry  of  "Forward"  till  ten 

thousand  years  have  gone. 

Far  among  the  vanish'd  races,  old  Assjrrian 
kings  would  flay 

Captives  whom  they  caught  in  battle — iron- 
hearted  victors  they.  so 

Ages  after,  while  in  Asia,  he  that  led  the  wild 
Moguls, 

Timur*  built  his  ghastly  tower  of  eighty  thou- 
sand human  skulls; 

»i.  e.  Tamerlane,  v.  p.  159,  n.  1.  Some  accounts  repre- 
sent Timur  as  an  oriental  conqueror  of  the  most  cruel 
type. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


605 


Then,  and  here  in  Edward's*  time,  an  age  of 

noblest  English  names,* 
Christian  conquerors  took  and  flung  the  con- 

quer'd  Christian  into  flames.^ 

Love  your  enemy,  bless  your  haters,  said  the 
Greatest  of  the  great;  85 

Christian  love  among  the  Churches  look'd  the 
twin  of  heathen  hate. 

From  the  golden  alms  of  Blessing  man  had 

coin'd  himself  a  curse: 
Rome  of  Caesar,  Rome  of  Peter,  which  was 

crueller?  which  was  worse? 

France  had  shown  a  light  to  all  men,  preach'd  a 

Gospel,  all  men's  good; 
Celtic   Demos^  rose  a   Demon,  shriek'd  and 

slaked  the  light  with  blood.  90 

Hope  was  ever  on  her  mountain,  watching  till 

the  day  begun — ■ 
Crown'd  with  sunlight — over  darkness — from 

the  still  unrisen  sun. 

Have  we  grown  at  last  beyond  the  passions  of 

the  primal  clan? 
"Kill  your  enemy,  for  you  hate  him,"  still, 

"your  enemy"  was  a  man. 

Have  we  sunk  below  them?  peasants  maim  the 
helpless  horse,  and  drive  95 

Innocent  cattle  under  thatch,  and  bum  the 
*  kindlier  brutes  alive.^ 

Brutes,  the  brutes  are  not  your  wrongers — 
burnt  at  midnight,  found  at  morn, 

Twisted  hard  in  mortal  agony  with  their 
offspring,  born-unborn. 

Clinging  to  the  silent  mother!    Are  we  devils? 

are  we  men? 
Sweet  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi,  would  that  he 

were  here  again,  lOO 

He  that  in  his  Catholic  wholeness  used  to  call 

the  very  flowers 
Sisters,  brothers — and  the  beasts — whose  pains 

are  hardly  less  than  ours! 

Chaos,  Cosmos!  Cosmos,  Chaos!  who  can  tell 

how  all  will  end? 
Read  the  wide  world's  annals,  you,  and  take 

their  wisdom  for  your  friend. 

Hope  the  best,  but  hold  the  Present  fatal 
daughter  of  the  Past,  105 

Shape  your  heart  to  front  the  hour,  but  dream 
not  that  the  hour  will  last. 

*  Edward  III  (1312-1377).  a  contemporary  of  Timur. 
"Here  "=Europe,  as  distinguished  from  Asia. 

6  Chaucer,  Wyclif,  Langland,  etc. 

« Probably  the  cruelties  committed  in  the  Peasant 
Revolt  in  France,  as  Tennyson  refers  to  this  later 
(p.  606,  1.  157,  and  n.),  or  possibly  those  practised  by  the 
Black  Prince  in  the  French  War.  Horrible  deeds  are  re- 
corded by  Froissart  in  his  account  of  the  Jaquerie,  e.  g. 
Chron.,  Chap.  CLXXXII  and  CLXXXIV. 

7  i.  e.  the  French  populace.  Demos  is  the  Greek  word 
for  the  masses,  the  common  people.  The  reference  is  to 
the  French  Revolution  and  the  "Gospel,"  then  preached, 
of  "Liberty,  Equality,  and  Fraternity." 

8  An  allusion  to  recent  disturbances  in  Ireland. 


Ay,  if  dynamite  and  revolver  leave  you  courage 
to  be  wise — 

When  was  age  so  cramm'd  with  menace?  mad- 
ness? written,  spoken  lies? 

Envy  wears  the  mask  of  Love,  and,  laughing 

sober  fact  to  scorn, 
Cries  to  weakest  as  to  strongest,   "Ye  are 

equals,  equal-born."  no 

Equal-born?   O,  yes,  if  yonder  hill  be  level  with 

the  flat. 
Charm  us,  orator,  till  the  lion  look  no  larger 

than  the  cat, 

Till  the  cat  thro'  that  mirage  of  overheated 

language  loom 
Larger  than  the  lion — Demos  end  in  working 

its  own  doom. 

Russia  bursts  our  Indian  barrier,  shall  we  fight 
her?  shall  we  yield?  *  1 1 5 

Pause!  before  you  sound  the  trumpet,  hear  the 
voices  from  the  field  .^ 

Those  three  hundred  millions  under  one  Im- 
perial sceptre  now. 

Shall  we  hold  them?  shall  we  loose  them?  take 
the  suffrage  of  the  plow. 

Nay,  but  these  would  feel  and  follow  Truth  if 

only  you  and  you, 
Rivals  of  realm-ruining  party,  when  j^ou  speak 

were  wholly  true.  120 

Plowmen,  shepherds,  have  I  found,  and  more 
than  once,  and  still  could  find, 

Sons  of  God,  and  kings  of  men  in  utter  noble- 
ness of  mind. 

Truthful,  trustful,  looking  upward  to  the  prac- 
tised hustings-liar  ;^° 

So  the  higher  wields  the  lower,  while  the  lower 
is  the  higher. 

Here  and  there  a  cotter's  babe  is  royal-bom  by 
right  divine;  125 

Here  and  there  my  lord  is  lower  than  his  oxen 
or  his  swine. 

Chaos,  Cosmos!  Cosmos,  Chaos!  once  again 

the  sickening  game; 
Freedom,  free  to  slay  herself,  and  dying  while 

they  shout  her  name. 

Step  by  step  we  gain'd  a  freedom  known  to 

Europe,  known  to  all; 
Step  by  step  we  rose  to  greatness, — thro'  the 

tonguesters  we  may  fall.  130 

You  that  woo  the  Voices — tell  them  "old  ex- 
perience is  a  fool," 

Teach  your  flatter'd  kings  that  only  those  who 
cannot  read  can  rule. 

9  i.  e.  of  those  who  work  in  the  fields,  or  the  laboring 
classes. 

10  Hustings,  the  platform  from  which  a  political  orator 
addresses  the  people  at  a  Parliamentary  election. 


G06 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Pluck  the  mighty  from  their  seat,  but  set  no 

meek  ones  in  their  place;" 
Pillory  Wisdom  in  your  markets,  pelt  your  offal 

at  her  face. 

Tumble  Nature  heel  o'er  head,  and,  yelling 
with  the  yelling  street,  135 

Set  the  feet  above  the  brain  and  swear  the  brain 
is  in  the  feet. 

Bring  the  old  dark  ages  back  without  the  faith, 

without  the  hope. 
Break  the  State,  the  Church,  the  Throne,  and 

roll  their  ruins  down  the  slope. 

Authors — essayist,    atheist,    novelist,    realist, 

rhymester,  play  your  part, 
Paint  the  mortal  shame  of  nature  with  the 

Uving  hues  of  art.  140 

Rip  your  brothers'  vices  open,  strip  your  own 

foul  passions  bare; 
Down  with  Reticence,  down  with  Reverence — 

forward — naked — let  them  stare. 

Feed  the  budding  rose  of  boyhood  with  the 

drainage  of  your  sewer; 
Send  the  drain  into  the  fountain,  lest  the  stream 

should  issue  pure. 

Set  the  maiden  fancies  wallowing  in  the  troughs 
of  Zolaism,— 12  145 

Forward,  forward,  ay,  and  backward,  down- 
ward too  into  the  abysm! 

Do  your  best  to  charm  the  worst,  to  lower  the 

rising  race  of  men; 
Have  we  risen  from  out  the  beast,  then  back 

into  the  beast  again? 

Only  "dust  to  dust"  for  me  that  sicken  at  your 

lawless  din, 
Dust  in  wholesome  old-world  dust  before  the 

newer  world  begin.  150 

Heated    am    I?    you — you    wonder — well,    it 

scarce  becomes  mine  age — 
Patience!  let  the  dying  actor  mouth  his  last 

upon  the  stage. 

Cries  of  unprogressive  dotage  ere  the  dotard 

fajl  asleep? 
Noises  of  a  current  narrowing,  not  the  music  of 

a  deep? 

Ay,  for  doubtless  I  am  old,  and  think  gray 
thoughts,  for  I  am  gray;  155 

After  all  the  stormy  changes  shall  we  find  a 
changeless  May? 

After  madness,  after  massacre,  Jacobinism  and 

Jacquerie," 
Some  diviner  force  to  guide  us  thro'  the  days 

I  shall  not  see? 

"  y.  St.  Luke,  i.  52. 

"  i.  e.  the  works  (or  certain  notorious  works)  of  Emile 
Zola,  1840-1902,  the  French  novelist. 

"  i.  e.  after  terrible  uprisinss  of  the  masses  against  or- 
ganized authority;  uprisings  as  violent,  or  as  lawless,  as 
that  of  the  Jacobins  in  the  French  Revolution  of  1789 
or  of  the  Jaquerie.  the  revolt  of  the  peasants  against  the 
I  rench  nobles  in  1358. 


When  the  schemes  and  all  the  systems,  king- 
doms and  republics  fall, 

Something  kindlier,  higher,  holier — all  for  each 
and  each  for  all?  160 

All  the  full-brain,  half-brain  races,  led  by  Jus- 
tice, Love  and  Truth; 

All  the  millions  one  at  length  with  all  the  visions 
of  my  youth? 

All  diseases  quench'd  by  Science,  no  man  halt, 

or  deaf,  or  blind; 
Stronger  ever  born  of  weaker,  lustier  body, 

larger  mind? 

Earth  at  last  a  warless  world,  a  single  race,  a 
single  tongue —  165 

I  have  seen  her  far  away — for  is  not  Earth  as 
yet  so  young? 

Every  tiger  madness  muzzled,  every  serpent 

passion  kill'd, 
Every  grim  ravine  a  garden,   every  blazing 

desert  till'd, 

Robed  in  universal  harvest  up  to  either  pole 

she  smiles. 
Universal  ocean  softly  washing  all  her  warless 

isles.  170 

Warless?  when  her  tens  are  thousands,  and  her 

thousands  millions,  then — 
All  her  harvest  all  too  narrow — who  can  fancy 

warless  men? 

Warless?  war  will  die  out  late  then.    Will  it 

ever?  late  or  soon? 
Can  it,  till  this  outworn  earth  be  dead  as  yon 

dead  world  the  moon? 

Dead  the  new  astronomy  calls  her. — On  this 
day  and  at  this  hour,  175 

In  this  gap  between  the  sandhills,  whence  you 
see  the  Locksley  tower. 

Here  we  met,  our  latest  meeting — Amy — sixty 

years  ago — 
She  and  I — the  moon  was  falling  greenish  thro' 

a  rosy  glow, 

Just  above  the  gateway  tower,  and  even  where 

you  see  her  now — • 
Here  we  stood  and  claspt  each  other,  swore  the 

seeming-deathless  vow. —  iso 

Dead,  but  how  her  living  glory  lights  the  hall, 

the  dune,  the  grass! 
Yet  the  moonlight  is  the  sunlight,  and  the  sun 

himself  will  pass. 

Venus  near  her!  smiling  downward  at  this 
earthlier  earth  of  ours. 

Closer  on  the  sun,  perhaps  a  world  of  never  fad- 
ing flowers. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 


607 


Hesper,  whom  the  poet  call'di*  the  Bringer 
home  of  all  good  things—  185 

All  good  things  may  move  in  Hesper,  perfect 
peoples,  perfect  kings. 

Hesper— Venus— were  we  native  to  that  splen- 
dor or  in  Mars, 

We  should  see  the  globe  we  groan  in,  fairest  of 
their  evening  stars. 

Could  we  dream  of  wars  and  carnage,  craft  and 

madness,  lust  and  spite, 
Roaring  London,  raving  Paris,  in  that  point  of 

peaceful  light?  190 

Might  we  not  in  glancing  heavenward  on  a  star 

so  silver-fair, 
Yearn,    and    clasp    the   hands   and   murmur, 

"Would  to  God  that  we  were  there?" 

Torward,  backward,  backward,  forward,  in  the 

immeasurable  sea, 
Sway'd  by  vaster  ebbs  and  flows  than  can  be 

known  to  you  or  me. 

All  the  suns — are  these  but  symbols  of  innumer- 
able man,  195 

xVlan  or  Mind  that  sees  a  shadow  of  the  planner 
or  the  plan? 

Is  there  evil  but  on  earth?  or  pain  in  every 

peopled  sphere? 
Well,  be  grateful  for  the  sounding  watchword 

"Evolution"  here, 

Evolution  ever  climbing  after  some  ideal  good, 

And  Reversion  ever  dragging  Evolution  in  the 

mud.  200 

What  are  men  that  He  should  heed  us?  cried 

the  king  of  sacred  song;i^ 
Insects  of  an  hour,  that  hourly  work  their 

brother  insect  wrong. 

While  the  silent  heavens  roll,  and  suns  along 

their  fiery  way. 
All  their  planets  whirling  round  them,  flash  a 

million  miles  a  day. 

Many  an  aeon  moulded  earth  before  her  highest, 
man,  was  born,  205 

Many  an  aeon  too  may  pass  when  earth  is  man- 
less  and  forlorn. 

Earth  so  huge,  and  yet  so  bounded — spools  of 

salt,  and  plots  of  land — 
Shallow  skin  of  green  and  azure — chains  of 

mountain,  grains  of  sand! 

Only  That  which  made  us  meant  us  to  be  might- 
ier by  and  by, 

Set  the  sphere  of  all  the  boundless  heavens 
within  the  human  eye,  210 

**  The  Greek  poetess  Sappho.    Cf.  Song  to  the  Evening 
Star,  p.  505,  and  Don  Juan,  p.  518,  Stan.  CVII. 
"  David;  v.  Psalms,  viii.  4. 


Sent  the  shadow  of  Himself,  the  boundless, 
thro'  the  human  soul; 

Boundless  inward  in  the  atom,  boundless  out- 
ward in  the  Whole. 


Here  is  Locksley  Hall,  my  grandson,  here  the 

lion-guarded  gate. 
Not  to-night  in  Locksley  Hall— to-morrow— 

you,  you  come  so  late. 

Wreck'd— your  train— or  all  but  wreck'd?  a 
shatter'd  wheel?  a  vicious  boy!  215 

Good,  this  forward,  you  that  preach  it,  is  it 
well  to  wish  you  joy? 

Is  it  well  that  while  we  range  with  Science, 

glorying  in  the  Time, 
City  children  soak  and  blacken  soul  and  sense 

in  city  slime? 

There  among  the  glooming  alleys  Progress  halts 

on  palsied  feet. 
Crime  and  hunger  cast  our  maidens  by  the 

thousand  on  the  street.  220 

There  the  master  scrimps  his  haggard  semp- 

tress  of  her  daily  bread. 
There  a  single  sordid  attic  holds  the  living  and 

the  dead. 

There   the   smouldering  fire   of  fever   creeps 

across  the  rotted  floor, 
And  the  crowded  couch  of  incest  in  the  warrens 

of  the  poor. 

Nay,  your  pardon,  cry  your  "Forward,"  yours 
are  hope  and  youth,  but  I —  225 

Eighty  winters  leave  the  dog  too  lame  to  fol- 
low with  the  cry. 

Lame  and  old,  and  past  his  time,  and  passing 

now  into  the  night; 
Yet  I  would  the  rising  race  were  half  as  eager 

for  the  light. 

Light  the  fading  gleam  of  even?  light  the  glim- 
mer of  the  dawn? 

Aged  eyes  may  take  the  growing  glimmer  for 
the  gleam  withdrawn.  230 

Far  away  beyond  her  myriad  coming  changes 

earth  will  be 
Something   other   than   the   wildest   modern 

guess  of  you  and  me. 

Earth  may  reach  her  earthly-worst,  or  if  she 

gain  her  earthly-best. 
Would  she  find  her  human  offspring  this  ideal 

man  at  rest? 

Forward  then,  but  still  remember,  how  the 
course  of  Time  will  swerve,  235 

Crook  and  turn  upon  itself  in  many  a  backward 
streaming  curve. 


606 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Not  the  Hall  to-night,  my  grandson!    Death 

and  Silence  hold  their  own. 
I^eave  the  master  in  the  first  dark  hour  of  his 

last  sleep  alone. 

Worthier  soul  was  he  than  I  am,  sound  and 

honest,  rustic  Squire, 
Kindly   landlord,   boon  companion — ^youthful 

jealousy  is  a  liar.  240 

Cast  the  poison  from  your  bosom,  oust  the 

madness  from  your  brain. 
Let  the  trampled  serpent  show  you  that  you 

have  not  lived  in  vain. 

Youthful!  youth  and  age  are  scholars  yet  but 

in  the  lower  school. 
Nor  is  he  the  wisest  man  who  never  proved 

himself  a  fool. 

Yonder  lies  our  young  sea-village — Art  and 
^  Grace  are  less  and  less;  245 

Science  grows  and  Beauty  dwindles — roofs  of 
slat^  hideousness! 

There  is  one  old  hostel  left  us  where  they  swing 
the  Locksley  shield, 

Till  the  peasant  cow  shall  butt  the  "lion  pas- 
sant" from  his  field. 

Poor  old  Heraldry,  poor  old  History,  poor  old 

Poetry,  passing  hence. 
In  the  common  deluge  drowning  old  political 

common-sense!  250 

Poor  old  voice  of  eighty  crying  after  voices  that 

have  fled! 
All  I  loved  are  vanish'd  voices,  all  my  steps  are 

on  the  dead. 

All  the  world  is  ghost  to  me,  and  as  the  phantom 

disappears. 
Forward  far  and  far  from  here  is  all  the  hope  of 

eighty  years. 


In  this  hostel — I  remember — I  r^)ent  it  o'er 
his  grave,  255 

Like  a  clown — ^by  chance  he  met  me — ^I  refused 
the  hand  he  gave. 

From  that  casement  where  the  trailer  mantles 

all  the  mouldering  bricks — 
I  was  then  in  early  boyhood,  Edith  but  a  child 

of  six — 

While  I  sheltered  in  this  archway  from  a  day  of 

driving  showers — 
Peept  the  winsome  face  of  Edith  like  a  flower 

among  the  flowers.  260 

Here  to-night!  the  Hall  to-morrow,  when  they 

toU  the  chapel  bell! 
Shall  I  hear  in  one  dark  room  a  wailing,  "I 

have  loved  thee  well?" 


Then  a  peal  that  shakes  the  portal — one  has 

come  to  claim  his  bride, 
Her  that  shrank,  and  put  me  from  her,  shriek'd, 

and  started  from  my  side — 

Silent  echoes!  You,  my  Leonard,  use  and  not 
abuse  your  day,  265 

Move  among  your  people,  know  them,  follow 
him  who  led  the  way, 

Strove  for  sixty  widow'd  years  to  help  his 

homelier  brother  men, 
Served  the  poor,  and  built  the  cottage,  raised 

the  school,  and  drain'd  the  fen. 

Hears  he  now  the  voice  that  wrong'd  him?  who 

shall  swear  it  cannot  be? 
Earth  would  never  touch  her  worst,  were  one 

in  fifty  such  as  he  270 

Ere  she  gain  her  heavenly-best,  a  God  must 

mingle  with  the  game. 
Nay,  there  may  be  those  about  us  whom  we 

neither  see  nor  name, 

Felt  within  us  as  ourselves,  the  Powers  of  Good, 
the  Powers  of  111, 

Strowing  balm  or  sheading  poison  in  the  foun- 
tains of  the  will. 

Follow  you  the  star  that  lights  a  desert  path- 
way, yours  or  mine,  275 

Forward,  till  you  see  the  Highest  Human  Na- 
ture is  divine. 

Follow  Light,  and  do  the  Right — for  man  can 

half-control  his  doom — 
Till  you  find  the  deathless  Angel  seated  in  the 

vacant  tomb. 

Forward,  let  the  stormy  moment  fly  and  mingle 

with  the  past. 
I  that  loathed  have  come  to  love  him.    Love 

will  conquer  at  the  last.  280 

Gone  at  eighty,  mine  own  age,  and  I  and  you 

will  bear  the  pall; 
Then  I  leave  thee  lord  and  master,  latest  lord 

of  Locksley  Hall. 


THE  THROSTLE 
(Included  in  Demeter^and  Other  Poems,  1889) 

"Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming. 

I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again,  love  again!" 

Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue.  6 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
"New,  new,  new,  new!"    Is  it  then  so  new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly?  j 

"Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again,  young  I 
again," 

Never  a  prophet  so  crazy!  10 

And  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 

See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy.  . 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


609 


"Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy  year!" 

O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden! 
Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear,  15 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 

CROSSING  THE  BAR 

(Demeter,  1889) 
Sunset  and  evening  star. 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep,  5 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless 
deep 

Turns  again  home. 


Ill 


Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell. 

When  I  embark; 


10 


For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face  15 

Wnen  I  have  crost  the  bar. 

Hobm  BrotDntng 

(1812-1889) 

SONG 
(From  Pippa  Passes,  1841) 
The  year's  at  the  spring 
The  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing;  5 

The  snail's  on  the  thorn: 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world! 

CAVALIER  TUNES 

(From  Dramatic  Lyrics,  1842) 

II 

GIVE  A   ROUSE 
I 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

n 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since?  5 

Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once? 

Chorus 
King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now?     10 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 


To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else. 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else,  1 5 

While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him? 

Chorus 
King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles!  20 

III 

BOOT  AND   SADDLE 

(From  the  same) 
I 
Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray. 

Chorus 
Boot,  saddle  to  horse,  and  away! 


Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you'd  say ;  5 
Many's  the  friend  there,  will  listen  and  pray 
"God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay— 

Chorus 
"Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

Ill 
Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay. 
Flouts   Castle   Brancepeth   the   Roundheads' 
array:  10 

Who  laughs,  "Good  fellows  ere  this,  by  my  fay, 

Chorus 
"Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away ! " 


Who?     My  wife  Gertrude;  that,  honest  and 

Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "Nay! 
I've  better  counsellors ;  what  counsel  they?      1 6 

Chorus 
"Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

MY  LAST  DUCHESSi 

FERRARA 

(From  Dramatic  Lyrics,  1842) 
That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall. 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.    I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now;  Fra  Pandolf's^  hand 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 

1  The  Duke  in  this  poem,  like  Browning's  Bishop  who 
ordered  "his  tomb  at  St.  Praxed's  Church,"  is  a  char- 
acteristic product  of  the  Italy  of  the  Renaissance.  He 
exemplifies  Browning's  favorite  doctrine  that  we  are 
not  saved  by  taste,  and  that  a  fine  appreciation  of  art 
and  letters  is  by  no  means  incompatible  with  a  small, 
Ignoble,  and  worldly  nature. 

2  An  imaginary  artist,  as  is  ClaiLS  of  Innsbruck. 


610 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Will 't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?   I  said     5 
•*FrA  Pandolf "  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and'passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I)  lO 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not  the 

first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.    Sir,  'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek :  perhaps  15 

Fri  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat:"  such 

stuff 
Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough  20 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.   She  had 
A  heart — ^how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made 

glad, 
Too  easily  impressed;  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 
Sir,  'twas  all  one!    My  favor  at  her  breast,       25 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 
Would  draw   from   her  alike  the  approving 

speech,  30 

Or  blush,  at  least.    She  thanked  men, — ^good! 

but  thanked 
Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-ycars-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift.    Who'd  stoop  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?   Even  had  you  skill  35 

In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your 

will 

Suite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 
r  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss. 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark  " — and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set  4o 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 
— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;  and  I 

choose 
Never  to  stoop.  Oh,  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 
Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  with- 
out 
Much  the  same  smile?  This  grew;  I  gave  com- 
mands;' 45 
Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.    There  she 

stands 
As  if  alive.    Will't  please  you  rise?   We'Umeet 
I  he  company  below,  then.    I  repeat 
Tho  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretense  50 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 
Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 
At  startmg,  is  my  object.    Nay,  we'll  go 
i  ogether  down,  sir.    Notice  Neptune,  though 
wu"' »ng  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity,  55 

Which  Claua  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for 
mel 

♦sliilSVif  HVu  ?i'P^'*^.*^'«  ^  mean  commands  for 
nat.?rif  fu'  ^^^  Duchess  but  Browning  leaves  the  exact 
nature  of  these  commands  to  our  imagination. 


"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD 
NEWS   FROM   GHENT  TO   AIX"i 

(From  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,  1845) 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all 
three; 

"Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate- 
bolts  undrew; 

"Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping 
through; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to 
rest,  5 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


Not  a  word  to  each  other:  we  kept  the  great 

pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing 

our  place; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight. 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique 

right,  10 

Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the 

bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 


'Twas  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew 

near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned 

clear; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star   came  out  to 

see;  15 

At  Diiffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could 

be; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the 

half-chime. 
So,  Joris  broke  silence  with,   "Yet  there  is 

time!" 

IV 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun. 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every 
one,  20 

To  stare  thro'  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past. 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last. 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray : 


And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  eai 

bent  back  25 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his 

track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence,— ever  that 

glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master, 

askance! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye 

and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on.  30 

*  T^^f  ?°®™  ^^  °°  historical  foundation.  Browning 
wrote  It  after  a  long  sea  voyage,  when  it  appealed  to  him 
to  describe  a  gallop  on  horseback. 


f 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


611 


VI 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris, 

"Stay  spur! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in 

her, 
We'll  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard  the 

quick  wheeze 
Of  her   chest,    saw  the   stretched   neck   and 

staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank,35 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and 

sank. 


VII 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the 

sky; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble 

like  chaff;  40 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in 

sight!" 

VIII 

"How  they'll  greet  us!" — and  all  in  a  moment 

his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  iay  dead  as  a 

stone; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole 

weight  45 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from 

her  fate. 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the 

brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 


IX 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  bufifcoat,  each  holster  let 

fall, 
Shook  ofif  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and 

all,  50 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,   my  horse 

without  peer; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any 

noise,  bad  or  good. 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and 

stood. 


And  all  I  remember  is — friends  flocking 
round  55 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the 
ground; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of 
mine, 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of 
wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  con- 
sent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good 
news  from  Ghent.  60 


HOME  THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD 
(From  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  VII.,  1845) 

I 
Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's  there. 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,   some 

morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush-wood 

sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf. 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough5 
In  England — now! 

II 
And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  wnitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swal- 
lows! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the 

hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover     lO 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops — ^at  the  bent  spray's 

edge — 
That's  the  wise  thrush;  he  sings  each  song 

twice  over 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary 

dew,  15 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew  . 

The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower  ' 

— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower! 

HOME  THOUGHTS  FROM  THE  SEA^ 
(From  the  same) 
Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  north- 
west died  away; 
Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into 

Cadiz  Bay; 
Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face 

Trafalgar  lay; 
In   the  dimmest   northeast  distance  dawned 

Gibraltar  grand  and  gray ; 
"Here  and  here  did  England  help  me;  how  can 

I  help  England?  " — say,  5 

Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to 

praise  and  pray. 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over 

Africa. 

THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL  :i 

A   PICTURE    AT   FANG 

(From  Men  and  Women,  1855) 
I 
Dear  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him, 
for  me! 

1  The  poet,  near  the  scene  of  some  of  England's  great- 
est naval  victories,  is  stirred  to  even  more  than  patriotic 
gratitude.  Off  Cape  St.  Vincent,  at  the  southern  ex- 
tremity of  Portugal,  an  English  fleet  of  15  ships  defeated 
a  Spanish  fleet  of  27  ships,  in  1797;  off  Cape  Trafalgar, 
on  the  Spanish  coast,  and  south-east  of  the  Gulf  of  Cadiz 
and  of  Cape  St.  Vincent,  Nelson  won  death  and  victory 
in  1805;  while  distant  Gibraltar,  triumphantly  held  for 
three  years  (1797-82)  against  the  combined  powers  of 
France  and  Spain,  stands  as  a  monument  to  England's 
naval  supremacy. 

1 U Angela  Custode,   the  picture  which  inspired  this 


612 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 

Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry, 
And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 
Thy  flight,  may'st  see  another  child  for  tend- 
ing, 6 
Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 


That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower. 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass;  5 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think: 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink. 


Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more. 

From  where  thou  stana'st  now,  to  where  I 

gaze. 

And  suddenly  my  head  be  covered  o'er  10 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who 

prays 

Now  on  that  tomb — and  I  shall  feel  thee 

guarding 
Me,  out  of  all  the  world;  for  me,  discarding 
'i'on  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its 
door! 

HI 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head        15 
Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I 
know, 
For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 
Thou  bird  of  God!    And  wilt  thou  bend  me 
low 
Like  him.  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 
And  lift  tnem  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether     20 
Me  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's 
spread? 

IV 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 
Mv  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing 
hands 
Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 
Pressing  the  brain  which  too  much  thought 
expands  25 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 
Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing. 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  supprest. 

V 

How  soon  an  worldly   wrong  would  be  re- 
paired! 

I  tnink  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared  31 

After  thy  heahng,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O  world,  as  God  has  made  it!  all  is  beauty; 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared? 


EVELYN  HOPE 
(From  the  same) 
I 
Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 
Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 

poem,  is  in  the  Church  of  St.  Augustine  at  Fano,  a  town 
on  the  Adriatic.  It  was  painted  by  Guercino  and  "ren- 
reaented  a^  angel  8tandin|?  with  outstretched  wings  bv 
ahUle  child  ^he  child  fs.half  kneeling  on  a  kind  o^f 
peoostal.  while  the  angel  joins  its  hands  in  prayer;  its 

?H!t.}i*^'"f'®^•"Py*'^^.^?'?'■^«  the  sky.  from  which 
cherubs  are  looking  down."  I  have  omitted  the  last  three 
UtJteto'the'    *™  °°  *         exalted  level  and  seem  to  add 


Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name;    10 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares. 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir. 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, —  15 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Ill 
Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope. 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew —  20 

And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide. 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  naught  beside? 


No,  indeed!  for  God  above  2? 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make. 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love: 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet. 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few:  30 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

V 

But  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will, 
When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall 


a-y) 

ilov 


35 


In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still. 
That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 

Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine. 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's 
red — 

And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead.  40 

VI 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  m3'self  so  many  times. 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope,       45 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me: 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope! 

What  is  the  issue?  let  us  seel 

VII 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold—        50 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank 
young  smile. 
And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's 
young  gold.  v 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


613 


So,  hush, — ^I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep: 
See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand! 

There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep !  55 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  under- 
stand. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE 
(From  the  same) 


How  well  I  know  what  I  mean  to  do 

When  the  long  dark  autumn  evenings  come: 
And  where,  my  soul,  is  thy  pleasant  hue? 

With  the  music  of  all  thy  voices,  dumb 
In  life's  November  too !  5 


I  shall  be  found  by  the  fire,  suppose, 
O'er  a  great  wise  book,  as  beseemeth  age, 

While  the  shutters  flap  as  the  crosswind  blows 
And  I  turn  the  page,  and  I  turn  the  page. 

Not  verse  now,  only  prdee !  lo 


Till  the  young  ones  whisper,  finger  on  lip, 
"  There  he  is  at  it,  deep  in  Greek: 

Now  then,  or  never,  out  we  slip 
To  cut  from  the  hazels  by  the  creek 

A  mainmast  for  our  ship ! " 


VIII 


15 


I  shall  be  at  it  indeed,  my  friends: 
Greek  puts  already  on  either  side 

Such  a  branch-work  forth  as  soon  extends 
To  a  vista  opening  far  and  wide, 

And  I  pass  out  where  it  ends. 


The  outside-frame,  hke  your  hazel-trees; 

But  the  inside-archway  widens  fast. 
And  a  rarer  sort  succeeds  to  these. 

And  we  slope  to  Italy  at  last 
And  youth,  by  green  degrees. 


20 


25 


VI 

I  follow  wherever  I  am  led. 
Knowing  so  well  the  leader's  hand: 

O  woman-country,  wooed  not  wed, 

Loved  all  the  more  by  earth's  male-lands, 

Laid  to  their  hearts  instead !  30 


Look  at  the  ruined  chapel  again 

Half-way  up  in  the  Alpine  gorge!* 
Is  that  a  tower,  I  point  you  plain, 

Or  is  it  a  mill,  or  an  iron  forge 
Breaks  solitude  in  vain?  35 

1  Browning  evidently  has  in  mind  a  mountain  gorge 
near  the  Baths  of  Lucca.  The  Brownings  passed  the 
summers  of  1849  and  1853  at  Bagni  di  Lucca,  three 
mountain  villages,  some  forty  miles  from  Florence. 
Mrs.  Browning  writes:  "I  find  myself  able  to  climb  the 
hills  with  Robert,  and  help  him  to  lose  himself  in  the 
forests." 


A  turn,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things; 

The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim: 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs, 

The  thread  of  water  single  and  slim, 
Through  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings !         40 


IX 


Does  it  feed  the  little  lake  below? 

That  speck  of  white  just  on  its  marge 
Is  Pella;  see,  in  the  evening  glow. 

How  sharp  the  silver  spear-heads  charge 
When  Alp  meets  heaven  in  snow! 


45 


On  our  other  side  is  the  straight-up  rock; 

And  a  path  is  kept  'twixt  the  gorge  and  it 
By  bowlder-stones  where  lichens  mock 

The  marks  on  a  moth,  and  small  ferns  fit 
Their  teeth  to  the  polished  block.  so 


XI 


Oh  the  sense  of  the  yellow  mountain  flowers, 
And  thorny  balls,  each  three  in  one. 

The  chestnuts  throw  on  our  path  in  showers! 
For  the  drop  of  the  woodland  fruit's  begun. 

These  early  November  hours,  55 


XII 


That  crimson  the  creeper's  leaf  across 
Like  a  splash  of  blood,  intense,  abrupt. 

O'er  a  shield  else  gold  from  rim  to  boss. 
And  lay  it  for  show  on  the  fairy-cupped 

Elf-needled  mat  of  moss. 


XIII 


By  the  rose-flesh  mushrooms,  undivulged 
Last  evening — nay,  in  to-day's  first  dew 

Yon  sudden  coral  nipple  bulged, 

Where  a  freaked  fawn-colored  flaky 

Of  toad-stools  peep  indulged. 


60 


crew 
65 


XIV 

And  yonder,  at  foot  of  the  fronting  ridge 
That  takes  the  turn  to  a  range  beyond. 

Is  the  chapel  reached  by  the  one-arched  bridge, 
Where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a  stagnant 
pond 

Danced  over  by  the  midge.  7o 


XV 

The  chapel  and  bridge  are  of  stone  alike, 
Blackish-gray  and  mostly  wet; 

Cut  hemp-stalks  steep  in  the  narrow  dika. 
See  here  again,  how  the  lichens  fret 

And  the  roots  of  the  ivy  strike! 


73 


XVI 


Poor  little  place,  where  its  one  priest  comes 
On  a  festa-day,  if  he  comes  at  all, 

To  the  dozen  folk  from  their  scattered  homes. 
Gathered  within  that  precinct  small 

By  the  dozen  ways  one  roamsr—  80 


614 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


xvn 

To  drop  from  the  charcoal-burners'  huts, 
Or  climb  from  the  hemp-dresser's  low  shed, 

Leave  the  grange  where  the  woodman  stores 
his  nuts, 
Or  the  wattled  cote  where  the  fowlers  spread 

Their  gear  on  the  rock's  bare  juts.  85 


It  has  some  pretension  too,  this  front, 
With  its  bit  of  fresco  half-moonwise 

Set  over  the  porch.  Art's  early  wont: 
'Tis  John  in  the  Desert,  I  surmise. 

But  has  borne  the  weather's  brunt — 


90 


XIX 


Not  from  the  fault  of  the  builder  though. 
For  a  pent-house  properly  projects 

Where  three  carved  beams  make  a  certain  show, 
Dating — good  thought  of  our  architect's — 

'Five,  six,  nine,  he  lets  you  know.  95 


XX 


And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 
And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the  pond  at 
times; 

The  place  is  silent  and  aware; 

It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and  crimes, 

But  that  is  its  own  affair.  100 


XXI 


My  perfect  wife,  my  Leonor, 
O  heart,  my  own!  O  eyes,  mine  too! 

Whom  else  could  I  dare  look  backward  for, 
With  whom  beside  should  I  dare  pursue 

The  path  gray  heads  abhor?  105 


For  it  leads  to  a  crag's  sheer  edge  with  them; 

Youth,  flowery  all  the  way,  there  stops — 
Not  they;  age  threatens  and  they  contemn, 

Till  they  reach  the  gulf  wherein  youth  drops, 
One  inch  from  life's  safe  hem!  no 


With  me,  youth  led  ...  I  will  speak  now, 

No  longer  watch  you  as  you  sit 
Reading  by  IBrelight,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 
Mutely  my  heart  knows  how —  115 


XXVI 

My  own,  see  where  the  years  conduct! 

At  first,  'twas  something  out  two  souls 
Should  mix  as  mists  do;  each  is  sucked 

In  each  now:  on,  the  new  stream  rolls, 
Whatever  r«ckg  obstruct.  130 

XXVII 

Think,  when  our  one  soul  understands 

The  great  Word  which  makes  all  things  new. 

When  earth  breaks  up  and  heaven  expands. 
How  will  the  change  strike  me  and  you 

In  the  house  not  made  with  hands?  135 

XXVIII 

Oh,  I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt  mine, 

Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart. 
You  must  be  just  before,  in  fine. 

See  and  make  me  see,  for  your  part, 
New  depths  of  the  divine!  140 

x^ix 

But  who  could  have  expected  this 
When  we  two  drew  together  first 

Just  for  the  obvious  human  bliss, 
To  satisfy  life's  daily  thirst 

With  a  thing  men  seldom  miss?  145 

XXX 

Come  back  with  me  to  the  first  of  all, 
Let  us  lean  and  love  it  over  again. 

Let  us  now  forget  and  now  recall. 
Break  the  rosary  in  a  pearly  rain. 

And  gather  what  we  let  fall!  iso 

XXXI 

What  did  I  say? — that  a  small  bird  sings 
All  day  long,  save  when  a  brown  pair 

Of  hawks  from  the  wood  float  with  wide  wings 
Strained  to  a  bell:'gainst  noonday  glare 

You  count  the  streaks  and  rings.  155 

XXXII 

But  at  afternoon  or  almost  eve 
'Tis  better;  then  the  silence  grows 

To  that  degree,  you  half  believe 
It  must  get  rid  of  what  it  knows, 

Its  bosom  does  so  heave.  leo 


XXIV 


When,  if  I  think  but  deep  enough, 

You  are  wont  to  answer,  prompt  as  rhyme; 
And  you,  too,  find  without  rebuff 

Response  your  soul  seeks  many  a  time 
Piercing  its  fine  flesh-stuff.  120 


XXV 


My  own,  confirm  me!  If  I  tread 
This  path  back,  is  it  not  in  pride 

To  think  how  little  I  dreamed  it  led 
To  an  age  so  blest  that,  by  its  side. 

Youth  seems  the  waste  instead? 


135 


XXXIII 

Hither  we  walked  then,  side  by  side. 

Arm  in  arm  and  cheek  to  cheek, 
And  still  I  questioned  or  replied. 

While  my  heart,  convulsed  to  really  speak, 
Lay  choking  in  its  pride.  les 

XXIV 

Silent  the  crumbling  bridge  we  cross, 
And  pity  and  praise  the  chapel  sweet, 

And  care  about  the  fresco's  loss, 
And  wish  for  our  souls  a  like  retreat, 

And  wonder  at  the  moss.  170 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


615 


XXXT 

Stoop  and  kneel  on  the  settle  under, 

Look  through  the  window's  grated  square* 

Nothing  to  see!  For  fear  of  plunder, 
The  cross  is  down  and  the  altar  bare 

As  if  thieves  don't  fear  thunder.  '        175 

XXXVI 

We  stoop  and  look  in  through  the  grate, 
See  the  little  porch  and  rustic  door, 

Read  duly  the  dead  builder's  date; 

Then  cross  the  bridge  that  we  crossed  before, 

Take  the  path  again — but  wait!  I80 

XXXVII 

Oh  moment  one  and  infinite! 

The  water  slips  o'er  stock  and  stone; 
The  West  is  tender,  hardly  bright: 

How  gray  at  once  is  the  evening  grown — 
One  star,  its  chrysolite!  185 

XXXVIII 

We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third, 
But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well: 

The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we  heard, 
The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell 

Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred.  190 

XXXIX 

Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss. 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play. 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this!  195 

XL 

Had  she  willed  it,  still  had  stood  the  screen 
So  slight,  so  sure,  'twixt  my  love  and  her: 

I  could  fix  her  face  with  a  guard  between. 
And  find  her  soul  as  when  friends  confer, 

Friends — lovers  that  might  have  been.  200 


For  my  heart  had  a  touch  of  the  woodland 
time, 

Wanting  to  sleep  now  over  its  best. 
Shake  the  whole  tree  in  the  summer-prime, 

But  bring  to  the  last  leaf  no  such  test! 
"Hold  the  last  fast!"  runs  the  rhyme.         205 

xui 
For  a  chance  to  make  your  little  much, 

To  gain  a  lover  and  lose  a  friend, 
Venture  the  tree  and  a  myriad  such. 
When  nothing  you  mar  but  the  year  can 
mend: 
But  a  last  leaf — ^fear  to  touch!  210 


XLIV 


Worth  how  well,  those  dark  gray  eyes. 
That  hair  so  dark  and  dear,  how  worth 

That  a  man  should  strive  and  agonize, 
And  taste  a  veriest  hell  on  earth 

For  the  hope  of  such  a  prize!  220 


XLV 


You  might  have  turned  and  tried  a  man, 
Set  him  a  space  to  weary  and  wear. 

And  prove  which  suited  more  your  plan, 
His  best  of  hope  or  his  worst  despair, 

Yet  end  as  he  began. 


225 


XLVI 


But  you  spared  me  this,  like  the  heart  you  are. 
And  filled  my  empty  heart  at  a  word. 

If  two  lives  join,  there  is  oft  a  scar, 
They  are  one  and  one,  with  a  shadowy  third; 

One  near  one  is  too  far.  230 


A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast; 

But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 
Life  and  life:  we  were  mixed  at  last 

In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen.  235 

XLVIII 

The  forests  had  done  it;  there  they  stood; 

We  caught  for  a  moment  the  powers  at  play: 
They  had  mingled  us  so,  for  once  and  good. 

Their  work  was  done — we  might  go  or  stay, 
They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood.  240 


How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  usi 
How  all  we  perceive  and  know  in  it 

Tends  to  some  moment's  product  thus, 
When  a  soul  declares  itself — to  wit, 

By  its  fruit,  the  thing  it  does! 


245 


Be  hate  that  fruit  or  love  that  fruit. 
It  forwards  the  general  deed  of  man, 

And  each  of  the  Many  helps  to  recruit 
The  life  of  the  race  by  a  general  plan; 

Each  living  his  own,  to  boot. 


250 


LI 


I  am  named  and  known  by  that  moment's  feat; 

There  took  my  station  and  degree; 
So  grew  my  own  small  life  complete. 

As  nature  obtained  her  best  of  me — 
One  born  to  love  you,  sweet!  255 


XLIII 

Yet  should  it  unfasten  itself  and  fall 
Eddying  down  till  it  find  your  face 

At  some  slight  wind — ^best  chance  of  all! 
Bt,  your  heart  henceforth  its  dwelling-place 

You  trembled  to  forestall!  215 


LII 


And  to  watch  you  sink  by  the  fireside  now 

Back  again,  as  you  nmtely  sit 
Musing  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it. 
Yonder,  my  heart  knows  how!  260 


616 


THE   VICTORIAN  AGE 


LI  II 

So,  earth  has  gained  by  one  man  the  more, 
And  the  gain  of  earth  must  be  heaven's  gain 
too; 

And  the  whole  is  well  worth  thinking  o'er 
When  autumn  comes:  which  I  mean  to  do 

One  day,  as  I  said  before.  265 


"DE  GUSTIBUS— "» 

(From  the  same) 


Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 

(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane. 
By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please,  6 

Making  love,  say, — 

The  happier  they! 
Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon,  10 

With  the  beanflower's  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June!  / 


What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 

Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled,  16 

In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 

Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine 

(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 

O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands, 

And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands) —  20 

In  a  seaside  house  to  the  farther  South, 

Where  the  baked  cicala  dies  of  drouth, 

And  one  sharp  tree — 'tis  a  cypress — stands. 

By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 

Rough,  iron-spiked,  ripe  fruit-o'er-crusted,      25 

My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 

To  the  water's  edge.    For,  what  expands 

Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 

Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break? 

While,  in  the  house,  forever  crumbles  30 

Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls. 

From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 

A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 

Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons. 

And  says  there's  news  to-day — the  king  35 

Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the  liver-wing, 

Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling; 

— She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 

Italy,  mv  Italy! 

Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me —  40 

(When  fortune's  maUce 

Lost  her  Calais) — 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "  Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she:  45 

So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be! 

>  De  gustibtta  non  ditputandum,  thera  ia  no  disputine 
about  tastes. 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO^ 

CALLED    "the    FAULTLESS    PAINTER" 

(From  the  same) 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more. 
No,  my  Lucrezia;  bear  with  me  for  once: 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your 

heart? 
I'U  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never 

fear,  5 

Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.    Will  it?  tenderly? 
Oh,  I'll  content  him, — but  to-morrow.  Love!   10 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As  if — forgive  now — should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a  half  hour  forth  on  Fiesole,^  15 

Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.    Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this  I       20 
Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself. 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls 

inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither;  you  must 

serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require: 
It  saves  a  model.    So  I  keep  looking  so —  25 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds! 
— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there!  oh,  so  sweet — • 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon. 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his,  30 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 
While  she  looks — no  one's:  very  dear,  no  less. 
You  smile?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready  made 
There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony! 
A  common  grayness  silvers  every  thing, —       35 

'Andrea,  called  "del  sarto," — or,  as  we  would  say, 
the  tailor's  son, — was  born  at  Florence  in  1487.  After 
working  at  goldsmitbing,  wood-carving,  and  drawing, 
and  studying  under  several  painters,  he  executed  some 
frescoes  for  the  Church  of  the  Annunciation  at  Florence, 
with  such  accuracy  and  skill  that  he  gained  the  name  of 
"the  faultless  painter."  At  twenty-three  he  is  said  to 
have  had  no  superior  in  Central  Italy  in  technique.  In 
1512  he  married  Lucrezia,  "a  beautiful  widow."  "But," 
says  Vasari,  "he  destroyed  his  own  peace,  as  well  as 
estranged  his  friends,  by  this  act,  seeing  that  he  soon  be- 
came jealous,  and  found  that  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  an  artful  woman,  who  made  him  do  as  she  pleased  in 
all  things."  In  1518  he  went  to  Paris  without  Lucrezia, 
at  the  invitation  of  Francis  I.  This  is  the  period  of  adula- 
tion and  substantial  rewards  that  he  looks  back  upon  in 
the  poem  as  his  long  festal  year,  when  he  could  "some- 
times leave  the  ground."  But  Lucrezia  wrote  urging  his 
return.  The  king  granted  him  a  brief  leave  of  absence, 
and  commissioned  him  to  buy  certain  works  of  art  in 
Italy.  Andrea,  beguiled  by  his  wife,  used  the  money 
which  Francis  had  entrusted  to  him,  to  build  a  house  for 
himself  at  Florence.  His  career  in  France  being  thus 
miserably  interrupted,  he  remained  in  Florence,  where  he 
died  of  the  plague  in  1531. 

2  A  small  town  on  a  hill-top  about  three  miles  to  the 
west  of  Florence.  Browning  apparently  makes  Andrea 
build  his  house  on  the  outskirts  of  Florence  immediately 
facing  the  Convent  of  San  Domenico,  with  Fiesole  in  the 
distant  background.  \ 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


617 


All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

— You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 

(That's   gone,   you   know,) — but   I,  at  every 

point; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned 

down 
To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole.  40 

There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top; 
That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside; 
The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden;  days  decrease, 
And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  every  thing.     45 
Eh?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 
As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 
And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 
A  twilight-piece.    Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand.^ 
How  strange  now  looks  the  life  he  makes  us 

lead;  so 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are! 
1  feel  he  laid  the  fetter:  let  it  lie! 
This  chamber  for  example — turn  your  head — 
All  that's  behind  us!     You  don't  understand 
Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art,  55 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak: 
And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 
— It  is  the  thing,  Love!  so  such  things  should 

be— 
Behold  Madonna! — I  am  bold  to  say. 
I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know,  60 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep — 
Do  easily,  too — when  I  say,  perfectly, 
I  do  not  boast,  perhaps:  yourself  are  judge 
Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week,     65 
And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 
At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it! 
No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past: 
I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives, 
— Dream?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do,         70 
And  fail  in  doing.    I  could  count  twenty  such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 
Who  strive — you  don't  know  how  the  others 

strive 
To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, —     75 
Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  says, 
(I  know  his  name,  no  matter) — so  much  less! 
Well,  less  is  more,'*  Lucrezia:  I  ana  judged. 
There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them. 
In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up 

brain,  80 

Heart,  or  whatever  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 
This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of 

mine. 
Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves, 

I  know, 
Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 
Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough,  85 

3  This  is  not  piety,  but  Andrea's  characteristic  way  of 
evading  responsibility.  Later  he  attributes  his  compara- 
tive failure  to  his  wife  (125),  and  then,  suddenly  shifting 
to  the  other  view,  declares  that  after  all  "incentives  come 
from  the  soul's  self." 

*  Vasari  says  of  Andrea:  "Had  this  master  possessed  a 
somewhat  bolder  and  more  elevated  mind,  had  he  been 
as  much  distinguished  for  higher  qualifications  as  he  was 
for  geuius  and  depth  of  judgment  in  the  art  he  practised, 
he  would  beyond  all  doubt  have  been  without  an  equal." 


Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the 

world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 
The  sudden  blood  of  these  men!  at  a  word — 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 
I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself,  90 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 
Or  their  praise  either.    Somebody  remarks 
Morello's^  outline  there  is  wrongly  traQed, 
His  hue  mistaken;  what  of  that?  or  else. 
Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered;  what  of  that? 
Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain 

care?  96 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp. 
Or  what's  a  heaven  for?    All  is  silver-gray. 
Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art:  the  worse! 
I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might 

gain;  lOO 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 
"Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 
Our^head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world — " 

No  doubt. 
Yonder's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 
The  Urbinate^  who  died  five  years  ago.  105 

('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 
Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 
Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see. 
Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him. 
Above  and  through  his  art — for  it  gives  way;il0 
That  arm  is  wrongly  put — and  there  again— 
A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  hnes, 
Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right, 
He  means  right — that,  a  child  may  understand. 
Still,  what  an  arm !  and  I  could  alter  it :  115 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch- 
Out  of  me,  out  of  me!    And  wherefore  out? 
Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 
We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you ! 
Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think — 
More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times.  121 

But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow. 
And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 
And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 
The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare — 125 
Had  you,  with  these  the  same^  but  brought  a 

mind! 
Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there 

urged, 
' '  God  and  the  glory !  never  care  for  gain.  ^^ 
The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that? 
Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo !  130 

Rafael  is  waiting:  up  to  God,  all  three!" 
I  might  have  done  it  for  you.    So  it  seems: 
Perhaps  not.    All  ia  as  God  overrules. 
Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self: 
The  rest  avail  not.    Why  do  I  need  you?         135 
What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo?^ 
In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not; 
And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive: 
Yet  the  will's  somewhat — somewhat,  too,  the 

power — 
And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.   At  the  end,  140 
God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

6  A  mountain  to  the  north  of  Florence. 

•  Raphael  was  so  called  from  his  birthplace,  Urbino. 

1  Michael  Angelo. 


618 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 
That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 
Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the 

truth. 
I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 
For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords.  146 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside; 
But  they  speak  sometimes;  I  must  bear  it  all. 
Well  may  they  speak!    That  Francis,  that  first 

time. 
And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau !   150 
I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground. 
Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear. 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look,— 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the 

smile,  155 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
1  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me. 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of 

souls  160 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond. 
This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work. 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward ! 
A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days?        165 
And  had  you  not  grown  restless^  .  .  .  but  I 

know — 
'Tis  done  and  past;  'twas  right,  my  instinct 

said; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray, 
And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 
Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his 

world.  170 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 
The  triumph  was,  to  have  ended  there;  then,  if 
I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost? 
Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's 

gold,  175 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine! 
"Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that; 
The  Roman's^  is  the  better  when  you  pray. 
But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife" — 
Men  will  excuse  me.   I  am  glad  to  judge         180 
Both  pictures  in  your  presence;  clearer  grows 
My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 
Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 
To   Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these 

years  ...  185 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his 

thoughts 
Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see. 
Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 
"  Friend,  ^0  there's  a  certain  sorry  Httle  scrub 

»  In  the  first  edition  of  his  lAvea  of  the  Painters,  Vasari 
dwella  at  some  length  upon  the  complaining  letter  which 
Andrea's  wife  wrote  to  nim  from  Florence.  Her  "bitter 
complaints"  dressed  up  "with  sweet  words"  ordered 
Andrea  (as  Vasari  says)  "to  resume  his  chain." 

"  Raphael,  who  left  Florence  to  settle  in  Rome  about 
1508. 

»o  In  Bocchi's  Bellezze  di  Fireme,  Michael  Angelo  is 
reported  to  have  spoken  thus  of  Andrea  to  Raphael. 
'There  is  a  bit  of  a  manikin  in  Florence,  who,  if  he 


Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares 

how,  190 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 
As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 
Would  bring  the  sweat   into   that   brow   of 

yours!" 
To  Rafael's! — And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 
I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see,  195 

Give  the  chalk  here — quick,  thus  the  line  should 

go! 
Ay,  but  the  soul!  he's  Rafael!  rub  it  out! 
Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 
(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 
Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those?)        200 
If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost, — • 
Is,   whether  you're — not  grateful — but   more 

pleased. 
Well,  let  me  think  so.    And  you  smile  indeed! 
Th  is  hour  has  been  an  hour !    Another  smile? 
If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night  205 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend? 
I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 
See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now;  there's  a  star; 
Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 
The  cue-owls"  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 
Come  from  the  window,  Love, — come  in,  at  last. 
Inside  the  melancholy  little  house  212 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.    God  is  just. 
King  Francis  may  forgive  me:  oft  at  nights 
When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 
The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick  216 
Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold. 
That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with! 
Let  us  but  love  each  other.    Must  you  go? 
That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside?     220 
Must  see  you — ^you,  and  not  with  nae?    Those 

loans?  I 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled  for 

that? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me!  have  you  more  to 

spend? 
While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 
Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's  it 

worth?  225 

I'll  pay  my  fancy.    Only  let  me  sit 
The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out. 
Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 
How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 
One  picture,  just  one  more — the  Virgin's  face, 
Not  yours  this  time!   I  want  you  at  my  side  231 
To  hear  them — that  is,  Michel  Agnolo — 
Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 
Will  you?   To-morrow,  satisfy  vour  friend. 
I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor,  235 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand — there,  there. 
And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 
If  he  demurs;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 
To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.    Beside, 
What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about,      240 
Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi^^  for  ^\^q  juff  j 

chanced  to  be  employed  in  great  undertakings  as  you 
have  happened  to  be,  would  compel  you  to  look  well 
about  you." 

"A  name  applied  to  the  Scops-owl  (Scops  Giu) .  Its  cry 
is  a  clear,  metallic,  ringing  ki-ou. 

"  Scudi,  pi.  of  scudo,  a  silver  coin  of  the  Italian  States, 
about  the  value  of  the  American  dollar, 

\ 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


619 


Love,  does  that  please  you?  Ah,  but  what  does 

he, 
The  Cousin!  what  does  he  to  please  you  more! 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less.  245 

Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis!— it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied. 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want,  i'      250 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich!    Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they 

died: 
And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.    Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him  try! 
No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a  balance. 

Yes,  257 

You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suflBce  me  here.    What  would  one 

have? 
In  heaven,  ♦perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more 

chance —  260 

Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,^^  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover — the  three  first  without  a  wife. 
While  I  have  mine!    So — still  they  overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I  choose.266 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle!    Go,  my  Love. 


AN  EPISTLE 

CONTAINING  THE  STRANGE  MEDICAL  EXPERIENCE 
OP  KARSHISH,   THE  ARAB  PHYSICIAN 

(From  the  same) 

Karshish,  the  picker-up  of  learning's  crumbs, 
The  not-incurious  in  God's  handiwork 
(This  man's-flesh  he  hath  admirably  made. 
Blown  like  a  bubble,  kneaded  like  a  paste. 
To  coop  up  and  keep  down  on  earth  a  space       5 
That  puff  of  vapor  from  his  mouth,  man's  soul) 
— ^To  Abib,  all-sagacious  in  our  art, 
Breeder  in  me  of  what  poor  skill  I  boast. 
Like  me  inquisitive  how  pricks  and  cracks 
Befall  the  flesh  through  too  much  stress  and 
strain,  10 

Whereby  the  wily  vapor  fain  would  slip 
Back  and  rejoin  its  source  before  the  term, — 
And  aptest  in  contrivance  (under  God) 
To  baffle  it  by  deftly  stopping  such: — 
The  vagrant  Scholar  to  his  Sage  at  home  15 

"  Vasari  says  on  this  point:  "He  (Andrea)  abandoned 
his  own  poor  father  and  mother,  .  .  .  and  adopted  the 
father  and  sisters  of  his  wife  in  their  stead;  insomuch  that 
all  who  knew  the  facts  mourned  over  him,  and  he  soon 
began  to  be  as  much  avoided  as  he  had  previously  been 
sought  after." 

i<  Leonardo  da  Vinci  (1452-1519).  While  on  earth, 
this  great  painter,  sculptor,  architect,  and  engineer  came 
more  than  once  into  direct  competition  with  Michael 
Angelo,  who  is  said  to  have  regarded  his  older  rival  with 
jealous  dislike. 


Sends  greeting  (health  and  knowledge,  fame 

with  peace) 
Three  samples  of  true  snake-stone— rarer  still, 
One  of  the  other  sort,  the  melon-shaped, 
(But  fitter,   pounded  fine,   for  charms  than 

drugs) 
And  writeth  now  the  twenty-second  time.       20 

My  joumeyings  were  brought  to  Jericho: 
Thus  I  resume.   Who  studious  in  our  art 
Shall  count  a  little  labor  unrepaid? 
I  have  shed  sweat  enough,  left  flesh  and  bone 
On  many  a  flinty  furlong  of  this  land.  25 

Also,  the  country-side  is  all  on  fire 
With  rumors  of  a  marching  hitherward: 
Some  say  Vespasian*  cometh,  some,  his  son. 
A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a  tufted  ear; 
Lust  of  my  blood  inflamed  his  yellow  balls :      30 
I  cried  and  threw  my  staff  and  he  was  gone. 
Twice  have  the  robbers  stripped  and  beaten  me, 
And  once  a  town  declared  me  for  a  spy; 
But  at  the  end,  I  reach  Jerusalem, 
Since  this  poor  covert  where  I  pass  the  night,  35 
This  Bethany,  lies  scarce  the  distance  thence 
A  man  with  plague-sores  at  the  third  degree 
Runs  till  he  drops  down  dead.    Thou  laughest 

here! 
'Sooth,  it  elates  me,  thus  reposed  and  safe, 
To  void  the  stuffing  of  my  travel-scrip  40 

And  share  with  thee  whatever  Jewry  yields. 
A  viscid  choler  is  observable 
In  tertians, 2 1  was  nearly  bold  to  say; 
And  falling-sickness'  hath  a  happier  cure 
Than  our  school  wots  of:  there's  a  spider  here  45 
Weaves  no  web,  watches  on  the  ledge  of  tombs. 
Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash-gray  back; 
Take  five  and  drop  them  .  .  .  but  who  knows 

his  mind. 
The  Syrian  runagate  I  trust  this  to? 
His  service  payeth  me  a  sublimate  50 

Blown  up  his  nose  to  help  the  ailing  eye. 
Best  wait:  I  reach  Jerusalem  at  mom, 
There  set  in  order  my  experiences. 
Gather  what  most  deserves,  and  give  thee  all — 
Or  I  might  add,  Judaea's  gum-tragacanth         55 
Scales  off  in  purer  flakes,  shines  clearer-grained. 
Cracks  'twixt  the  pestle  and  the  porphyry, 
In  fine  exceeds  our  produce.    Scalp-disease 
Confounds  me,  crossing  so  with  leprosy — 
Thou  hadst  admired  one  sort  I  gained  at  Zoar — 
But  zeal  outruns  discretion .    Here  I  end .         6 1 

Yet  stay:  my  Syrian  blinketh  gratefully, 
Protesteth  his  devotion  is  my  price — 
Suppose  I  write  what  harms  not,  though  he 

steal? 
I  half  resolve  to  tell  thee,  yet  I  blush,  65 

What  set  me  off  a- writing  first  of  all. 
An  itch  I  had,  a  sting  to  write,  a  tang! 
For,  be  it  this  town's  barrenness, — or  else 
The  Man  had  something  in  the  look  of  him — 

»  Vespasian,  was  Emperor  of  Rome  70-79  A.  D.  By 
the  allusion  to  him,  and  to  the  rumored  advance  of  the 
Roman  army  against  Jerusalem.  Browning  indicates  the 
date  of  Karshish'  letter.  The  destruction  of  Jerusalem 
by  Titus,  then  immanent,  took  place  in  70  A.  D. 

2  A  fever  recurring  every  third  day. 

'  Epilepsy. 


620 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


His  case  has  struck  me  far  more  than  'tis  worth. 
So,  pardon  if — (lest  presently  I  lose,  71 

In  tne  great  press  of  novelty  at  hand. 
The  care  and  pains  this  somehow  stole  from  me) 
I  bid  thee  take  the  thing  while  fresh  in  mind, 
Almost  in  sight — for,  wilt  thou  have  the  truth? 
The  very  man  is  gone  from  me  but  now,  76 

Whose  ailfnent  is  the  subject  of  discourse. 
Thus  then,  and  let  thy  better  wit  help  all! 

'Tis  but  a  case  of  mania — sub-induced 
By  epilepsy,  at  the  turning-point  80 

Of  trance  prolonged  unduly  some  three  days: 
When,  by  the  exhibition  of  some  drug 
Or  spell,  exorcisation,  stroke  of  art 
Unknown  to  me  and  which  'twere  well  to  know. 
The  evil  thing,  out-breaking,  all  at  once  85 

Left  the  man  whole  and  sound  of  body  indeed, — 
But,  flinging  (so  to  speak)  life's  gates  too  wide. 
Making  a  clear  house  of  it  too  suddenly, 
The  first  conceit  that  entered  might  inscribe 
Whatever  it  was  minded  on  the  wall  90 

So  plainly  at  that  vantage,  aa  it  were, 
(First  come,  first  served)  that  nothing  subse- 
quent 
Attaineth  to  erase  those  fancy-scrawls 
The  just-returned  and  new-established  soul 
Hath  gotten  now  so  thoroughly  by  heart  95 

That  henceforth  she  will  read  or  these  or  none. 
And  first — the  man's  own  firm  conviction  rests 
That  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried  him) 
— ^That  he  was  dead  and  then  restored  to  life 
By  a  Nazarene  physician  of  his  tribe :  lOO 

— 'Sayeth,  the  same  bade  "Rise,"  and  he  did 

rise. 
"Such  cases  are  diurnal,"^  thou  wilt  cry. 
Not  so  this  figment! — not,  that  such  a  fume, 
Instead  of  giving  way  to  time  and  health. 
Should  eat  itself  into  the  life  of  life,  105 

As  saffron  tingeth  flesh,  blood,  bones  and  all! 
For  see,  how  he  takes  up  the  after-life. 
The  man — it  is  one  Lazarus  a  Jew, 
Sanguine,  proportioned,  fifty  years  of  age. 
The  body's  habit  wholly  laudable,  no 

As  much,  indeed,  beyond  the  common  health 
As  he  were  made  and  put  aside  to  show. 
Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug 
And  bathe  the  wearied  soul  and  worried  flesh. 
And  bring  it  clear  and  fair,  by  three  days' 
sleep!  115 

Whence  has  the  man  the  balm  that  brightens 

all? 
This  grown  man  eyes  the  world  now  like  a  child. 
Some  elders  of  his  tribe,  I  should  premise, 
Led  in  their  friend,  obedient  as  a  sheep. 
To  bear  my  inquisition.    While  they  spoke,  120 
Now  sharply,  now  with  sorrow, — told  the  case, — 
He  listened  not  except  I  spoke  to  him. 
But  folded  his  two  hands  and  let  them  talk. 
Watching  the  flies  that  buzzed:  and  yet  no  fool. 
And  that's  a  sample  how  his  years  must  go.  125 
Look,  if  a  beggar,  in  fixed  middle-life. 
Should  find  a  treasure, — can  he  use  the  same 
With  straitened  habits  and  with  tastes  starved 
small, 

•  i.  e.  of  daily 


And  take  at  once  to  his  impoverished  brain 

The  sudden  element  that  changes  things,      130 

That  sets  the  undreamed-of  rapture  at  his  hand 

And  puts  the  cheap  old  joy  in  the  scorned  dust? 

Is  he  not  such  an  one  as  moves  to  mirth — 

Warily  parsimonious,  when  no  need. 

Wasteful  as  drunkenness  at  undue  times?     135 

All  prudent  counsel  as  to  what  befits 

The  golden  mean,  is  lost  on  such  an  one: 

The  man's  fantastic  will  is  the  man's  law. 

So  here — we  call  the  treasure  knowledge,  say. 

Increased  beyond  the  fleshy  faculty —  140 

Heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on  earth. 

Earth  forced  on  a  soul's  use  while  seeing  heaven : 

The  man  is  witless  of  the  size,  the  sum. 

The  value  in  proportion  of  all  things. 

Or  whether  it  be  little  or  be  much.  145 

Discourse  to  him  of  prodigious  armaments 

Assembled  to  besiege  his  city  now. 

And  of  the  passing  of  a  mule  with  gourds — 

'Tis  one!  Then  take  it  on  the  other  side,       149 

Speak  of  some  trifling  fact, — he  will  gaze  rapt 

With  stupor  at  its  very  littleness 

(Far  as  I  see)  as  if  in  that  indeed 

He  caught  prodigious  import,  whole  results; 

And  so  will  turn  to  us  the  by-standers 

In  ever  the  same  stupor  (note  this  point)         155 

That  we  too  see  not  with  his  opened  eyes. 

Wonder  and  doubt  come  wrongly  into  play, 

Preposterously,  at  cross  purposes. 

Should  his  child  sicken  unto  death, — why,  look 

For  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness,       I60 

Or  pretermission  of  the  daily  craft! 

While  a  word,  gesture,  glance  from  that  same 

child 
At  play  or  in  the  school  or  laid  asleep. 
Will  startle  him  to  an  agony  of  fear. 
Exasperation,  just  as  like.    Demand  165 

The  reason  why — "'tis  but  a  word,"  object — ■ 
"A  gesture" — he  regards  thee  as  our  lord 
Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone, 
Looked  at  us  (dost  thou  mind?)  when,  being 

young. 
We  both  would  unadvisedly  recite  170 

Some  charm's  beginning,  from  that  book  of 

his, 
Able  to  bid  the  sun  throb  wide  and  burst 
All  into  stars,  as  suns  grown  old  are  wont. 
Thou  and  the  child  have  each  a  veil  alike 
Thrown  o'er  your  heads,  from  under  which  ye 

both  175 

Stretch  your  blind  hands  and  trifle  with  a 

match 
Over  a  mine  of  Greek  fire,  did  ye  knowi 
He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life — 
(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 
Which  runs  across  some  vast  distracting  orb  180 
Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread, 
Which,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter  yet — 
The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life: 
The  law  of  that  is  known  to  him  as  this, 
His  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his  feet  stay 

here.  iss 

So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses 
Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on, 
Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong  across,     \ 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


621 


And  not  along,  this  black  thread  through  the 

blaze — 
"It  should  be"  balked  by  "here  it  cannot 

be."  190 

And  oft  the  man's  soul  springs  into  his  face 
As  if  he  saw  again  and  heard  again 
His  sage  that  bade  him  "Rise,"  and  he  did 

rise. 
Something,  a  word,  a  tick  o'  the  blood  within 
Admonishes:  then  back  he  sinks  at  once         195 
To  ashes,  who  was  very  fire  before, 
In  sedulous  recurrence  to  his  trade 
Whereby  he  earneth  him  the  daily  bread; 
And  studiously  the  humbler  for  that  pride, 
Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows  200 

God's  secret,  while  he  holds  the  thread  of  life. 
Indeed  the  especial  marking  of  the  man 
Is  prone  submission  to  the  heavenly  will — 
Seeing  it,  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is. 
'Sayeth,  he  will  wait  patient  to  the  last  205 

For  that  same  death  which  must  restore  his 

being 
To  equilibrium,  body  loosening  soul 
Divorced  even  now  by  premature  full  growth: 
He  will  live,  nay,  it  pleaseth  him  to  live 
So  long  as  God  please,  and  just  how  God 

please.  210 

He  even  seeketh  not  to  please  God  more 
(Which    meaneth,    otherwise)    than    as    God 

please. 
Hence,  I  perceive  not  he  affects  to  preach 
The  doctrine  of  his  sect  whate'er  it  be. 
Make  proselytes  as  madmen  thirst  to  do:     215 
How  can  he  give  his  neighbor  the  real  ground, 
His  own  conviction?  Ardent  as  he  is — 
Call  his  great  truth  a  lie,  why,  still  the  old 
"Be  it  as  God  please"  reassureth  him. 
I  probed  the  sore  as  thy  disciple  should:      220 
"How,  beast,"  said  I,  "this  stolid  carelessness 
Sufficeth  thee,  when  Rome  is  on  her  march 
To  stamp  out  like  a  little  spark  thy  town. 
Thy  tribe,  thy  crazy  tale  and  thee  at  once?" 
He  merely  looked  with  his  large  eyes  on  me.225 
The  man  is  apathetic,  you  deduce? 
Contrariwise,  he  loves  both  old  and  young, 
Able  and  weak,  affects  the  very  brutes 
And  birds — how  say  I?  flowers  of  the  field — 
As  a  wise  workman  recognizes  tools  230 

In  a  master's  workshop,  loving  what  they  make. 
Thus  is  the  man  as  harmless  as  a  lamb : 
Only  impatient,  let  him  do  his  best, 
At  ignorance  and  carelessness  and  sin — 
An  indignation  which  is  promptly  curbed:    235 
As  when  in  certain  travel  I  have  feigned 
To  be  an  ignoramus  in  our  art 
According  to  some  preconceived  design. 
And  happed  to  hear  the  land's  practitioners 
Steeped  in  conceit  sublimed  by  ignorance,    240 
Prattle  fantastically  on  disease. 
Its  cause  and  cure — and  I  must  hold  my  peace! 

Thou  wilt  object —  Why  have  I  not  ere  this 
Sought  out  the  sage  himself,  the  Nazarene 
Who   wrought   this    cure,    inquiring    at    the 
source,  245 

Conferring  with  the  frankness  that  befits? 


Alas!  it  grieveth  me,  the  learned  leech 
Perished  in  a  tumult  many  years  ago, 
Accused, — our  learning's  fate, — of  wizardry, 
Rebellion,  to  the  setting  up  a  rule  250 

And  creed  prodigious  as  described  to  me. 
His  death,  which  happened  when  the  earth- 
quake fell 
(Prefiguring,  as  soon  appeared  the  loss 
To  occult  learning  in  our  lord  the  sage 
Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone)         255 
Was  wrought  by  the  mad  people — that's  their 

wont! 
On  vain  recourse,  as  I  conjecture  it, 
To  his  tried  virtue,  for  miraculous  help — 
How  could  he  stop  the  earthquake?     That's 

their  way! 
The  other  imputations  must  be  lies;  260 

But  take  one,  though  I  loath  to  give  it  thee, 
In  mere  respect  for  any  good  man's  fame. 
(And  after  all,  our  patient  Lazarus 
Is  stark  mad;  should  we  count  on  what  he  says? 
Perhaps  not:  though  in  writing  to  a  leech     265 
'Tis  well  to  keep  back  nothing  of  a  case.) 
This  man  so  cured  regards  the  curer,  then. 
As — God  forgive  me!  who  but  God  himself, 
Creator  and  sustainer  of  the  world. 
That  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh  on  it  a  while!  270 
— 'Sayeth  that  such  an  one  was  born  and  lived. 
Taught,  healed  the  sick,  broke  bread  at  his  own 

house, 
Then  died,  with  Lazarus  by,  for  aught  I  know, 
And   yet   was  .  .  .  what   I   said   nor   choose 

repeat. 
And  must  have  so  avouched  himself,  in  fact,  275 
In  hearing  of  this  very  Lazarus 
Who  saith — but  why  all  this  of  what  he  saith? 
Why  write  of  trivial  matters,  things  of  price 
Calling  at  every  moment  for  remark? 
I  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool  280 

Blue-flowering  borage,  the  Aleppo  sort, 
Aboundeth,  very  nitrous.    It  is  strange! 

Thy  pardon  for  this  long  and  tedious  case. 
Which,  now  that  I  review  it,  needs  must  seem 
Unduly  dwelt  on,  prolixly  set  forth!  285 

Nor  I  myself  discern  in  what  is  writ 
Good  cause  for  the  peculiar  interest 
And  awe  indeed  this  man  has  touched  me  with. 
Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  the  weariness 
Had  wrought  upon  me  first.    I  met  him  thus  :290 
I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills 
Like  an  old  lion's  cheek  teeth.    Out  there  came 
A  moon  made  like  a  face  with  certain  spots 
Multiform,  manifold,  and  menacing: 
Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me.    So  we  met     295 
In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unaware, 
The  man  and  I.    I  send  thee  what  is  writ. 
Regard  it  as  a  chance,  a  matter  risked 
To  this  ambiguous  Syrian — he  may  lose, 
Or  steal,  or  give  it  thee  with  equal  good.      300 
Jerusalem's  repose  shall  make  amends 
For  time  this  letter  wastes,  thy  time  and  mine; 
Till  when,  once  more  thy  pardon  and  farewell! 

The  very  God!  think,  Abib;  dost  thou  think? 
So,  the  All-Great,  were  the  All-Loving  too — 305 
So,  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice 


622 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Saying,  "O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here! 
Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself! 
Thou  hast  no  power  nor  mayst  conceive  of  mine: 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love,    310 
And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee! " 
The  madman  saith  He  said  so:  it  is  strange. 


A  TOCCATAi  OF  GALUPPI'S 

(From  the  same) 


0  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,*  this  is  very  sad  to  find! 

1  can  hardly  misconceive  you;  it  would  prove 

me  deaf  and  blind; 
But,  although  I  take  your  meaning,  'tis  with 
such  a  heavy  mind! 


Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here's 

all  the  good  it  brings. 
What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where  the 

merchants  were  the  kings,  5 

Where  Saint  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used 

to  wed  the  sea  with  rings? 

ni 
Ay,  because  the  sea's  the  street  there;  and  'tis 

arched  by  .  .  .  what  you  call 
.  .  .  Shylock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it,  where 

they  kept  the  carnival: 
I  was  never  out  of  England— it's  as  if  I  saw  it 

ail. 

IV 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the 
sea  was  warm  in  May?  10 

Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning 
ever  to  mid-day. 

When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the 
morrow,  do  you  say? 


Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and 
hps  so  red, — 

On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell- 
flower  on  its  bed, 

O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a 
man  might  base  his  head?  15 

VI 

Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them— they'd 

break  talk  off  and  afford 
— She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet — ^he,  to 

finger  on  his  sword. 
While  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas,  stately  at 

the  clavichord?' 

^Toccata,  from  Ital.  toccare  (to  toucb),  is  the  name  of  a 
kmd  of  mstrumental  composition  originating  in  the  17th 
century;  as  its  name  imphes  it  is  intended  to  exhibit  the 
touch  and  skilful  execution  of  the  performer. 

*A  Venetian  composer  (1706-1784);  he  was  particu- 
larly noted  for  his  comic  operas,  and  was  organist  of  St. 
Mark's  Cathedral  in  Venice. 

»  An  «arly  and  simpler  form  of /^^he  piaoo. 


VII 


What?    Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,*  sixths 

diminished,  sigh  on  sigh. 
Told   them   something?     Those   suspensions, 

those  solutions — "Must  we  die?"  20 

Those  commiserating  sevenths — "Life  might 

last!  we  can  but  try ! " 


vin 


"Were  you  happy?"— "Yes."— "And  are  you 

still  as  happy? "—"Yes.   And  you?  " 
— "Then,  more  kisses!" — "Did  /  stop  them, 

when  a  million  seemed  so  few?  " 
Hark,  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it  must  be 

answered  to! 

rx 
So,  an  octave  struck  the  answer.    Oh,  they 

praised  you,  I  dare  say !  25 

"Brave  Galuppi!  that  was  music!  good  alike  at 

grave  and  gay! 
I  can  always  leave  off  talking  when  I  hear  a 

master  play!" 

X 

Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure:  till  in  due 

time,  one  by  one. 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some 

with  deeds  as  well  undone, 
Death  stepped  tacitly,  and  took  them  where 

they  never  see  the  sun.  30 

XI 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  "think  to  take  my 

stand  nor  swerve. 
While  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from 

nature's  close  reserve, 
In  you  come  with  your  cold  music  till  I  creep 

through  every  nerve. 

XII 

Yes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where 

a  house  was  burned : 
"Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with,  Venice 

spent  what  Venice  earned .  35 

The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal — where  a  soul 

can  be  discerned. 

XIII 

"Yours  for  instance:  you  know  physics,  some- 
thing of  geology. 

Mathematics  are  your  pastime;  souls  shall  rise 
in  their  degree; 

Butterflies  may  dread  extinction, — you'll  not 
die,  it  cannot  be! 

XIV 

"As  for  Venice  and  her  people,  merely  born  to 
bloom  and  drop,  "  40 

Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth 
and  folly  were  the  crop : 

What  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kiss- 
ing had  to  stop? 

*  For  a  discussion  of  the  character  of  Galuppi's  music, 
and  an  explanation  of  the  technical  musical  terms,  v. 
Porter  and  Clarke's  ed.  of  Browning  (Crowell)  Vol.  IV. 
369.  English  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part  IX,  and 
Part  XI;  Poet  Lore,  V.  p.  260,  and  II.,  p.  546;  the  varioue 
tuw4book3  on  Browning  may  also  be  consulted. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


623 


XV 


"  Dust  and  ashes ! "   So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want 

the  heart  to  scold. 
Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too — what's 

become  of  all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms?    I  feel 

chilly  and  grown  old.  45 

SAULi 

(From  the  same) 

I 

Said  Abner,2  "At  last  thou  art  come!    Ere  I 

tell,  ere  thou  speak, 
Kiss  my  cheek,  wish  me  well ! "   Then  I'  wished 

it,  and  did  kiss  his  cheek. 
And  he,  "Since  the  King,  O  my  friend!  for  thy 

countenance  sent, 
Neither  drunken  nor  eaten  have  we;  nor  until 

from  his  tent 
Thou  return  with  the  joyful  assiu-ance  the  King 

liveth  yet,  5 

Shall  our  lip  with  the  honey  be  bright,  with  the 

water  be  wet. 
For  out  of  the  black  mid-tent's  silence,  a  space 

of  three  days, 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants,  of 

prayer  nor  of  praise. 
To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  Spirit  have  ended 

their  strife. 
And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  monarch 

sinks  back  upon  life.  10 

II 
"Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  O  beloved!    God's 

child  with  his  dew 
On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  liUes  still 

living  and  blue 
Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp-strings,  as 

if  no  wild  heat 
Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert! " 


Then  I,  as  was  meet,  15 
Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and  rose 

on  my  feet. 
And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder.    The 

tent  was  unlooped; 
I  pulled  up  the  spear  that  obstructed,  and  under 

I  stooped; 
Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass-patch, 

all  withered  and  gone. 
That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I  groped 

my  way  on  20 

Till  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open.    Then 

once  more  I  prayed, 
And  opened  the  foldskirts  and  entered,  and 

was  not  afraid 
But  spoke,    "Here  is  David,  thy  servant!" 

And  no  voice  replied. 

'  This  poem  ia  founded  on  I  Samuel,  xvi.  14-23.  The 
first  nine  sections  of  Saul  appeared  in  1845. 

2  First  cousin  of  Saul,  and  commander-in-chief  of 
the  army. 

3  i.  e.  David,  who  has  been  brought  from  tending  the 
sheep  to  cast  out  the  evil  spirit  which  troubles  Saul  by 
playing  to  him  on  the  harp. 


At  the  first  I  saw  naught  but  the  blackness;  but 
soon  I  descried 

A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness— 
the  vast,  the  upright  25 

Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion:  and 
slow  into  sight 

Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and  blackest 
of  all. 

Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  through  the  tent- 
roof,  showed  Saul. 


He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop,  both  arms 
stretched  out  wide 

On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  centre,  that 
goes  to  each  side;  30 

He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there  as, 
caught  in  his  pangs 

And  waiting  his  change,  the  king  serpent  all 
heavily  hangs, 

Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine,  till  de- 
liverance come 

With  the  spring-time, — so  agonized  Saul,  drear 
and  stark,  blind  and  dumb. 


Then  I  tuned  my  harp, — took  off  the  Uhes  we 
twine  round  its  chords  35 

Lest  they  snap  'neath  the  stress  of  the  noon- 
tide— 'those  sunbeams  like  swords! 

And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep  know, 
as,  one  after  one. 

So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till  folding 
be  done. 

They  are  white,  and  untom  by  the  bushes,  for 
lo,  they  have  fed 

Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water  within 
the  stream's  bed;  40 

And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as  star 
follows  star 

Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us, — so  blue 
and  so  far! 

VI 

— Then  the  tune,  for  which  quails  on  the  corn- 
land  will  each  leave  his  mate 
To  fly  after  the  player;  then,  what  makes  the 

crickets  elate 
Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another;  and 

then,  what  has  weight  45* 

To  set  the  quick  jerboa*  a-musing  outside  his 

sand  house — • 
There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder,  half 

bird  and  half  mouse! 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them  our 

love  and  our  fear. 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children,  one 

family  here. 

VII 

Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers, 
their  wine-song,  when  hand  50 

Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good  friend- 
ship, and  great  hearts  expand 

*  A  rodent  somewhat  resembling  a  rat,  or  mouse,  but 
fitted  for  jumping — like  the  kangaroo — by  the  dispropor- 
tionate length  of  its  hind  legs. 


624 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's  life. — 

And  then,  the  last  song 
When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  journey — 

"  Bear,  bear  him  along 
"With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead  flowerets! 

Are  balm  seeds  not  here 
To  console  us?    The  land  has  none  left  such  as 

he  on  the  bier.  55 

Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother!" — 

And  then,  the  glad  chaunt 
Of  the  marriage, — first  go  the  young  maidens, 

next,  she  whom  we  vaunt 
As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwelling. — And 

then,  the  great  march 
Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him  and 

buttress  an  arch 
Naught  can  break;  who  shall  harm  them,  our 

friends? — ^Then,  the  chorus  intoned  60 

As  the  Levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory  en- 
throned. 
But  I  stopped  here:  for  here  in  the  darkness 

Saul  groaned. 

VIII 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such  silence, 

and  listened  apart; 
And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shuddered: 

and  sparkles  'gan  dart 
From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban  at  once 

with  a  start  65 

All    its    lordly    male-sapphires,    and    rubies 

courageous  at  heart. 
So  the  head:  but  the  body  still  moved  not,  still 

hung  there  erect. 
And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pursued  it 

unchecked, 
As  I  sang, — 

IX 

"  Oh ,  our  manhood's  prime  vigor !   No 

spirit  feels  waste,  70 

Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor  sinew 

unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living!  the  leaping  from 

rock  up  to  rock, 
The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree, 

the  cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt 

of  the  bear, 
And  the  sultriness  showing  the  Hon  is  couched  in 

his  lair.  75 

And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with 

gold  dust  divine, 
And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the 

full  draught  of  wine, 
And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where 

bulrushes  tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so 

softly  and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living!  how  fit 

to  employ  80 

All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever 

in  joy! 
Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father, 

whose  sword  thou  didst  guard 
When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies,  for 

glorious  reward? 


Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother, 

held  up  as  men  sung 
The  low  song  of  the  nearly  departed,  and  hear 

her  faint  tongue  85 

Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness,  "Let 

one  more  attest, 
I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  through  a  life- 
time, and  all  was  for  best ! " 
Then  they  sung  through  their  tears  in  strong 

triumph,  not  much,  but  the  rest. 
And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest,  the 

working  whence  grew 
Such  result  as,  from  seething  grape-bundles,  the 

spirit  strained  true:  90 

And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood — that  boyhood 

of  wonder  and  hope. 
Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future  be- 
yond the  eye's  scope, — 
Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch;  a  people  is 

thine; 
And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly,  on 

one  head  combine! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love 

and  rage  (like  the  throe  95 

That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labor  and  lets 

the  gold  go) 
High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it, 

fame  crowning  them, — all 
Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  creature — 

King  Saul!" 


And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit, — ^heart, 

hand,  harp,  and  voice. 
Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,  each 

bidding  rejoice  100 

Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for — as 

when,  dare  I  say. 
The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service,  strains 

through  its  array. 
And  upsoareth  the  cherubim-chariot — "Saul!" 

cried  I,  and  stopped. 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow.   Then 

Saul,  who  hung  propped 
By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre,  was 

struck  by  his  name.  105 

Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons 

goes  right  to  the  aim. 
And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her, 

that  held  (he  alone, 
While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers) 

on  a  broad  bust  of  stone 
A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breastplate, — 

leaves  grasp  of  the  sheet? 
Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously 

down  to  his  feet,  no 

And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black,  but  alive 

yet,  your  mountain  of  old, 
With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of 

ages  untold — 
Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles, 

each  furrow  and  scar 
Of  his  head  thrust  'twixt  you  and  the  tempest — 

all  hail,  there  they  are! 
— Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again 

hold  the  nest  lis  , 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


625 


Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to  the 

green  on  his  crest 
For  their  food  in  the  ardors  of  summer.    One 

long  shudder  thrilled 
All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then  sank 

and  was  stilled 
At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before  me,  re- 
leased and  aware. 
What  was  gone,  what  remained?    All  to  trav- 
erse 'twixt  hope  and  despair.  120 
Death  was  past,  life  not  come:  so  he  waited.    A 

while  his  right  hand 
Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes,  left  too  vacant, 

forthwith  to  remand 
To  their  place  what  new  objects  should  enter: 

'twas  Saul  as  before. 
I  looked  up  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes,  nor 

was  hurt  any  more 
Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  ye 

watch  from  the  shore,  125 

At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean — a  sun's 

slow  decline 
Over  hills  which,  resolved  in  stem  silence,  o'er- 

lap  and  intwine 
Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  intensely: 

so,  arm  folded  arm 
O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 

XI 

What  spell  or  what  charm    130 
(For,  a  while  there  was  trouble  within  me), 

what  next  should  I  urge 
To  sustain  him  where  song  had  restored  him? — 

Song  filled  to  the  verge 
His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all 

that  it  yields 
Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the  beauty: 

beyond,  on  what  fields, 
Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to 

brighten  the  eye  135 

And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend  them 

the  cup  they  put  by? 
He  saith,  "It  is  good;"  still  he  drinks  not:  he 

lets  me  praise  life. 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 

XII 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 
Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture,  when 

round  me  the  sheep  140 

Fed  in  silence — above,  the  one  eagle  wheeled 

slow  as  in  sleep; 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the  world 

that  might  lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip 

'twixt  the  hill  and  the  sky. 
And  I  laughed — "Since  my  days  are  ordained 

to  be  passed  with  my  flocks, 
Let  me  people  at  least,  with  my  fancies,  the 

plains  and  the  rocks,  145 

Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and 

image  the  show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fashions  I 

hardly  shall  know! 
Schemes  of  life,  its  best  rules  and  right  uses,  the 

courage  that  gains, 


And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men  strive 

for."    And  now  these  old  trains 
Of  vague  thought  came  again;  I  grew  surer;  so, 

once  more  the  string  iso 

Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as 

thus — 

xni 

"Yea,  my  King," 
I  began — "thou  dost  well  in  rejecting  mere 

comforts  that  spring 
From  the  mere  mortal  hfe  held  in  common  by 

man  and  by  brute: 
In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in  our 

soul  it  bears  fruit.  155 

Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree, — 

how  its  stem  trembled  first 
Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's  antler; 

then  safely  outburst 
The  fan-branches  all  round;  and  thou  mindest 

when  these  too,  in  turn 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  per- 
fect: yet  more  was  to  learn. 
E'en  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm- 
fruit.   Our  dates  shall  we  slight,  I60 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow? 

or  care  for  the  plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced 

them?    Not  so!  stem  and  branch 
Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place,  while 

the  palm-wine  shall  stanch 
Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.    I  pour 

thee  such  wine. 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for!  the 

spirit  be  thine!  165 

By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee, 

thou  still  shalt  enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when,  inconscious, 

the  life  of  a  boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  running! 

Each  deed  thou  hast  done 
Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world:  until 

e'en  as  the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds  spoil 

him ,  though  tempests  efface,  1 70 

Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced  not, 

must  everywhere  trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime, — so,  each 

ray  of  thy  will. 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long 

over,  shall  thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with  ardor,  till 

they  too  give  forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons:  who  in  turn,  fill  the 

South  and  the  North  175 

With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of. 

Carouse  in  the  past! 
But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit:  thou  diest  at 

last. 
As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball,  the  rose 

at  her  height, 
So  with  man — so  his  power  and  his  beauty 

forever  take  flight. 
No!    Again  a  long  draught  of  my  soul-wine! 

Look  forth  o'er  the  years!  180 

Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  actual; 

begin  with  the  seer's! 


626 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Is  Saul  dead?    In  the  depth  of  the  vale  make 

his  tomb — bid  arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square, 

till,  built  to  the  skies, 
Let  it  mark  where  the  great  First  King  slum- 
bers: whose  fame  would  ye  know? 
Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where  the 

record  shall  go  185 

in  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe, — Such 

was  Saul,  so  he  did; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the 

populace  chid, — 
For  not  half,  they'll  affirm,  is  comprised  there! 

Which  fault  to  amend. 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar, 

whereon  they  shall  spend 
(See,  in  tablets  'tis  level  before  them)  their 

praise,  and  record  190 

With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story, — 

the  statesman's  great  word 
Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment. 

The  river's  a-wave 
With  smooth  paper-reeds  grazing  each  other 

when  prophet-winds  rave: 
So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due 

and  their  part 
In  thy  being!    Then,  first  of  the  mighty,  thank 

God  that  thou  art!"  195 


XIV 

And  behold  while  I  sang  .  .  .  but  O  Thou  who 

didst  grant  me,  that  day, 
And,  before  it,  not  seldom  hast  granted  thy 

help  to  essay. 
Carry  on  and  complete  an  adventure, — my 

shield  and  my  sword 
In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant,  thy 

word  was  my  word, — 
Still  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit  of 

human  endeavor  200 

And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought  could, 

gazed  hopeless  as  ever 
On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me — till, 

mighty  to  save. 
Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  distance — 

God's  throne  from  man's  grave! 
Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending — my  voice 

to  my  heart 
Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  marvels 

last  night  I  took  part,  205 

As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments,  alone 

with  my  sheep! 
And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish  like 

sleep. 
For  I  wake  in  the  gray  dewy  covert,  while 

Hebron^  upheaves 
The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his  shoulder, 

and  Kidron^  retrieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine.      2io 

»  The  ancient  city  of  Hebron  was  situated  on  a  hill 
among  the  mountains  of  Judab,  some  seven  miles  south 
of  Jerusalem.  Browning  refers  here  tp  the  hill  on  which 
the  city  stands. 

•  A  dry  ravine  near  Jerusalem,  it  was  often  the  channel 
of  winter  torrents,  and  is  usually  called  the  Brook  of 
Kedron. 


XV 

I  say  then, — my  song 
While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch,  and, 

ever  more  strong 
Made  a  proffer  of  good  to  console  him — he 

slowly  resumed 
His  old  motions  and  habitudes  kingly.     The 

right  hand  replumed^ 
His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure, 

adjusted  the  swathes  215 

Of  his  turban,  and  see — the  huge  sweat  that  his 

countenance  bathes. 
He  wipes  off  with  the  robe;  and  he  girds  now 

his  loins  as  of  yore,  * 

And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price,  with  the 

clasp  set  before. 
He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory, — ere  error 

had  bent 
The  broad  brow  from  the  daily  communion; 

and  still,  though  much  spent  220 

Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you,  the 

same,  God  did  choose, 
To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste,  desecrate, 

never  quite  lose. 
So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop,  till,  stayed 

by  the  pile 
Of  his  armor  and  war-cloak  and  garments,  he 

leaned  there  a  while. 
And  sat  out  my  singing — one  arm  round  the 

tent-prop,  to  raise  225 

His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack — till 

I  touched  on  the  praise 
I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the  man 

patient  there; 
And   thus  ended,   the  harp   falling  forward. 

Then  first  I  was  'ware 
That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just  above 

his  vast  knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around  me, 

like  oak-roots  which  please  230 

To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers.    I  looked 

up  to  know 
If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace:  he 

spoke  not,  but  slow 
Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he 

laid  it  with  care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on  my 

brow:  through  my  hair 
The  large  fingers  were  pushed,  and  he  bent 

back  my  head,  with  kind  power —  235 

All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men 

do  a  flower. 
Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes  that 

scrutinized  mine — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him!  but 

where  was  the  sign? 
I  yearned— "Could  I  help  thee,  my  father, 

inventing  a  bliss, 
I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both  the 

future  and  this;  24i 

I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as  good, 

ages  hence. 
As  this  moment, — ^had  love  but  the  warrant, 

love's  heart  to  dispense!" 

">  Rearranged,  as  a  bird  preens  its  feathers. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


627 


XVI 

Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.     No  harp 
more — no  song  more!  outbroke — 

XVII 

"I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation:  I 

saw  and  I  spoke: 
I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  re- 
ceived in  my  brain  245 
And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork — 

returned  him  again 
His  creation's  approval  or  censure:  I  spoke  as  I 

saw: 
I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work — all's 

love,  yet  all's  law. 
Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent  me. 

Each  faculty  tasked 
To  perceive  him,  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a 

dewdrop  was  asked.  250 

Have  I  knowledge?  confounded  it  shrivels  at 

Wisdom  laid  bare. 
Have  I  forethought?  how  purblind,  how  blank, 

to  the  Infinite  Care! 
Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  success? 
I  but  open  my  eyes, — and  perfection,  no  more 

and  no  less, 
In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and 

God  is  seen  God  255 

In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the  soul 

and  the  clod. 
And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I  ever 

renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending 

upraises  it  too) 
The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect  to 

God's  all-complete. 
As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to 

his  feet.  260 

Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this 

deity  known, 
I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some 

gift  of  my  own. 
There's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to 

hoodwink, 
I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance  (I  laugh  as  I 

think) 
Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot 

ye,  I  worst  265 

E'en  the  Giver  in  one  gift.— Behold,  I  could 

love  if  I  durst! 
But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man  may 

o'ertake 
God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love:  I 

abstain  for  love's  sake. 
— ^What,  my  soul?  see  thus  far  and  no  farther? 

when  doors  great  and  small, 
Nine  and  ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should 

the  hundredth  appal?  270 

In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  m 

the  greatest  of  all? 
Do  1  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's 

ultimate  gift. 
That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with  it? 

Here  the  parts  shift? 
Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  Creator, — the 

end,  what  Began? 


Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all  for 

this  man,  275 

And  dare  doubt  he  alone  shall  not  help  him, 

who  yet  alone  can? 
Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare 

will,  much  less  power. 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the 

marvellous  dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with?  to 

make  such  a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  in- 
sphering  the  whole?  280 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm 

tears  attest) 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and 

give  one  more,  the  best? 
Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  main- 
tain at  the  height 
This  perfection, — succeed  with  life's  dayspring, 

death's  minute  of  night? 
Interpose  at  the  diflBcult  minute,  snatch  Saul 

the  mistake,  283 

Saul  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now, — and 

bid  him  awake 
From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude,  to 

find  himself  set 
Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life, — a  new 

harmony  yet 
To  be  run  and  continued,  and  ended — who 

knows? — or  endure! 
The  man  taught  enough,  by  life's  dream,  of  the 

rest  to  make  sure;  290 

By    the    pain-throb,    triumphantly    winning 

intensified  bliss. 
And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by  the 

struggles  in  this. 


"I  believe  it!    'Tis  thou,  God,  that  givest,  'tis  I 

who  receive: 
In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my  power  to 

believe. 
All's  one  gift:  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover,  as 

prompt  to  my  prayer  295 

As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these 

arms  to  the  air. 
From  thy  will,  stream  the  worlds,  life  and 

nature,  thy  dread  Sabaoth:^ 
I  will? — the  mere  atoms  despise  me!    Why  am 

I  not  loth 
To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too?    Why 

is  it  I  dare 
Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance?    What 

stops  my  despair?  300 

This; — tis  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts 

him,  but  what  man  Would  do! 
See  the  King— I  would  help  him  but  cannot, 

the  wishes  fall  through. 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow 

poor  to  enrich, 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would— 

knowing  which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.    Oh,  speak 

through  me  now!  305 

8  Sabaolh,  from  the  Hebrew  word  for  armies  or  hosts. 
Life  and  nature  are  here  called  the  hosts  of  God. 


628 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love?    So  wouldst 

thou — so  wilt  thou! 
So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,  ineffablest, 

uttermost  crown — 
And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave 

up  nor  down 
One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in!    It  is  by 

no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins 

issue  with  death!  310 

As  thy  Love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty 

be  proved 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of  being 

Beloved! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most;  the  strongest 

shall  stand  the  most  weak. 
'Tis  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry  for! 

my  flesh,  that  I  seek 
In  the  Godhead!    I  seek  and  I  find  it.    O  Saul, 

it  shall  be  315 

A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee;  a  Man 

like  to  me. 
Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  forever:  a 

Hand  like  this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee! 

See  the  Christ  stand!" 

XIX 

I  know  not  too  well  how  I  found  my  way  home 

in  the  night. 
There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to  left 

and  to  right,  320 

Angels,   powers,   the  unuttered,   unseen,   the 

alive,  the  aware: 
I  repressed,  I  got  through  them  as  hardly,  as 

strugglingly  there. 
As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished  for 

news — 
Life  or  death.    The  whole  earth  was  awakened, 

hell  loosed  with  her  crews; 
And  the  stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion,  and 

tingled  and  shot  325 

Out  in  fire  the  strong  pain  of  pent  knowledge: 

but  I  fainted  not, 
For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and 

supported,  suppressed 
All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it  with  quiet,  and 

holy  behest. 
Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the 

earth  sank  to  rest. 
Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had  withered 

from  earth—  330 

Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  day's 

tender  birth; 
In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the  gray 

of  the  hillsj 
£n  the  shuddenng  forests*  held  breath;  in  the 

sudden  wind-thrills; 
In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  off,  each 

with  eye  sidling  still 
Though  averted  with  wonder  and  dread;  in  the 

birds  stiff  and  chill  335 

That  rose  heavily  as  I  approached  them,  made 

stupid  with  awe: 
E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent, — ^he 

felt  the  new  law. 


The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  up- 
turned by  the  flowers; 

The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of  the  cedar  and 
moved  the  vine-bowers: 

And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured, 
persistent  and  low,  340 

With  their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices — • 
"E'en  so,  it  is  so!" 


PROSPICEi 
(From  Dramatis  Personcs,  1864) 
Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat. 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place. 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 5 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible 
form, 
Yet  the  strong  man  must  go; 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  at- 
tained, 
And  the  barriers  fall,  lo 

Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be 
gained, 
The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more. 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and 
forebore,  is 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 

No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my 
peers. 
The  heroes  of  old. 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's 
arrears 
Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold.  20 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the 
brave, 
The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that 
rave. 
Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of 
pain,  26 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !   I  shall  clasp  thee  again. 
And  with  God  be  the  rest! 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA» 

(From  the  same) 
I 
Grow  old  along  with  me! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 
The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made: 

1  Prospice  (Look  forward)  was  written  in  the  autumn  ' 
of  1861,  shortly  after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Browning. 
The  passage  from  Dante  that  Browning  wrote  in  hia 
wife's  Testament  might  be  taken  as  an  expression  of  the 
essence  of  this  poem:  "Thus  I  beHeve,  thus  I  affirm,  , 
thus  I  am  certain  it  is,  that  from  this  Hfe  I  shall  pass  to 
another  better,  there,  where  the  lady  lives  of  whom  my 
soul  was  enamoured."  j 

» Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  is  but  a  mouthpiece  for  Browning\ 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


629 


Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith,  "A  whole  1  planned,  5 

Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God:  see  all,  nor 
be  afraid!" 


Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  "Which  rose  make  ours. 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall?" 
Not  that,  admiring  stars,  10 

It  yearned,  "Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  tran- 
scends them  all!" 


Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

AnnuUing  youth's  brief  years, 

Do  I  remonstrate;  folly  wide  the  mark!  15 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 

Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

IV 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed  20 

On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast; 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?    Frets  doubt  the 
maw-crammed  beast? 


Rejoice  we  are  allied  25 

To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must 
beUeve.  30 

VI 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go! 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain;  35 

Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;  dare,  never  grudge 
the  throe! 

VII 

For  thence, — a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
>^hall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 
/What  I  aspired  to  be,  40 

'  And  was  not,  comforts  me: 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink 
i'  the  scale. 

himself.  Nevertheless  the  Jewish  teacher  who  is  sup- 
posed to  be  imparting  to  youth  the  ultimate  wisdom  of 
age  is  not  an  imaginary  person,  but  a,  man  whose  views, 
so  far  aa  we  can  judge,  were  really  similar  to  those  the 
poet  has  put  into  his  mouth.  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  whose 
real  name  is  said  to  have  been  Abraham  ben  Meir  ben 
Ezra,  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished  Jewish  scholars 
and  Old  Testament  commentators  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
His  view  of  hfe  was  lofty;  to  him  the  only  reality  was 
spirit,  and  he  regarded  material  things  as  of  very  minor 
importance. 


VIII 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit. 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want 

play?  45 

To  man  propose  this  test — 
Thy  body  at  its  best. 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone 

way? 

rx 
Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use: 
I  own  the  Past  profuse  50 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn: 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole. 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "How  good  to 
live  and  learn?" 


Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  Thine!  55 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  Power,  see  now  Love  perfect  too:^ 
Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan: 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 
Maker,  remake  complete, — I  trust  what  Thou 
shaltdo!"  60 

XI 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest*. 
Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold  65 

Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we  did 
best! 

XII 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the 

whole!" 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings,  70 

Let  us  cry  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than 

flesh  helps  soul!" 

XIII 

Therefore  I  summon  age 
To  grant  youth's  heritage. 
Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term:  75 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  brute;  a  God  though  in  the 
germ. 

XIV 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone  80 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new: 

Fearless  and  unperplexed. 

When  I  wage  battle  next. 

What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to  indue. ^ 

2  This  idea  that  Love  as  well  as  Power  is  to  be  dis- 
cerned as  a  motive  force  in  the  universe,  more  than  once 
alluded  to  by  Browning,  is  made  the  main  theme  of 
"Reverie"  in  Asolando. 

>  In  the  original  sense  of  to  put  on. 


630 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


XV 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try  85 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby; 
Leave  the  fire-ashes,  what  survives  is  gold: 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame: 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;  I  shall  know,  being 
old.  90 

XVI 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 
A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray: 
A  whisper  from  the  west 
Shoots— "Add  this  to  the  rest,  95 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth:  here  dies  another 
day." 

XVII 

So,  still  within  this  life. 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 

"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main,  lOO 

That  acquiescence  vain: 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the 

Past." 

xvm 
For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day:     105 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's 

true  play. 

XIX 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive^  through  acts  uncouth,  no 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found 

made! 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.    Thou  waitedst  age:  wait  death,  nor 

be  afraid! 

XX 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right  115 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine 

own. 
With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee 

feel  alone.  120 

XXI 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all. 
Severed  great  minds  from  small. 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained,  125 

Right?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us 
peace  at  last! 

XXII 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 
Ten  men  love  what  I  hate. 
Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive; 


Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes  130 

Match  me:  we  all  surmise, 
They,  this  thing,  and  I,  that:  whom  shall  my 
soul  believe? 

XXIII 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass. 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the 

price;  135 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in 

a  trice: 

XXIV 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb,  140 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account; 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure. 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the 
man's  amount: 

XXV 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed  145 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  es- 
caped; 

All  I  could  never  be. 

All,  men  ignored  in  me. 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the 
pitcher  shaped.  150 

XXVI 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel,* 
That  metaphor!  and  feel 
Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay, — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round,  155 

"Since  hfe  fleets,  all  is  change;  the  Past  gone, 
seize  to-day!" 

XXVII 

Fool!    All  that  is,  at  all. 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure: 
What  entered  into  thee,  160 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be: 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops:  Potter  and 
clay  endure. 

XXVIII 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic  circumstance. 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain 
arrest:  165 

Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent. 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  im- 


XXIX 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves. 
Which  ran  the  laughing  loves  170 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 
What  though,  about  thy  rim. 
Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner 
stress? 

«  Cf.  Is.  Ixiv.  8,  and  Jer.  xviii.  2-6. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


631 


XXX 

Look  not  thou  down  but  upl  175 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's 

peal, 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow. 
The  Master's  lips  aglow! 
Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  needst 

thou  with  earth's  wheel?  180 

XXXI 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 
Tho(^,  God,  who  moldest  men; 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 
Did  I — to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife,  185 

Bound  dizzily — mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy 
thirst: 

XXXII 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work: 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk. 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past 

the  aim! 
My  times  be  in  Thy  hand!^  190 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete 

the  same! 


MARTIN   RELPH 

(From  Dramatic  Idylls,  First  Series,  1879) 

My  grandfather  says  he  remembers  he  saw,  when 

a  youngster  long  ago, 
On  a  bright  May  day,  a  strange  old  man,  with  a 

beard  as  white  as  snow. 
Stand  on  the  hill  outside  our  town  like  a  monument 

of  woe, 
And,  striking  his  bare  bald  head  the  while,  sob 

out  the  reason — so! 

If  I  last  as  long  as  Methuselah  I  shall  never  for- 
give myself:  5 

But — God  forgive  me,  that  I  pray,  unhappy 
Martin  Relph, 

As  coward,  coward  I  call  him — him,  yes,  him! 
Away  from  me! 

Get  you  behind  the  man  I  am  now,  you  man 
that  I  used  to  be! 

What  can  have  sewed  my  mouth  up,  set  me 

a-stare,  all  eyes,  no  tongue? 
People  have  urged  "You  visit  a  scare  too  hard 

on  a  lad  so  young!  10 

You  were  taken  aback,  poor  boy,"  they  urge, 

"no  time  to  regain  your  wits: 
Besides  it  had  maybe  cost  you  life."    Ay,  there 

is  the  cap  which  fits! 

So,  cap  me,  the  coward, — thus!    No  fear!    A 

cuff  on  the  brow  does  good: 
The  feel  of  it  hinders  a  worm  inside  which  bores 

at  the  brain  for  food. 

6  See  Psalms,  xxiv.  15,  "My  times  are  in  thy  hand." 


See  now,  there  certainly  seems  excuse:  for  a 
moment,  I  trust,  dear  friends,  15 

The  fault  was  but  folly,  no  fault  of  mine,  or  if 
mine,  I  have  made  amends! 

For,  every  day  that  is  first  of  May,  on  the  hill- 
top here  stand  I, 

Martin  Relph,  and  I  strike  my  brow,  and  pub- 
lish the  reason  why. 

When  there  gathers  a  crowd  to  mock  the  fool. 
No  fool,  friends,  since  the  bite 

Of  a  worm  inside  is  worse  to  bear:  pray  God  I 
have  balked  him  quite!  20 

I'll  tell  you.  Certainly  much  excuse!  It  came 
of  the  way  they  cooped 

Us  peasantry  up  in  a  ring  just  here,  close  hud- 
dling because  tight-hooped 

By  the  red-coats  round  us  villagers  all:  they 
meant  we  should  see  the  sight 

And  take  the  example, — see,  not  speak,  for 
speech  was  the  Captain's  right. 

"You  clowns  on  the  slope,  beware!"  cried  J|e: 
"This  woman  about  to  die  25 

Gives  by  her  fate  fair  warning  to  such  acquaint- 
ance as  play  the  spy. 

Henceforth  who  meddle  with  matters  of  state 
above  them  perhaps  will  learn 

That  peasants  should  stick  to  their  plough-tail, 
leave  to  King  the  King's  concern. 

"Here's  a  quarrel  that  sets  the  land  on  fire, 

between  King  George  and  his  foes:^ 
What  call  has  a  man  of  your  kind — much  less,  a 

woman — to  interpose?  30 

Yet  you  needs  must  be  meddling,  folk  like  you, 

not  foes— so  much  the  worse! 
The  many  and  loyal  should  keep  themselves 

unmixed  with  the  few  perverse. 

"Is  the  counsel  hard  to  follow?    I  gave  it  you 

plainly  a  month  ago. 
And  where  was  the  good?     The  rebels  have 

learned  just  all  that  they  need  to  know. 
Not  a  month  since  in  we  quietly  marched:  a 

week  and  they  had  the  news,  35 

From  a  list  complete  of  our  rank  and  file  to  a 

note  of  our  caps  and  shoes. 

"All  about  all  we  did  and  all  we  were  doing  and 

like  to  do! 
Only,  I  catch  a  letter  by  luck,  and  capture  who 

wrote  it,  too. 
Some  of  you  men  look  black  enough,  but  the 

milk-white  face  demure 
Betokens  the  finger  foul  with  ink:  'tis  a  woman 

who  writes,  be  sure!  40 

"Is  it  'Dearie,  how  much  I  miss  your  mouth!' — 

good  natural  stuff,  she  pens? 
Some  sprinkle  of  that,  for  a  blind,  of  course: 

with  talk  about  cocks  and  hens, 

1  This  may  mean  either  George  I  (1714-1727),  or 
George  II  (1727-1760),  since  there  were  Jacobite  up- 
risings in  both  of  those  reigns,  the  first  in  1715,  the  second 
in  1745.     • 


632 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


How  'robin  has  built  on  the  apple-tree,  and  our 

creeper  which  came  to  grief 
Through  the  frost,  we  feared,  is  twining  afresh 

round  casement  in  famous  leaf.* 

"  But  all  for  a  blind !   She  soon  glides  frank  into 

*  Horrid  the  place  is  grown  45 

With  Officers  here  and  Privates  there,  no  nook 

we  may  call  our  own: 
And  Farmer  Giles  has  a  tribe  to  house,  and 

lodging  will  be  to  seek 
For  the  second  Company  sure  to  come  ('tis 

whispered)  on  Monday  week.' 

"And  so  to  the  end  of  the  chapter!    There! 

The  murder,  you  see,  was  out: 
Easy  to  guess  how  the  change  of  mind  in  the 

rebels  was  brought  about!  50 

Safe  in  the  trap  would  they  now  lie  snug,  had 

treachery  made  no  sign: 
But  treachery  meets  a  just  reward,  no  matter  if 

fools  malign! 

"That  traitors  had  played  us  false,  was  proved 
— sent  news  which  fell  so  pat: 

A.nd  the  murder  was  out — this  letter  of  love, 
the  sender  of  this  sent  that ! 

'Tis  an  ugly  job,  though,  all  the  same — a  hate- 
ful, to  have  to  deal  55 

With  a  case  of  the  kind,  when  a  woman's  in 
fault:  we  soldiers  need  nerves  of  steel! 

"So  I  gave  her  a  chance,  despatched  post-haste 

a  message  to  Vincent  Parkes 
Whom  she  wrote  to;  easy  to  find  he  was,  since 

one  of  the  King's  own  clerks. 
Ay,  kept  by  the  King's  own  gold  in  the  town 

close  by  where  the  rebels  camp: 
A  sort  of  lawyer,  just  the  man  to  betray  our 

sort — the  scamp!  60 

"'If  her  writing  is  simple,  and  honest  and  only 

the  lover-like  stuff  it  looks. 
And  if  you  yourself  are  a  loyalist,  nor  down  in 

the  rebels'  books, 
Come  quick,'  said  I,  'and  in  person  prove  you 

are  each  of  you  clear  of  crime, 
Or  martial  law  must  take  its  course:  this  day 

next  week's  the  time!' 

"Next  week  is  now:  does  he  come?    Not  he! 

Clean  gone,  our  clerk,  in  a  trice!  65 

He  has  left  his  sweetheart  here  in  the  lurch:  no 

need  of  a  warning  twice ! 
His  own  neck  free,  but  his  partner's  fast  in  the 

noose  still,  here  she  stands 
To  pay  for  her  fault.    'Tis  an  ugly  job:  but 

soldiers  obey  commands. 

"And  hearken  wherefore  I  make  a  speech! 

Should  any  acquaintance  share 
The  folly  that  led  to  the  fault  that  is  now  to  be 

punished,  let  fools  beware!  70 

Look  black,  if  you  please,  but  keep  hands  white: 

and  above  all  else,  keep  wives 
Or  sweethearts  or  what  they  may  be — from  ink! 

Not  a  word  now,  on  your  lives!"  • 


Black?  but  the  Pit's  own  pitch  was  white  to  the 

Captain's  face — the  brute 
With  the  bloated  cheeks  and  the  bulgy  nose  and 

the  bloodshot  eyes  to  suit! 
He  was  muddled  with  wine,  they  say:  more 

like,  he  was  out  of  his  wits  with  fear;      75 
He  had  but  a  handful  of  men,  that's  true, — a 

riot  might  cost  him  dear. 

And  all  that  time  stood  Rosamund  Page,  with 

pinioned  arms  and  face 
Bandaged  about,  on  the  turf  marked  out  for  the 

party's  firing-place. 
I  hope  she  was  wholly  with  God:  I  hope  'twas 

His  angel  stretched  a  hand 
To  steady  her  so,  like  the  shape  of  stone  you  see 

in  our  church-aisle  stand.  so 

I  hope  there  was  no  vain  fancy  pierced  the 
bandage  to  vex  her  eyes. 

No  face  within  which  she  missed  without,  no 
questions  and  no  replies — 

"Why  did  you  leave  me  to  die?" — "Be- 
cause ..."    Oh,  fiends,  too  soon  you  grin 

At  merely  a  moment  of  hell,  like  that — such 
heaven  as  hell  ended  in! 

Let  mine  end  too!    He  gave  the  word,  up  went 

the  guns  in  a  line.  85 

Those  heaped  on  the  hill  were  blind  as  dumb, — 

for,  of  all  eyes,  only  mine 
Looked  over  the  heads  of  the  foremost  rank. 

Some  fell  on  their  knees  in  prayer, 
Some  sank  to  the  earth,  but  all  shut  eyes,  with 

a  sole  exception  there. 

That  was  myself,  who  had  stolen  up  last,  had 

sidled  behind  the  group: 
I  am  highest  of  all  on  the  hill-top,  there  stand 

fixed  while  the  others  stoop!  90 

From  head  to  foot  in  a  serpent's  twine  am  I 

tightened:  /  touch  ground? 
No  more  than  a  gibbet's  rigid  corpse  which  the 

fetters  rust  around! 

Can  I  speak,  can  I  breathe,  can  I  burst — aught 

else  but  see,  see,  only  see? 
And  see  I  do — for  there  comes  in  sight — a  man, 

it  sure  must  be! — 
Who    staggeringly,    stumblingly,    rises,    falls, 

rises,  at  random  flings  his  weight  95 

On  and  on,  anyhow  onward — a  man  that's  mad 

he  arrives  too  late! 

Else  why  does  he  wave  a  something  white  high- 
flourished  above  his  head? 

Why  does  not  he  call,  cry, — curse  the  fool! — 
why  throw  up  his  arms  instead? 

O  take  this  fist  in  your  own  face,  fool!  Why 
does  not  yourself  shout  "Stay! 

Here's  a  man  comes  rushing,  might  and  main, 
with  something  he's  mad  to  say?"         lOO 

And  a  minute,  only  a  moment,  to  have  hell- 
fire  boil  up  in  your  brain. 

And  ere  you  can  judge  things  right,  choose 
heaven, — time's  over,  repentance  vain!         \ 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


633 


They  level:  a  volley,  a  smoke  and  the  clearing  of 

smoke:  I  see  no  more 
Of  the  man  smoke  hid,  nor  his  frantic  arms,  nor 

the  something  white  he  bore. 

But  stretched  on  the  field,  some  half-mile  off,  is 

an  object.    Surely  dumb,  105 

Deaf,  blind  were  we  struck,  that  nobody  heard, 

not  one  of  us  saw  him  come! 
Has  he  fainted  through  fright?    One  may  well 

believe!    What  is  it  he  holds  so  fast? 
Turn  him  over,  examine  the  face!  Heyday! 

What,  Vincent  Parkes  at  last? 

Dead!  dead  as  she,  by  the  self-same  shot:  one 

bullet  has  ended  both. 
Her  in  the  body  and  him  in  the  soul.    They 

laugh  at  our  plighted  troth.  lio 

"Till  death  us  do  part?"    Till  death  us  do  join 

past  parting — that  sounds  like: 
Betrothal  indeed!     O  Vincent  Parkes,  what 

need  has  my  fist  to  strike? 

I  helped  you:  thus  were  you  dead  and  wed:  one 

bound  and  your  soul  reached  hers! 
There  is  clenched  in  your  hand   the  thing, 

signed,  sealed,  the  paper  which  plain  avers 
She  is  innocent,  innocent,  plain  as  print,  with 

the  King's  Arms  broad  engraved:  lis 

No  one  can  hear,  but  if  any  one  high  on  the  hill 

can  see,  she's  saved! 

And  torn  his  garb  and  bloody  his  lips  with 

heart-break — plain  it  grew 
How  the  week's  delay  had  been  brought  about: 

each  guess  at  the  end  proved  true. 
It  was  hard  to  get  at  the  folks  in  power:  such 

waste  of  time!  and  then 
Such  pleading  and  praying,  with,  all  the  while, 

his  lamb  in  the  lion's  den!  120 

And  at  length  when  he  wrung  their  pardon  out, 

no  end  to  the  stupid  forms — 
The  license  and  leave:  I  make  no  doubt — what 

wonder  if  passion  warms 
The  pulse  in  a  man  if  you  play  with  his  heart? — • 

he  was  something  hasty  in  speech; 
Anyhow,  none  would  quicken  the  work;  he  had 

to  beseech,  beseech! 

And  the  thing  once  signed,  sealed,  safe  in  his 

grasp, — what  followed  but  fresh  delays? 
For  the  floods  were  out,  he  was  forced  to  take 

such  a  roundabout  of  ways !  120 

And  'tv/as  "Halt  there!"  at  every  turn  of  the 

road,  since  he  had  to  cross  the  thick 
Of  the  red-coats:  what  did  they  care  for  him 

and  hi^  "Quick,  for  God's  sake,  quick!" 

Horse?  but  he  had  one:  had  it  how  long?  till  the 

first  knave  smirked  "You  brag 
Yourself  a  friend  of  the  King's?  then  lend  to  a 

King's  friend  here  your  nag!"  130 

Money  to  buy  another?    Why,  piece  by  piece 

they  plundered  him  still. 
With  their  "Wait  you  must— no  help:  if  aught 

can  help  you,  a  guinea  will! " 


And  a  borough  there  was — I  forget  the  name — 
whose  Mayor  must  have  the  bench 

Of  Justices  ranged  to  clear  a  doubt:  for  "Vin- 
cent," thinks  he,  sounds  French! 

It  well  may  have  driven  him  daft,  God  knows! 
all  man  can  certainly  know  135 

Is — rushing  and  falling  and  rising,  at  last  he 
arrived  in  a  horror — so! 

When  a  word,  cry,  gasp,  would  have  rescued 
both!   x\y,  biteme!   The  worm  begins 

At  his  work  once  more.  Had  cowardice 
proved — that  only — my  sin  of  sins! 

Friends,  look  you  here!  Suppose  .  .  .  sup- 
pose .  .  .  But  mad  I  am,  needs  must  be! 

Judas  the  Damned  would  never  have  dared 
such  a  sin  as  I  dream !   For,  see !  140 

Suppose  I  had  sneakingly  loved  her  myself,  my 

wretched  self,  and  dreamed 
In  the  heart  of  me  "She  were  better  dead  than 

happy  and  his! " — while  gleamed 
A  light  from  hell  as  I  spied  the  pair  in  a  perfect- 

est  embrace. 
He  the  saviour  and  she  the  saved, — ^bliss  bom 

of  the  very  murder-place! 

No!  Say  I  was  scared,  friends!    Call  me  fool  and 

coward,  but  nothing  worse!  145 

Jeer  at  the  fool  and  jibe  at  the  coward!    'Twas 

ever  the  coward's  curse: 
That  fear  breeds  fancies  in  such:  such  take 

their  shadow  for  substance  still, 
— A  fiend  at  their  back.     I  liked  poor  Parkes, — 

loved  Vincent,  if  you  will! 

And  her — why,  I  said  "Good  morrow"  to  her, 

"Good  even,"  and  nothing  more: 
The  neighborly  way!    She  was  just  to  me  as 

fifty  had  been  before.  150 

So,  coward  it  is  and  coward  shall  be!   There's  a 

friend,  now!    Thanks!   A  drink 
Of  water  I  wanted:  and  now  I  can  walk,  get 

home  by  myself,  I  think. 


O  LYRIC  LOVE 

(From  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  Bk.  I,  1868) 

O  lyric  Love,  half  angel  and  half  bird 
And  all  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desire, — 
Boldest  of  hearts  that  ever  braved  the  sun, 
Took  sanctuary  within  the  holier  blue, 
And  sang  a  kindred  soul  out  to  his  face, —      5 
Yet  human  at  the  red-ripe  of  the  heart. — 
When  the  first  summons  from  the  darkling 

earth 
Reached  thee  amid  thy  chambers,  blanched 

their  blue. 
And  bared  them  of  the  glory — to  drop  down, 
To  toil  for  man,  to  suffer  or  to  die, —  10 

This  is  the  same  voice:  can  thy  soul  know 

change? 
Hail  then,  and  harken  from  the  realms  of  help! 
Never  may  I  commence  my  song,  my  due 
To  God  who  best  taught  song  by  gift  of  thee, 


634 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Except  with  bent  hccod  and  beseeching  hand — 
That  still,  desi)ite  the  distance  and  the  dark,  16 
What  was,  again  may  be;  some  interchange 
Of  grace,  some  splendor  once  thy  very  thought, 
Some  benediction  anciently  thy  smile: 
— Never  conclude,  but  raising  hand  and  head  20 
Thither  where  eyes  that  cannot  reach,  yet 

;J^earn 
For  all  hope,  all  sustainment,  all  reward. 
Their  utmost,  up  and  on, — so  blessing  back 
In  those  thy  realms  of  help,  that  heaven  thy 

home, 
Some  whiteness  which,  I  judge,  thy  face  makes 

proud,  25 

Some  wanness  where,  I  think,  thy  foot  may 

fall! 

EPILOGUE 

(From  Asolando,  1890) 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  yoiu*  fancies  free. 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think, 

imprisoned — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you 
loved  so, 
—Pity  me?  5 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  un- 
manly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who?  lO 

One  who  never  timied  his  back  but  marched 
breast  forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted, 

wrong  would  triumph. 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake.  15 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work- 
time 
Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either 

should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive!"  cry  "Speed, — ^fight  on, 
fare  ever 
There  as  here!"  20 

Clijabett)  Barrett  llBrotoning 

1809-1861 

A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT 

(From  Poems,  1844) 


What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat  5 

With  the  cu*agon-fly  on  the  river. 


He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river: 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 

And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay.  10 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

Ill 
High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river; 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can,       15 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed. 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  the  leaf  indeed 

To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

IV 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan 

(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river !) ,  20 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring. 

And  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 


"This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god  Pan  25 

(Laughed  while  he  sat  by  the  river), 
"The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river.  30 

VI 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly      35 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

VII 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh  as  He  sits  by  the  river. 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man: 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain, —  40 
For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 

As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 

SONNETS 
CHEERFULNESS  TAUGHT  BY  REASON 

I  think  we  are  too  ready  with  complaint 

In  this  fair  world  of  God's.    Had  we  no  hope 

Indeed  beyond  the  zenith  and  the  slope 

Of  yon  grey  blank  of  sky,  we  might  grow  faint 

To  muse  upon  eternity's  constraint  5 

Round  our  aspirant  souls;  but  since  the  scope 

Must  widen  early,  is  it  well  to  droop. 

For  a  few  days  consumed  in  loss  and  taint? 

O  pusillanimous  Heart,  be  comforted 

And,  like  a  cheerful  traveller,  take  the  road,     10 

Singing  beside  the  hedge.   What  if  the  bread 

Be  bitter  in  thine  inn,  and  thou  unshod 

To  meet  the  flints?   At  least  it  may  be  said,  \ 

"Because  the  way  is  short,  I  thank  thee,  God."      ^ 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 


635 


THE  PROSPECT 

Methinks  we  do  as  fretful  children  do, 

Leaning  their  faces  on  the  window-pane 

To  sigh  the  glass  dim  with  their  own  breath's 

stain, 
And  shut  the  sky  and  landscape  from  their 

view: 
And  thus,  alas,  since  God  the  maker  drew  5 

A  mystic  separation  'twixt  those  twain, 
The  life  beyond  us,  and  our  souls  in  pain. 
We  miss  the  prospect  which  we  are  called 

unto 
By  grief  we  are  fools  to  use.     Be  still  and 

strong, 
O  man,  my  brother!  hold  thy  sobbing  breath,  lo 
And  keep  thy  soul's  large  window  pure  from 

wrong 
That  so,  as  life's  appointment  issueth, 
Thy  vision  may  be  clear  to  watch  along 
The  sunset  consummation-hghts  of  death. 


WORK 

What  are  we  set  on  earth  for?   Say,  to  toil; 
Nor  seek  to  leave  thy  tending  of  the  vines 
For  all  the  heat  o'  the  day,  tiU  it  dechnes. 
And   Death's   mild   curfew  shall  from   work 

assoil. 
God  did  anoint  thee  with  His  odorous  oil,       5 
To  wrestle,  not  to  reign;  and  He  assigns 
All  thy  tears  over,  like  pure  crystallines. 
For  younger  fellow-workers  of  the  soil 
To  wear  for  amulets.    So  others  shall 
Take   patience,    labour,    to   their   heart   and 

hand. 
From  thy  hand  and  thy  heart  and  thy  brave 

cheer,  .    ii 

And    God's   grace  fructify   through    thee  to 

all. 
The  least  flower,  with  a  brimming  cup  may 

stand, 
And  share  its  dew-drop  with  another  near. 


(From  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese^  1850) 

I 

I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for 

years. 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue,        5 
I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears. 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years. 

Those  of  my  own  life,   who  by   turns  had 

flung 
A    shadow    across   me.     Straightway  I    was 

'ware. 
So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move       i  o 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the 

hair; 
And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while  I  strove, — 


"Guess  now  who  holds  thee?"— "Death,"  I 

said.    But,  there, 
The  silver  answer  rang, — "Not  Death,  but 

Love." 

VI 

Go  from  me.   Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand         15 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.    Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before,  20 

Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  pahn.    The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in 

mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.   What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine     25 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I 

sue 
God   for   myself.    He    hears    that   name   of 

thine. 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 

XXXV 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 

And  be  all  to  me?   Shall  I  never  miss  30 

Home-talk    and    blessing    and    the    common 

kiss 
That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it 

strange 
When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 
Of  walls  and  floors,  another  home  than  this? 
Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which  is    35 
Filled    by  dead    eyes    too    tender    to    know 

change? 
That's    hardest.     If    to    conquer    love,    has 

tried. 
To  conquer  grief,   tries  more,  as  all  things 

prove; 
For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 
Alas,  I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love.         40 
Yet  love  me — wilt  thou?    Open  thine  heart 

wide, 
And  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 

XLIII 

How  do   I    love    thee?     Let   me    count   the 

ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and 

height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight    45 
For  the  ends  of  Being,  and  ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candleUght. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise.     50 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's 

faith. 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee  with  the 

breath. 
Smiles,   tears,   of  all  my  life! — and,   if  God 

choose,  55 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 


636 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


(1822-1888) 

THYRSIS 

(A  Monody,  to  commemorate  the  author's 
friend /Arthur  Hugh  Clough/  who  died  at 
Florence,  1861) 

How  changed  is  here  each  spot  man  makes  or 
fills! 
In  the  two  Ilinkseys^  nothing  keeps  the 
same; 
The  village  street  its  haunted  mansion 
lacks, 
And  from  the  sign  is  gone  Sibylla's  name, 
And  from  the  roofs  the  twisted  chimney- 
stacks —  5 
Are  ye  too  changed,  ye  hills? 
See,  'tis  no  foot  of  unfamiliar  men 
Tonight  from  Oxford  up  your  pathway 

strays! 
Here  came  I  often,  often  in  old  days— 
Thy rsis  and  I ;  we  still  had  Thyrsis  then .      i  o 

Runs  it  not  here,  the  track  by  Childsworth's 
Farm, 
Past  the  high  wood,  to  where  the  elm-tree 
crowns 
The  hill  behind  whose  ridge  the  sunset 
flames? 
The  signal-elm,  that  looks  on  Ilsley  Downs, 
The  Vale,  the  three  lone  wears,  the  youthful 
Thames?—  15 

This  winter-eve  is  warm. 
Humid  the  air!  leafless,  yet  soft  as  spring, 
The  tender  purple  spray  on  copse  and 

briers! 
And  that  sweet  city  with  her  dreaming 
spires. 
She  needs  not  June  for  beauty's  heightening,  20 

Lovely  all  times,  she  lies,  lovely  to-night! — 
Only,  methinks,  some  loss  of  habit's  power 
Befalls  me  wandering  through  this  upland 
dim. 
Once  passed  I  blindfold  here,  at  any  hour; 
Now  seldom  come  I,  since  I  came  with 
him.  25 

That  single  elm-tree  bright 
Against  the  west — I  miss  it!  is  it  gone? 
We  prized  it  dearly;  while  it  stood,  we 
said, 

>  A.  H.  Clough  (1819-1861).  a  man  of  brilliant  gifts 
and  attractive  personality,  holds  an  honorable,  if  sub- 
ordinate place  among  the  Victorian  poets.  (See  p.  663). 
He  attended  Rugby  where  he  was  a  favorite  pupil  of 
Dr.  Arnold;  he  went  to  Oxford  in  1837,  and  became  a 
fellow  of  Oriel  College  in  1842.  Matthew  Arnold  entered 
Oxford  in  1841  and  was  made  a  fellow  of  Oriel  College 
in  1845.  Immediately  after  Clough's  death  Arnold  re- 
ferred to  him  as  "one  of  the  few  people  who  ever  made  a 
deep  impression  upon  me,"  and  hinted  at  his  intention 
of  expressing  in  some  form  his  feeling  for  his  dead  friend. 
(F.  Arnold's  LcUers  I.  177). 

'Two  villages  near  Oxford.  The  poem  gains  in  sin- 
cerity and  definiteness  by  its  numerous  references  to 
neighboring  localities,  intimately  associated  with  the 
days  which  Clough  and  Arnold  spent  together  at  the 
University. 


Our  friend  the  Gipsy-Scholar,'  was  not 
dead; 
While  the  tree  lived,  he  in  these  fields  lived  on. 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here,     31 
But  once  I  knew  each  field,  each  flower,  each 
stick; 
And  with  the  country  folk  acquaintance 
made 
By  barn  in  threshing-time,  by  new-built  rick. 
Here,    too,    our   shepherd-pipes   we   first 
assay 'd.  35 

Ah  me!  this  many  a  year 
My  pipe  is  lost,  my  shepherd's  holiday! 
Needs    must    I    lose    them,    needs    with 

heavy  heart 
Into  the  world  and  wave  of  men  depart. 
But  Thyrsis  of  his  own  will  went  away.  40 

It  irk'd  him  here,  he  could  not  rest. 
He  loved  each  simple  joy  the  country  yields, 
He  loved  his  mates;  but  yet  he  could  not 
keep, 
For  that  a  shadow  lower'd  on  the  fields. 
Here  with  the  shepherds  and  the  silly 
sheep.  45 

Some  life  of  men  unblest 
He  knew,  which  made  him  droop,  and  fiU'd 
his  head. 
He  went;  his  piping  took  a  troubled  sound 
Of  storms  that  rage  outside  our  happy 
ground; 
He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he  is  dead.      50 

So  some  tempestuous  mom  in  early  June, 

When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is 
o'er. 
Before  the  roses,  and  the  longest  day — 
When  garden-walks,  and  all  the  grassy  floor. 
With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen 
May,  55 

And  chestnut-flowers  are  strewn — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry. 
From   the   wet   field,   through   the  vext 

garden-trees, 
Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and  tossing 
breeze: 
The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I!         60 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go? 
Soon  will  the  high  Midsummer  pomps  come 
on. 
Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break  and 
swell. 
Soon  shall  we  have  gold-dusted  snapdragon, 
Sweet-William  with  his  homely  cottage- 
smell,  65 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar. 
And  open,  jasmine-muffled  lattices, 
And  groups  under  the  dreaming  garden- 
trees. 
And  the  full-moon,  and  the  white  evening  star. 

3  Arnold  was  much  impressed  by  the  old  story  of  an 
Oxford  student  who,  it  was  said,  had  been  forced  by 
poverty  to  leave  the  University,  and  who  joined  a  com- 
pany of  wandering  gipsies.  Arnold  made  this  story  the 
basis  of  his  poem  The  Scholar-Gipsy. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


637 


He  hearkens  not!  light  comer,  he  is  flown!        71 
What  matters  it?   next  year  he  will  return, 
And  we  shall   have    him    in    the    sweet 
spring-days, 
With  whitening  hedges,   and  uncrumpling 
fern, 
And  blue-bells  trembling  by  the  forest- 
ways,  75 
And  scent  of  hay  new-mown. 
But  Thyrsis  never  more  we  swains  shall  see; 
See  him  come  back,  and  cut  a  smoother 

reed. 
And  blow  a  strain  the  world  at  last  shall 
heed — 
For  Time,  not  Corydon,  hath  conquer'd  thee! 

Alack,  for  Corydon,  no  rival  now ! —  81 

But  when  Sicilian  shepherds  lost  a  mate. 

Some  good  survivor  with  his  flute  would  go 
Piping  a  ditty  sad  for  Bion's^  fate; 
And  cross  the  unpermitted  ferry's  flow,    85 
And  relax  Pluto's  brow. 
And  make  leap  up  with  joy  the  beauteous 
head 
Of  Proserpine,  among  whose  crowned  hair 
Are  flowers  first  open'd  on  Sicilian  air, 
And  flute  his  friend,  like  Orpheus,  from  the 
dead.  90 

0  easy  access  to  the  hearer's  grace 

When  Dorian  shepherds  sang  to  Proserpine! 

For  she  herself  had  trod  Sicilian  fields, 

She  knew  the  Dorian  water's  gush  divine,    94 

She  knew  each  lily  white  which  Enna^  yields. 

Each  rose  with  blushing  face; 

She  loved  the  Dorian  pipe,  the  Dorian  strain. 

But  ah,  of  our  poor  Thames  she  never 

heard! 
Her    foot    the    Cumnor    cowslips    never 
stirr'd; 
And  we  should  tease  her  with  our  plaint  in 
vain!  lOO 

Well!  wind-dispersed  and  vain  the  words  will 
be, 
Yet,  Thyrsis,  let  me  give  my  grief  its  hour 
In  the  old  haunt,  and  find  our  tree-topp'd 
hill! 
Who,  if  not  I,  for  questing  here  hath  power? 
I  know  the  wood  which  hides  the  daffodil, 
I  know  the  Fyfield  tree,  106 

I  know  what  white,  what  purple  fritillaries 
The  grassy  harvest  of  the  river-fields, 
Above   by   Ensham,   down   by   Sanford, 
yields, 
And  what  sedged  brooks  are  Thames's  trib- 
utaries; 110 

1  know  these  slopes;  who  knows  them  if  not  I? 

But  many  a  dingle  on  the  loved  hill-side. 
With   thorns   once   studded,   old,   white- 
blossom'd  trees, 

*  Bion  (cir.  280  B.  C),  a  Greek  poet,  the  author  of  A 
Lament  for  Adonia.  Bion  himself  was  made  the  subject 
of  a  famous  elegy  by  Moschus  (cir,  200  B,  C),  a  Greek 
poet  of  Sicily.  . 

»A  plain  in  Sicily,  where  Proserpine  was  gathenng 
flowers  when  she  was  carried  ofE  by  Pluto  to  the  lower 
worid. 


Where   thick   the   cowslips   grew,   and   far 
descried 
High  tower'd  the  spikes  of  purple  orchises, 
Hath  since  our  day  put  by  lie 

The  coronals"  of  that  forgotten  time; 

Down   each  green  bank  hath  gone  the 

plough-boy's  team. 
And  only  in  the  hidden  brookside  gleam 
Primroses,  orphans  of  the  flowery  prime.        120 

Where  is  the  girl,  who  by  the  boatman's  door. 
Above  the  locks,  above  the  boating  throng, 
Unmoor'd   our   skiff   when   through   the 
Wytham  flats, 
Red  loosestrife  and  blond  meadow  sweet 
among 
And  darting  swallows  and  light  water- 
gnats,  125 
We  track 'd  the  shy  Thames  shore? 
Where  are  the  mowers,  who,  as  the  tiny  swell 
Of  our  boat  passing  heaved  the  river-grass. 
Stood  with  suspended  scythe  to  see  us 
pass? — 
They    all    are   gone,   and   thou   art   gone  as 
well!  130 

Yes,  thou  art  gone!  and  round  me  too  the 
night 
In    ever-nearing    circle   weaves   her   shade. 

I  see  her  veil  draw  soft  across  the  day, 
I  feel  her  slowly  chilling  breath  invade 
The  cheek  grown  thin,   the  brown  hair 
sprent  with  grey;  135 

I  feel  her  finger  light 
Laid  pausefully  upon  life's  headlong  train ; — 
The  foot  less  prompt  to  meet  the  morning 

dew. 
The  heart  less  bounding  at  emotion  new, 
And  hope,  once  crush'd,  less  quick  to  spring 
again.  14  0 

And  long  the  way  appears,  which  seem'd  so 
short 
To  the  less  practised  eye  of  sanguine  youth; 
And  high  the  mountain-tops,  in  cloudy 
air. 
The  mountain-tops  where  is  the  throne  of 
Truth, 
Tops  in  life's  morning-sun  so  bright  and 
bare!  145 

Unbreachable  the  fort 
Of  the  long-battered  world  uplifts  its  wall; 
And  strange  and  vain  the  earthly  turmoil 

grows, 
And  near  and  real  the  charm  of  thy  repose, 
And  night  as  welcome  as  a  friend  would  fall.  150 

But  hush !  the  upland  hath  a  sudden  loss 
Of  quiet! — Look  adown  the  dusk  hillside 
A  troop  of  Oxford  hunters  going  home. 
As  in  old  days,  jovial,  and  talking,  ride! 
From  hunting  with  the  Berkshire  hounds 
they  come.  155 

Quick!  let  me  fly,  and  cross 

« i.  e.  in  many  a  dingle,  the  trees,  crowned  with  blos- 
soms, have  put  by  their  coronals,  or  garlands  of  bloom. 


638 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Into  yon  farther  field! — 'Tis  done;  and  see, 
Back'd  by  the  sunset,  which  doth  glorify 
The  orange  and  pale  violet  evening-sky, 
Bare  on  its  lonely  ridge,  the  Tree!^  the  Tree!  ico 

I  take  the  omen  1    Eve  lets  down  her  veil, 
The  white  fog  creeps  from  bush  to  bush 
about, 
The  west  unflushes,  the  high  stars  grow 
bright, 
And  in  the  scatter'd  farms  the  lights  come 
out. 
I  cannot  reach  the  signal-tree  to-night,   165 
Yet,  happy  omen,  hail! 
Hear  it  from  thy  broad  lucent  Arno-vale 
(For  there  thine  earth-forgetting  eyelids 

keep 
The  morningless  and  unawakening  sleep 
Under  the  flowery  oleanders  pale,)  1 70 

Hear  it,  O  Thyrsis,  still  our  tree  is  there! — 
Ah,  vain!    These  English  fields,  this  upland 
dim. 
These  brambles  pale  with  mist  engarlanded 
That  lone  sky-pointing  tree,  are  not  for  him; 
To  a  boon  southern  country  he  is  fled,     175 
And  now  in  happier  air, 
Wandering  with  the  great  Mother's  train 
divine 
(And  purer  or  more  subtle  soul  than  thee, 
I  trow  the  mighty  Mother  doth  not  see) 
Within  a  folding  of  the  Apennine,  180 

Thou  hearest  the  immortal  chants  of  old! 
Putting  his  sickle  to  the  perilous  grain 

In  the  hot  cornfield  of  the  Phrygian  king, 
For  thee  the  Lityerses-song  again 
Young  Daphnis^  with  his  silver  voice  doth 
sing;  185 

Sings  his  Sicilian  fold, 
His  sheep,  his  hapless  love,  his  blinded  eyes — 
And  how  a  celestial  call  round  him  rang, 
And  heavenward  from  the  fountain-brink 
he  sprang, 
And  all  the  marvel  of  the  golden  skies.        190 

There  thou  art  gone,  and  me  thou  leavest  here 
Sole  in  these  fields!  yet  will  I  not  despair. 

Despair  I  will  not,  while  I  yet  descry 
'Neath  the  soft  canopy  of  English  air 
That  lonelv  tree  against  the  western  sky. 
Still,  still  these  slopes,  'tis  clear,  ige 

_^  ^i.  e.  the  "siRnal  elm,"  the  tree  on  the  hill-top  in 
"the  old  haunt,"  which  Arnold  has  referred  to  several 
times  before.  It  was  evidently  a  favorite  meeting  place 
of  the  two  friends,  and  associated  with  memories  of  the 
Scholar-Gipsy,  whose  spiritual  presence  typi6ed  the 
indestructible  nature  of  the  ideal. 

'"Daphnia,  the  ideal  Sicilian  shepherd  of  Greek  pas- 
toral poetry,  was  said  to  have  followed  into  Phrygia  his 
nnstress  Piplea.  who  had  been  carried  off  by  robbers,  and 
to  have  found  her  in  the  power  of  the  king  of  Phrygia, 
Lityerses.  Litycrses  used  to  make  strangers  try  a  contest 
with  him  in  reaping  corn,  and  to  put  them  to  death  if  he 
overcame  them.  Hercules  arrived  in  time  to  save  Daph- 
nis,  took  upon  liimself  the  reaping-contest  with  Lityerses 
overcame  hiin.  and  slew  him.  The  Lityerses-song  con- 
nected with  this  tradition  was,  like  the  Linus-song,  one 
of  the  early  plaintive  strains  of  Greek  popular  poetry 
and  used  to  be  sung  by  corn-reapers."    Arnold. 


Our  Gipsy-Scholar  haunts,  outliving  thee! 

Fields  where  soft  sheep  from  cages  pull  the 
hay. 

Woods  with  anemonies  in  flower  till  May, 
Know  him  a  wanderer  still;  then  why  not  me? 

A  fugitive  and  gracious  light  he  seeks,  20l 

Shy  to  illumine;  and  I  seek  it  too. 
This  does  not  come  with  houses  or  with 
gold. 
With  place,  with  honour,  and  a  flattering 
crew; 
'Tis  not  in  the  world's  market  bought  and 
sold —  205 

But  the  smooth-slipping  weeks 
Drop  by,  and  leave  its  seeker  still  untired; 
Out  of  the  heed  of  mortals  he  is  gone. 
He   wends    unfollow'd,    he   must   house 
alone; 
Yet  on  he  fares,  by  his  own  heart  inspired.2io 

Thou  too,  O  Thyrsis,  on  like  quest  wert  bound! 
Thou  wanderedst  with  me  for  a  little  hour! 
Men  gave  thee  nothing;  but  this  happy 
quest. 
If  men  esteem'd  thee  feeble,  gave  thee  power, 
If  men  procured  thee  trouble,  gave  thee 
rest.  215 

And  this  rude  Cumnor  ground, 
Its  fir-topped   Hurst,   its  farms,  its  quiet 
fields, 
Here  cam'st  thou  in  thy  jocund  youthful 

time. 
Here  was  thine  height  of  strength,  thy 
golden  prime! 
And  still  the  haunt  beloved  a  virtue  yields.220 

What  though  the  music  of  thy  rustic  flute 
Kept  not  for  long  its  happy,  country  tone; 
Lost  it  too  soon,  and  learnt  a  stormy 
note 
Of  men  contention-tost,  of  men  who  groan, 
Which  task'd  thy  pipe  too  sore,  and  tired 
thy  throat —  225 

It  fail'd  and  thou  wast  mute! 
Yet  hadst  thou  alway  visions  of  our  light. 
And  long  with  men  of  care  thou  couldst 

not  stay. 
And  soon  thy  foot  resumed  its  wandering 
way, 
Left  human  haunt,  and  on  alone  till  night.  230 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  herei 
'Mid  city-noise,  not,  as  with  thee  of  yore, 
Thyrsis!   in  reach  of  sheep-bells  is  my 
home. 
— Then   through   the   great   town's   harsh, 
heart-wearying  roar. 
Let  in  thy  voice  a  whisper  often  come,     235 
To  chase  fatigue  and  fear: 
Why  faintest  thou?   I  wander' d  till  I  died. 
Roam  on!    The  light  we  sought  is  shining 

still. 
Dost  thou  ask  prooft   Our  tree  yet  crowns  the 
hill, 
Our  Scholar  travels  yet  the  loved  hillside.        .W) 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


639 


TO  MARGUERITE 

(From  Switzerland) 
Yes!  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled, 
With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 
Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild, 
We  mortal  millions  live  alone. 
The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow,  5 

And  then  their  endless  bounds  they  know. 

But  when  the  moon  their  hollow  lights, 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring, 
And  In  their  glens,  on  starry  nights. 
The  nightingales  divinely  sing;  10 

And  lovely  notes,  from  shore  to  shore. 
Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour — 

Oh,  then  a  longing  like  despair 

Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent; 

For  surely  once,  they  feel,  we  were 

Parts  of  a  single  continent! 

Now  round  us  spreads  the  watefy  plain 

Oh  might  our  marges  meet  again! 

Who  ordered,  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be  as  soon  as  kindled,  cool'd? 
Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire? — 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled! 
And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumb'd,  salt,  estranging  sea. 


ABSENCE 

(From  the  same) 

In  this  fair  stranger's  eyes  of  grey 
Thine  eyes,  my  love!  I  see. 
I  shiver;  for  the  passing  day 
Had  borne  me  far  from  thee. 

This  is  the  curse  of  life!  that  not 
A.  nobler,  calmer  train 
Of  wiser  thoughts  and  feelings  blot 
Our  passions  from  our  brain; 

But  each  day  brings  its  petty  dust 
Our  soon-choked  souls  to  fill, 
And  we  forget  because  we  must 
And  not  because  we  will. 


15 


20 


10 


I  struggle  towards  the  light  and  ye, 
Once-long'd-for  storms  of  love  I 
If  with  the  light  ye  cannot  be,  15 

I  bear  that  ye  remove. 

I  struggle  towards  the  light — but  oh, 
While  yet  the  night  is  chill. 
Upon  time's  barren,  stormy  floWj 
Stay  with  me,  Marguerite,  still! 


20 


SELF-DEPENDENCE 

(From  the  same) 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 


And  a  look  of  passionate  desire  5 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send: 

"Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calm'd 

me, 
Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end! 

"Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew;         10 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you. 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you!" 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of 

heaven, 
Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way. 
In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  answer:       i3 
"Wouldst  thou  he  as  these  are?    Live  as  they. 

"  Unafi'righted  by  the  silence  round  them, 

Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see. 

These  demand  not  that  the  things  without 

them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy.        20 

"And  with  ]oy  the  stars  perform  their  shining. 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silver'd  roll; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful    25 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be. 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O  air-born  voice!  long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear:     30 
"Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know,  that  he 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery!". 


DOVER  BEACH 

(From  New  Poems,  1867) 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night. 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits; — on  the  French  coast  the  light 

Gleams  and  is  gone;  the  cliffs  of  England  stand, 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay.5 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air! 
Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 
Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanch'd  sand, 
j  Listen!  you  hear  the  grating  roar 
iOf  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and 
fling,  10 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin. 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 
.  The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 


Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  iEgean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought. 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 


15 


20 


640 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


The  sea  of  faith 
Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's 

shore 
Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furl'd. 
But  now  I  only  hear 

Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar,         25 
Retreating,  to  the  breath 
Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another!  for  the  world,  which  seems  30 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  hght. 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain  35 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and 

flight. 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 

SHAKESPEARE 

(From  The  Strayed  Reveller  and  Other  Poems, 
1849) 

Others  abide  our  question.    Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask — Thou  smilest  and  art  still. 
Out-topping  knowledge.    For  the  loftiest  hill, 
W^ho  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty. 

Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea,       5 
Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling- 
place. 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foil'd  searching  of  mortality; 

And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams 
know, 

Self-schooi'd,  self-scann'd,  self-honour'd,  self- 
secure,  10 

Didst  tread  on  earth  unguess'd  at. — Better  so! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 
All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs  which  bow 
Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious  brow. 

WORLDLY  PLACE 

Even  in  a  palace,  life  may  he  led  well!^ 

So  spake  the  imperial  sage,  purest  of  men, 

Marcus  Aurelius.    But  the  stifling  den 

Of  common  life,  where,  crowded  up  pell-mell. 

Our  freedom'  for  a  little  bread  we  sell,  5 

And  drudge  under  some  foolish  master's  ken 
Who  rates  us  if  we  peer  outside  our  pen — 
Match'd  with  a  palace,  is  not  this  a  hell? 

1  "I  was  subject  to  the  emperor  my  father,  and  bred 
under  him,  who  was  the  most  proper  person  living  to 
put  me  out  of  conceit  with  pride,  and  to  convince  me 
that  it  is  possible  to  live  in  a  palace  without  the  cere- 
mony of  guards,  without  richness  and  distinction  of 
habit,  without  torches,  statues,  or  such  other  marks  of 
royalty  and  state;  and  that  a  prince  may  shrink  himself 
almost  into  the  figure  of  a  private  gentleman,  and  yet 
act,  nevertheless,  with  all  the  force  and  majesty  of  hia 
character  when  the  common  weal  requires  it."  The 
Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurdius,  Bk.  I. 


Even  in  a  palace!    On  his  truth  sincere. 

Who  spake  these  words,  no  shadow  ever  came;  10 

And  when  my  ill-school'd  spirit  is  aflame 

Some  nobler,  ampler  stage  of  life  to  win, 
I'll  stop  and  say:  "There  is  no  succour  here: 
The  aids  to  nobler  life  are  all  within." 


GEIST'S  GRAVE 

(January,  1881) 

Four  years! — and  didst  thou  stay  above 
The  ground,  which  hides  thee  now,  but  four? 
And  all  that  life,  and  all  that  love, 
Were  crowded,  Geist!  into  no  more? 

Only  four  years  those  winning  ways,  5 

Which  make  me  for  thy  presence  yearn, 
Call'd  us  to  pet  thee  or  to  praise. 
Dear  little  friend!  at  every  turn? 


That  loving  heart,  that  patient  soul, 
Had  they  indeed  no  longer  span, 
To  run  their  course,  and  reach  their  goal, 
And  read  their  homily  to  man? 

That  liquid,  melancholy  eye, 
From  whose  pathetic,  soul-fed  springs 
Seem'd  surging  the  Virgilian  cry/ 
The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things — 


10 


15 


That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consoled 

By  spirits  gloriously  gay, 

And  temper  of  heroic  mould — 

What,  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day?  20 

Yes,  only  four! — and  not  the  course 
Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come. 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  nature,  with  her  countless  sum 

Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast  25 

Of  new  creation  evermore. 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past. 
Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 

Stern  law  of  every  mortal  lot! 

Which  man,  proud  man,  finds  hard  to  bear,    30 

And  builds  himself  I  know  not  what 

Of  second  life  I  know  not  where. 

But  thou,  when  struck  thine  hour  to  go. 
On  us,  who  stood  despondent  by, 
A  meek  last  glance  of  love  didst  throw,  35 

And  humbly  lay  thee  down  to  die. 

Yet  would  we  keep  thee  in  our  heart — 

Would  fix  our  favourite  on  the  scene. 

Nor  let  thee  utterly  depart 

And  be  as  if  thou  ne'er  hadst  been.  40' 

i"iSun<  lachrymoB  rerum,  et  mentem  mortalia  tangurU, 
Aen.  I.  462.    This  famous  passage,  which  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  render  adequately  into  English,  is  exquisitely 
paraphrased  by  Arnold  in  the  succeeding  lime.  \    . 


GABRIEL  CHARLES  DANTE  ROSSETTI 


641 


And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 
On  hps  that  rarely  form  them  now 
While  to  each  other  we  rehearse:    ' 
Such  ways,  such  arts,  such  looks  hadst  thou! 

We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again,    45 
We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair, 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane, 
We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair; 

We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 

Quick  raised  to  ask  which  way  we  go;        so 

C'rossing  the  frozen  lake,  appears 

Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow! 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear 
Who  mourn  thee  in  thine  English  home; 
Thou  hast  thine  absent  master's  tear,         55 
Dropt  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there, 

And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we. 

And  after  that — thou  dost  not  care! 

In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee.  60 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame, 
Even  to  a  date  beyond  our  own 
We  strive  to  carry  down  thy  name. 
By  mounded  turf,  and  graven  stone. 

We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach,  65 

Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm, 
Between  the  holly  and  the  beech. 
Where  oft  we  watch'd  thy  couchant  form, 

Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 
To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road; —  70 
There  choose  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 
Mark'd  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode! 

Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass. 
When  we  too,  like  thyself,  are  clay. 
Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass,  75 

And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say 

People  who  lived  here  long  ago 

Did  by  this  stone,  it  seems,  intend 

To  name  for  future  times  to  know 

The  dachs-hound,  Geist,  their  little  friend.      80 


LINES    WRITTEN    IN    KENSINGTON 
GARDENS  1 

(Fron^  Empedocles  in  Etna  and  Other  Poems, 
1852) 

In  this  lone,  open  glade  I  lie, 
Screen'd  by  deep  boughs  on  either  hand; 
And  at  its  end,  to  stay  the  eye. 
Those     black-crown'd,     red-boled     pine-trees 
stand ! 

1  Kensington  Gardens,  a  beautiful  and  wonderfully 
secluded  park  in  the  midst  of  London,  west  of  Hyde 
Park  and  not  far  from  Piccadilly.  When  Arnold  wrote 
his  Lines,  the  beauty  and  seclusion  of  the  Gardens  was 
increased  by  many  fine  old  trees. 


Birds  here  make  sone,  each  bird  has  his.      5 

Across  the  girdling  city's  hum. 

How  green  under  the  boughs  it  is! 

How  thick  the  tremulous  sheep-cries  come! 

Sometimes  a  child  will  cross  the  glade 

To  take  his  nurse  his  broken  toy;  10 

bometimes  a  thrush  flit  overhead 

Deep  in  her  unknown  day's  employ. 

Here  at  my  feet  what  wonders  pass. 
What  endless,  active  hfe  is  here! 
What  blowing  daisies,  fragrant  grass'  1 1 

An  air-stirr'd  forest,  fresh  and  clear. 

Scarce  fresher  is  the  mountain  sod 
Where  the  tired  angler  lies,  stretch'd  out, 
And,  eased  of  basket  and  of  rod. 
Counts  his  day's  spoil,  the  spotted  trout.  20 

In  the  huge  world,  which  roars  hard  by. 

Be  others  happy  if  they  can! 

But  in  my  helpless  cradle  I 

Was  breathed  on  by  the  rural  Pan. 

I  on  men's  impious  uproar  hurl'd,  25 

Think  often,  as  I  hear  them  rave, 
That  peace  has  left  the  upper  world 
And  now  keeps  only  in  the  grave. 

Yet  here  is  peace  for  ever  new! 
When  I  who  watch  them  am  away,  30 

Still  all  things  in  this  glade  go  through 
The  changes  of  their  quiet  day. 

Then  to  their  happy  rest  they  pass! 
The  flowers  upclose,  the  birds  are  fed, 
The  night  comes  down  upon  the  grass,       35 
The  child  sleeps  warmly  in  his  b(S. 

Calm  soul  of  all  things!  make  it  mine 

To  feel,  amid  the  city's  jar, 

That  there  abides  a  peace  of  thine 

Man  did  not  make,  and  cannot  mar.  40 

The  will  to  neither  strive  nor  cry, 
The  power  to  feel  with  others  give! 
Calm,  calm  me  more!  nor  let  me  die 
Before  I  have  begun  to  live. 


2E>ante  Gabriel  Ho00rtti 

1828-1882 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL  ^ 
(Third  Version,  from  Poems,  1870) 

The  blessed^  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven* 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand.  5 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

1  Roasetti  wrote  this  poem  in  his  nineteenth  year,  or 
in  1847.  W.  M.  Rossetti  remarks  that  The  Blessed 
Damozel  "ranks  as  highly  remarkable  among  the  works 
of  juvenile  writers,"  especially  when  its  "total  unlikeness 
to  any  other  poem  then  extant  is  taken  into  account." 
It  was  published  in  the  second  number  of  The  Germ, 
1850;  it  appeared  next  in  The  Oxford  and  Cambridgt 
Magazine,  1856,  and  finally  in  the  Poems  of  1870. 

*  i.  e.  one  of  the  blest  in  paradise. 


642 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Her  robe  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 

No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 
But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift. 

For  service  meetly  worn;  10 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 

Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed'  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone  15 

From  that  still  look  of  hers; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.  .  .  Yet  now,  and  in  this  place,  20 

Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me — her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.  .  . 
Nothing:  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace). 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house  25 

That  she  was  standing  on; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun.  30 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth  35 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 

'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 
Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  heart-remembered  names;  40 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made  45 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm. 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 
Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce  50 

Through  all  the  world.    Her  gaze  still  strove 
Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 

Its  path;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 
The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now;  the  curled  moon        55 

Was  like  a  Tittle  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together.  60 

(Ah  sweet!    Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 
Strove  not  her  accents  there, 

» It   seemed    to    her.     Cf.   meseemed   and    v.   Shaks. 
Rich.  1 1 1.,  II.  ii.  120. 


Fain  to  be  barkened?    When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?) 


65 


"I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me. 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven? — on  earth. 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pray'd?  70 

Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 

"When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him  73 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down. 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

"We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine. 
Occult,  withheld,  untrod,  80 

Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 
With  prayer  sent  up  to  God; 

And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 
Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

"We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of  S5 

That  living  mystic  tree* 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  name  audibly.  go 

"And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so. 
The  songs  I  sing  here;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 
An4  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause,        95 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alas!    We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.    But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity  loo 

The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee?) 

"We  two,"  she  said,  "will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is. 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names     105 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

♦This  may  have  been  suggested  by  the  Tree  of  Life 
(Gen.  ii.,  9),  or  by  the  tree  Yggdrasil  of  the  Scandinavian 
mythology,  the  tree  of  existence,  which  bound  together 
heaven,  earth,  and  hell.  In  the  latter  case,  it  may  have 
been  intended  to  symbolize  the  mystic  union  of  spiritual 
existence,  as  Rossetti  represents  every  leaf,  or  utmost  part, 
responding  in  praise  to  the  influence  of  the  Divine  Spirit. 
In  Rossetti's  picture  founded  on  this  poem,  "a  glimpse 
is  caught  (above  the  figure  of  the  Blessed  Damosel)  of 
the  groves  of  paradise,  wherein,  beneath  the  shade  of  the 
spreading  branches  of  a  vast  tree,  the  newly-met  lovers 
embrace  and  rejoice  with  each  other,  on  separation  over 
and  union  made  perfect  at  last."  V,  Sharp's  Rossetti, 
p.  251. 


GABRIEL  CHARLES    DANTE  ROSSETTI 


643 


"Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 
And  foreheads  garlanded;  110 

Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 
Weaving  the  golden  thread, 

To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 
Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb:  115 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak: 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak.  120 

"Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles: 
And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing  126 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 


"There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me: — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
With  Love, — only  to  be, 

As  then  awhile,  forever  now 
Together,  I  and  he." 


She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said. 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 

"All  this  is  when  he  comes."    She  ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  fill'd 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smil'd. 

(I  saw  her  smile).    But  soon  their  path 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres: 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.    (I  heard  her  tears). 


THE  SEA-LIMITS 
(From  the  same) 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime: 

Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible 

The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end:  our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  further.    Since  time  was. 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's, — it  hath 
The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life. 
Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 

As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath. 
Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 
Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands. 

Gray  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 
Listen  alone  among  the  woods; 
Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 


130 


135 


140 


10 


15 


Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee: 
Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men ' 
Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, —     20 

Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 

And  listen  at  its  lips:  they  sigh 

The  same  desire  and  mystery. 
The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech.  25 

And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 

Not  any  thing  but  what  thou  art: 
And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 


SONNETS 

SIBYLLA  PALMIFERA 

(For  a  Picture) 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death. 
Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty   enthroned;   and   though   her   gaze 
struck  awe, 

I  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 

Hers  are  the  eyes  which,  over  and  beneath,        5 
The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee, — which  can 

draw. 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law, 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  palm  and  wreath. 

This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 
Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still, — long  known 
to  thee  10 

By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem, — the  beat 
Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet. 
How  passionately  and  irretrievably, 
In  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days! 


SILENT  NOON 

(From,    The   House  of  Life,   in  Ballads  and 
Sonnets,  1881) 

Your  hands  lie  open  in  the  long  fresh  grass, — 
The   finger-points   look   through   like   rosy 

blooms: 
Your  eyes  smile  peace.    The  pasture  gleams 
and  glooms 
'Neath  billowing  skies  that  scatter  and  amass. 
All  round  our  nest,  far  as  the  eye  can  pass,         5 
^e  golden  kingcup-fields  with  silver  edge 
Where  the  cow-parsley  skirts  the  hawthorn- 
hedge. 
'Tis  visible  silence,  stiU  as  the  hour-glass. 

Deep  in  the  sun-searched  growths  the  dragon- 
fly 
Hangs  like  a  blue  thread  loosened  from  the 
sk>^: —  10 

So  this  wing'd  hour  is  dropt  to  us  from  above. 
Oh!  clasp  we  to  our  hearts,  for  deathless  dower, 
This  close-companioned  inarticulate  hour 
When  twofold  silence  was  the  song  of  love. 


644 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


INCLUSTVENESS 

(From  the  same) 

rhe  changing  guests,  each  in  a  different  mood, 
■  Sit  at  the  roadside  table  and  arise: 

And  every  Ufe  among  them  in  likewise 
Is  a  soul's  board  set  daily  with  new  food. 
What  man  has  bent  o'er  his  son's  sleep,  to 
brood  5 

How  that  face  shall  watch  his  when  cold  it 

lies? 
Or  thought,  as  his  own  mother  kissed  his 
eyes. 
Of  what  her  kiss  was  when  his  father  wooed? 

May  not  this  ancient  room  thou  sit'st  in  dwell 
In  separate  living  souls  for  joy  or  pain?  10 
Nay,  all  its  corners  may  be  painted  plain 

Where   Heaven  shows  pictures  of  some  life 
spent  well; 
And  may  be  stamped,  a  memory  all  in  vain, 

Upon  the  sight  of  lidless  eyes  in  Hell. 


A  SUPERSCRIPTION 

(From  the  same) 

Look  in  my  face;  my  name  is  Might-have- 
been; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between; 
Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen       5 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by 
my  spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable. 
Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail  screen. 

Mark  me  how  still  I  am !   But  should  there  dart 
One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  soft  sur- 
prise 10 
Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls  the  breath 
of  sighs, — 
Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn  apart 
Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart 
Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 


Clirisitina  ^eorgina  Uo^sietti 

1830-1894 

UP-HILL 
(From  Goblin  Market,  1862) 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting  place?  5 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 

May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 
You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 


Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those  who  have  gone  before.  lo 

Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that 
door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek?      is 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 


SYMBOLS 
(From  Devotional  Pieces) 

I  watched  a  rosebud  very  long 

Brought  on  by  dew  and  sun  and  shower, 
Waiting  to  see  the  perfect  flower; 

Then,  when  I  thought  it  should  be  strong, 
It  opened  at  the  matin  hour  5 

And  fell  at  even-song. 

I  watched  a  nest  from  day  to  day, 
A  green  nest  full  of  pleasant  shade. 
Wherein  three  speckled  eggs  were  laid: 

But  when  they  should  have  hatched  in  May,  lo 
The  two  old  birds  had  grown  afraid 

Or  tired,  and  flew  away. 


Then  in  my  wrath  I  broke  the  bough 
That  I  had  tended  so  with  care, 
Hoping  its  scent  should  fill  the  air; 

I  crushed  the  eggs,  not  heeding  how 
Their  ancient  promise  had  been  fair: 

I  would  have  vengeance  now. 


15 


20 


But  the  dead  branch  spoke  from  the  sod, 
And  the  eggs  answered  me  again: 
Because  we  failed  dost  thou  complain? 

Is  thy  wrath  just?    And  what  if  God, 
Who  waiteth  for  thy  fruits  in  vain, 

Should  also  take  the  rod? 


SONNET 

(From  "Monna  Innominata,"  in  A  Pageant  and 
Other  Poems,  1881) 

Thou  Who  didst  make  and  knowest  whereof  we 

are  made. 

Oh  bear  in  mind  our  dust  and  nothingness, 

Our  wordless  tearless  dumbness  of  distress: 

Bear  Thou  in  mind  the  burden  Thou  hast  laid 

Upon  us,  and  our  feebleness  unstayed  5 

Except  Thou  stay  us:  for  the  long  long  race 

Which  stretches  far  and  far  before  our  face 

Thou  knowest, — remember  Thou  whereof  we 

are  made. 
If  making  makes  us  Thine,  then  Thine  we  are;' 
And  if  redemption,  we  are  twice  Thine  own: 
If  once  Thou  didst  come  down  from  heaven 
afar  ii 

To  seek  us  and  to  find  us,  how  not  save? 
Comfort  us,  save  us,  leave  us  not  alone, 
Thou  Who  didst  die  our  death  and  fill  our 
grave.  \ 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


645 


William  ^orrte 

1834-1896 

AN  APOLOGY 

(From  The  Earthly  Paradise,  1868-1870) 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears,       5 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  1  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh. 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth,  10 

Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by. 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days 

die — 
Remember  me  a  little  then  I  pray, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Drefamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due 
time,  15 

Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight? 
Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  Ught  wing  against  the  ivory  gate,^ 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay,  20 

Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things  did 

show. 
That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the 

spring, 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow,    25 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a-row. 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way. 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright  and  pardon  me,  30 

Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  a  steely  sea. 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be; 
Whose  ravening  monsters  men  of  might  shall 

slay. 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day.  35 


PROLOGUE 

(From  the  same) 

Forget  six  counties  overhung  with  smoke. 
Forget  the  snorting  steam  and  piston  stroke, 
Forget  the  spreading  of  the  hideous  town; 
Think  rather  of  the  pack-horse  on  the  down. 
And  dream  of  London,  small,  and  white  and 

clean,  ^  5 

The  clear  Thames  bordered  by  its  gardens 

green; 

*  One  of  the  two  aemi-transparent  gates  of  the  house  of 
Sleep,  the  other  being  of  horn.  The  dreams  which  came 
through  the  ivory  gate  were  fair  but  deceitful,  while  true 
visions  came  through  the  gate  of  horn.  V.  Vergil, 
JEn.  vi.  893. 


Think,  that  below  bridge  the  green  lapping 

waves 
Smite  some  few  keels  that  bear  Levantine 

staves. 
Cut  from  the  yew  wood  on  the  burnt-up  hill,  9 
And  pointed  jars  that  Greek  hands  toiled  to  fill. 
And  treasured  scanty  spice  from  some  far  sea, 
Florence  gold  cloth,  and  Ypres  napery, 
And  cloth  of  Bruges,  and  hogsheads  of  Guienne; 
While    nigh    the    thronged    wharf    Geoffrey 

Chaucer's  pen 
Moves  over  bills  of  lading,— 'mid  such  times  15 
Shall  dwell  the  hollow  puppets  of  my  rhymes. 

THE  SON  OF  CRCESUS 

(From  the  same) 
Argument 
Croesus,  King  of  Lydia,  dreamed  that  he  saw 
his  son  slain  by  an  iron  weapon,  and  though  by 
every  means  he  strove  to  avert  this  doom  from 
him,  yet  thus  it  happened,  for  his  son  was  slain 
by  the  hand  of  the  man  who  seemed  least  of  all 
likely  to  do  the  deed. 

Of  Croesus  tells  my  tale,  a  king  of  old 
In  Lydia,  ere  the  Mede  fell  on  the  land, 
A  man  made  mighty  by  great  heaps  of  gold, 
Feared  for  the  myriads  strong  of  heart  and  hand 
That  'neath  his  banners  wrought  out  his  com- 
mand, 5 
And  though  his  latter  ending  happened  on  iU, 
Yet  first  of  every  joy  he  had  his  fill. 

Two  sons  he  had,  and  one  was  dumb  from 
birth; 
The  other  one,  that  Atys  had  to  name. 
Grew  up  a  fair  youth,  and  of  might  and  worth, 10 
And  well  it  seemed  the  race  wherefrom  he  came 
From  him  should  never  get  reproach  or  shame: 
But  yet  no  stroke  he  struck  before  his  death. 
In  no  war-shout  he  spent  his  latest  breath. 

Now  Croesus,  lying  on  his  bed  anight,         15 
Dreamed  that  he  saw  his  dear  son  laid  a-low. 
And  folk  lamenting  he  was  slain  outright, 
And  that  some  iron  thing  had  dealt  the  blow; 
By  whose  hand  guided  he  could  nowise  know. 
Or  if  in  peace  by  traitors  it  were  done,  20 

Or  in  some  open  war  not  yet  begun. 

Three  times  one  night  this  vision  broke  his 
sleep. 
So  that  at  last  he  rose  up  from  his  bed. 
That  he  might  ponder  how  best  he  might  keep 
The  threatened  danger  from  so  dear  a  head;  25 
And,  since  he  now  was  old  enough  to  wed. 
The  King  sent  men  to  search  the  lands  around, 
Until  some  matchless  maiden  should  be  found; 

That  in  her  arms  this  At3^s  might  forget 
The  praise  of  men,  and  fame  of  history,         so 
Whereby  full  many  a  field  has  been  made  wet 
With  blood  of  men,  and  many  a  deep  green  sea 
Been  reddened  therewithal,  and  yet  shall  be; 
That  her  sweet  voice  might  drown  the  people's 

praise, 
Her  eyes  make  bright  the  uneventful  days.      3(1 


646 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


So  when  at  last  a  wonder  they  had  brought, 
From  some  sweet  land  down  by  the  ocean's  rim, 
Than  whom  no  fairer  could  by  man  be  thought. 
And  ancient  dames,  scanning  her  limb  by  limb, 
Had  said  that  she  was  fair  enough  for  him,  40 
To  her  was  Atys  married  with  much  show, 
And  looked  to  dwell  with  her  in  bliss  enow. 

And  in  meantime  afield  he  never  went, 
Either  to  hunting  or  the  frontier  war, 
No  dart  was  cast,  nor  any  engine  bent  45 

Anigh  him,  and  the  I.ydian  men  afar 
Must  rein  their  steeds,  and  the  bright  blossoms 

mar 
If  they  have  any  lust  of  tourney  now; 
And  in  fair  meadows  must  they  bend  the  bow. 

And  also  through  the  palace  every  where      so 
The  swords  and  spears  were  taken  from  the 

wall 
That  long  with  honour  had  been  hanging  there, 
And  from  the  golden  pillars  of  the  hall; 
Lest  by  mischance  some  sacred  blade  should 

fall, 
And  in  its  falling  bring  revenge  at  last  55 

For  many  a  fatal  battle  overpast. 

And  everj^  day  King  Crcesus  wrought  with 
care 
To  save  his  dear  son  from  that  threatened  end, 
And  many  a  beast  he  offered  up  with  prayer 
Unto   the   gods,    and    much   of    wealth    did 
spend,  60 

That  they  so  prayed  might  yet  perchance  de- 
fend 
That  life,  until  at  least  that  he  were  dead, 
With  earth  laid  heavy  on  his  unseeing  head. 

But  in  the  midst  even  of  the  wedding  feast 
There  came  a  man,  who  by  the  golden  hall      65 
Sat  down  upon  the  steps,  and  man  or  beast 
He  heeded  not,  but  there  against  the  wall 
He  leaned  his  head,  speaking  no  word  at  all, 
Till,  with  his  son  and  son's  wife,  came  the  King, 
And  then  unto  his  gown  the  man  did  cling.       70 

"What  man  art  thou?"  the  King  said  to  him 
then, 
"That  in  such  guise  thou  prayest  on  thy  knee; 
Hast  thou  some  fell  foe  here  among  my  men? 
Or  hast  thou  done  an  ill  deed  unto  me? 
Or  hast  thy  wife  been  carried  over  sea?  75 

Or  hast  thou  on  this  day  great  need  of  gold? 
Or  say,  why  else  thou  now  art  grown  so  bold." 

"O  King,"  he  said,  "I  ask  no  gold  to-day. 
And  though  indeed  thy  greatness  drew  me  here. 
No   wrong   have   I    that  thou   couldst  wipe 
away;  so 

And  nought  of  mine  the  pirate  folk  did  bear 
Across  the  sea;  none  of  thy  folk  I  fear: 
But  all  the  gods  are  now  mine  enemies. 
Therefore  I  kneel  before  thee  on  my  knees. 

"For  as  with  mine  own  brother  on  a  day  85 
Within  the  running  place  at  home  I  played, 
Unwittingly  I  smote  him  such-a-way 


That  dead  upon  the  green  grass  he  was  laid; 
Half-dead  myself  I  fled  away  dismayed, 
Wherefore  I  pray  thee  help  me  in  mj'  need,  90 
And  purify  my  soul  of  this  sad  deed. 

"If  of  my  name  and  country  thou  wouldst 
know. 
In  Phrygia  yet  my  father  is  a  king, 
Gordius,  the  son  of  Midas,  rich  enow 
In  corn  and  cattle,  golden  cup  and  ring;         95 
And  mine  own  name  before  I  did  this  thing 
Was  called  Adrastus,  whom,  in  street  and  hall. 
The  slayer  of  his  brother  men  now  call." 

"Friend,"  said  the  King,  "have  thou  no  fear 
of  me; 
For  though,  indeed,  I  am  right  happy  now,     100 
Yet  well  I  know  this  may  not  always  be, 
And  I  may  chance  some  day  to  kneel  full  low, 
And  to  some  happy  man  mine  head  to  bow 
With  prayers  to  do  a  greater  thing  than  this. 
Dwell  thou  with  us,  and  win  again  thy  bliss.  105 

"For  in  this  city  men  in  sport  and  play 
Forget  the  trouble  that  the  gods  have  sent; 
Who  therewithal  send  wine,  and  many  a  may 
As  fair  as  she  for  whom  the  Trojan  went; 
And  many  a  dear  delight  besides  have  lent,  110 
Which,  whoso  is  well  loved  of  them  shall  keep 
Till  in  forgetful  death  he  falls  asleep. 

"Therefore  to-morrow  shall  those  rites  be 

done 
That  kindred  blood  demands  that  thou  hast 

shed, 
That  if  the  mouth  of  thine  own  mother's  son  115 
Did  hap  to  curse  thee  ere  he  was  quite  dead. 
The  curse  may  lie  the  lighter  on  thine  head, 
Because  the  flower-crowned  head  of  many  a 

beast 
Has  fallen  voiceless  in  our  glorious  feast." 

Then    did    Adrastus    rise   and    thank    the 
King,  120 

And  the  next  day  when  yet  low  was  the  sun, 
The  sacrifice  and  every  other  thing 
That  unto  these  dread  rites  belonged,  was  done; 
And  there  Adrastus  dwelt,  hated  of  none. 
And  loved  of  many,  and  the  King  loved  him,  125 
For  brave  and  wise  he  was  and  strong  of  limb. 

But  amongst  all  did  Atys  love 
The  luckless  stranger,  whose  fair  tales  of  war 
The  Lydian's  heart  abundantly  did  move. 
And  much  they  talked  of  wandering  out  afar  130 
Some  day,  to  lands  where  many  marvels  are, 
With  still  the  Phyrgian  through  all  things  to  be 
The  leader  unto  all  felicity. 

Now  at  this  time  folk  came  unto  the  King 
Who  on  a  forest's  borders  dwelling  were,  135 
Wherein  there  roamed  full  many  a  dangerous 

thing. 
As  wolf  and  wild  bull,  lion  and  brown  bear; 
But  chiefly  in  that  forest  was  the  lair  \ 

Of  a  great  boar  that  no  man  could  withstand)^  ^ 
And  many  a  woe  he  brought  upon  the  land.  l4o' 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 


■^ Since  long  ago  that  men  in  Calydon 
Held  chase,  no  beast  like  him  had  once  been 

seen. 
He  ruined  vineyards  lying  in  the  sun, 
After  his  harvesting  the  men  must  glean 
What  he  had  left;  right  glad  they  had  not 

been  j^g 

Among  the  tall  stalks  of  the  ripening  wheat 
The  fell  destroyer's  fatal  tusks  to  meet.        ' 

For  often  would  the  lonely  man  entrapped, 
In  vam  from  his  dire  fury  strive  to  hide 
In   some   thick   hedge,   and   other   whiles  it 

happed  15q 

Some  careless  stranger  by  his  place  would  ride. 
And  the  tusks  smote  his  fallen  horse's  side. 
And  what  help  then  to  such  a  wretch  could 

come 

■ith  sword  he  could  not  draw,  and  far  from 
j    home? 

Or  else  girls,  sent  their  water-jars  to  fill,     155 
Would  come  back  pale,  too  terrified  to  cry. 
Because  they  had  but  seen  him  from  the  hill; 
Or  else  again  with  side  rent  wretchedly. 
Some  hapless  damsel  midst  the  brake  would  lie. 
Shortly  to  say,  there  neither  man  nor  maid  160 
Was  safe  afield  whether  they  wrought  or  played. 

Therefore  were  come  these  dwellers  by  the 

wood 
To  pray  the  King  brave  men  to  them  to  send, 
That  they  might  live;  and  if  he  deemed  it  good, 
That   Atys   with    the   other   knights   should 

wend,  165 

They  through  their  grief  the  easier  should  have 

end; 
For  both  by  gods  and  men  they  knew  him  loved, 
And  easily  by  hope  of  glory  moved. 

"O  Su-e,"  they  said,   "thou  know'st  how 

Hercules 
Was  not  content  to  wait  till  folk  asked  aid,     1 70 
But  sought  the  pests  among  their  guarded 

trees; 
Thou  know'st  what  name  the  Theban  Cadmus 

made, 
And  how  the  bull  of  Marathon  was  laid 
Dead  on  the  fallows  of  the  Athenian  land, 
And  how  folk  worshipped  Atlanta's  hand.    175 

"Fair  would  thy  son's  name  look  upon  the 

roll 
Wherein  such  noble  deeds  as  his  are  told; 
And  great  delight  shall  surely  fill  thy  soul, 
rhinkmg  upon  his  deeds  when  thou  art  old, 
And  thy  brave  heart  is  waxen  faint  and  cold:  180 
Dost  thou  not  know,  O  King,  how  men  will 

strive 
That  they,  when  dead,  still  in  their  sons  may 

hve?"  ^ 

He  shuddered  as  they  spoke,  because  he 
thought, 

ij  Most  certainly  a  winning  tale  is  this 
J 10  draw  him  from  the  net  where  he  is  caught. 


647 


For  hearts  of  men  grow  weary  of  all  bliss;       186 
Nor  IS  he  one  to  be  content  with  his, 

A  ^V^°"^^  ^^^^  *^®  trumpet-blast  of  fame 
And  far-off  people  calling  on  his  name. 

"Good  friends,"  he  said,  "go,  get  ye  back 
agam,  *'        jg^ 

And  doubt  not  I  will  send  you  men  to  slay 
This  pest  ye  fear:  yet  shall  your  prayer  be  vain 
If  ye  with  any  other  speak  to-day; 
And  for  my  son,  with  me  he  needs  must  stay, 
^or  mighty  cares  oppress  the  Lydian  land.  195 
Bear  not,  for  ye  shall  have  a  noble  band." 

And  with  that  promise  must  they  be  content, 
And  so  departed,  having  feasted  well. 
And  yet  some  god  or  other  ere  they  went, 
If  they  were  silent,  this  their  tale  must  tell  200 
To  more  than  one  man;  therefore  it  befell. 
That  at  the  last  Prince  Atys  knew  the  thing, 
And  came  with  angry  eyes  unto  the  King. 

"Father,"  he  said,  "since  when  am  I  grown 
vile? 

Since  when  am  I  grown  helpless  of  my  hands? 

Or  else  what  folk,  with  words  en  wrought  with 
guile,  206 

Thme  ears  have  poisoned;  that  when  far-off 
lands 

My  fame  might  fill,  by  thy  most  strange  com- 
mands 

I  needs  must  stay  within  this  slothful  home, 

Whereunto  would  God  that  I  had  never  come? 

"What!  wilt  thou  take  mine  honour  quite 
away?  211 

Wouldst  thou,  that,  as  with  her  I  just  have  wed 
I  sit  among  thy  folk  at  end  of  day, 
She  should  be  ever  turning  round  her  head 
To  watch  some  man  for  war  apparelled,       215 
Because  he  wears  a  sword  that  he  may  use, 
Which  grace  to  me  thou  ever  wilt  refuse? 

"Or,  dost  thou  think,  when  thou  hast  run  thy 
race 
And  thou  art  gone,  and  in  thy  stead  I  reign, 
The  people  will  do  honour  to  my  place,  220 

Or  that  the  lords  leal  men  will  still  remain, 
If  yet  my  father's  sword  be  sharp  in  vain? 
If  on  the  wall  his  armour  still  hang  up, 
While  for  a  spear  I  hold  a  drinking  cup?  " 

"O  Son!"  quoth  Croesus,  "well  I  know  thee 
brave,  225 

And  worthy  of  high  deeds  of  chivalry; 
Therefore  the  more  thy  dear  life  would  I  save, 
Which  now  is  threatened  by  the  gods  on  high; 
Three  times  one  night  I  dreamed  I  saw  thee  die. 
Slain  by  some  deadly  pointed  thing,  230 

While  weeping  lords  stood  round  thee  in  a  ring." 

Then  loud  laughed  Atys,  and  he  said  again, 
"Father,  and  did  this  ugly  dream  tell  thee 
What  day  it  was  on  which  I  should  be  slain? 
As  may  the  gods  grant  I  may  one  day  be,        235 
And  not  from  sickness  die  right  wretchedly. 
Groaning  with  pain  my  lords  about  my  bed 
Wishing  to  God  that  I  were  fairly  dead; 


650 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Beheld  next  day  his  visage  wild  and  wan, 
Peering  from  out  a  thicket  of  the  wood 
Where  he  had  spilt  that  well-beloved  blood. 

And  now  the  day  of  burial  pomp  must  be, 
And  to  those  rites  all  lords  of  Lydia  came    450 
About  the  King,  and  that  day,  they  and  he 
Cast  royal  gifts  of  rich  things  on  the  flame; 
But  while  they  stood  and  wept,  and  called  by 

name 
Upon  the  dead,  amidst  them  came  a  man 
With  raiment  rent,  and  haggard  face  and  wan. 

Who  when  the  marshalls  would  have  thrust 

him  out  ^  456 

And  men  looked  strange  on  him,  began  to  say, 

"Surely  the  world  has  changed  since  ye  have 

doubt 
Of  who  I  am ;  nay,  turn  me  not  away, 
For  ye  have  called  me  princely  ere  tonday —  460 
Adrastus,  son  of  Gordius,  a  great  king, 
Where  unto  Pallas  Phrygian  maidens  sing. 

"O  Lydians,  many  a  rich  thing  have  ye  cast 
Into  this  flame,  but  I  myself  will  give 
A  greater  gift,  since  now  I  see  at  last  465 

The  gods  are  wearied  for  that  still  I  live. 
And  with  their  will,  why  should  I  longer  strive? 
Atys,  O  Atj^s,  thus  I  give  to  thee. 
A  life  that  lived  for  thy  felicity." 

And  therewith  from  his  side  a  knife  he  drew, 
And,  crying  out  upon  the  pile  he  leapt,  471 
And  with  one  mighty  stroke  himself  he  slew. 
So  there  these  princes  both  together  slept. 
And  their  light  ashes,  gathered  up,  were  kept 
Within  a  golden  vessel  wrought  all  o'er  475 
With  histories  of  this  hunting  of  the  boar. 

UENVOI 

(From  the  same) 

"Death  have  we  hated,  knowing  not  what  it 

meant; 
Life  have  we  loved  through  green  leaf  and 

through  sere. 
Though  still  the  less  we  know  of  its  intent: 
The  Earth  and  Heaven  through  countless  year 

on  year, 
Slow  changing,  were  to  us  but  curtains  fair     5 
Hung  round  about  a  little  room,  where  play 
Weeping  and  laughter,  of  man's  empty  day. 

"0  M  aster,  1  if  thine  heart  could  love  us  yet. 
Spite  of  things  left  undone,  and  wrongly  done, 
Some  place  in  loving  hearts  then  should  we 

get,  10 

For   thou,    sweet-souled,    didst   never   stand 

alone, 
But  knew'st  the  joy  and  woe  of  many  an  one— 
By  lovers  dead,  who  live  through  thee,  we  pray, 
Help  thus  us  singers  of  an  empty  day ! " 

'  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  to  whom  Morris  has  commended 
his  book  in  a  preceding  stanza.  This  was  more  than 
a  general  tribute  to  Chaucer's  genius;  Chaucer  was  Mor- 
ris's actual  master  and  model,  and  the  Earthly  Paradise 
shows  its  author's  debt  to  the  poet  of  The  Canterbury 
Tales, 


Fearest  thou,  Book,  what  answer  thou  mayst 
gain,  15 

Lest  he  should  scorn  thee,  and  thereof  thou  die? 
Nay,  it  shall  not  be. — Thou  mayst  toil  in  vain, 
And  never  draw  the  House  of  Fame  anigh; 
Yet  he  and  his  shall  know  whereof  we  cry. 
Shall  call  it  not  ill  done  to  strive  to  lay,  20 

The  ghosts  that  crowd  about  life's  empty  day. 

Then  let  the  others  go!  and  if  indeed 
In  some  old  garden  thou  and  I  have  wrought. 
And  made  fresh  flowers  spring  up  from  hoarded 


And  fragrance  of  old  days  and  deeds  have 
brought  25 

Back  to  folk  weary;  all  was  not  for  nought. 
— No  little  part  it  was  for  me  to  play — 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


DRAWING  NEAR  THE  LIGHT 

(From  Poems  by  the  Way,  1892) 

Lo,  when  we  wade  the  tangled  wood. 
In  haste  and  hurry  to  be  there. 
Nought  seem  its  leaves  and  blossoms  good, 
For  all  that  they  be  fashioned  fair. 

But  looking  up,  at  last  we  see  3 

The  ghmmer  of  the  open  light. 
From  o'er  the  place  where  we  would  be: 
Then  grow  the  very  brambles  bright. 

So  now,  amidst  our  day  of  strife, 
With  many  a  matter  glad  we  play,  lo 

When  once  we  see  the  light  of  life 
Gleam  through  the  tangle  of  to-day. 


1837-1909 

CHORUS 

(From  Atalanta  in  Calydon,  1865) 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 
traces. 

The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous        5 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus,^ 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces. 

The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 


Come  with  bows  bent  ^d  with  emptying  of 
quivers,  flh 

Maiden  most  perfect,  1|^  of  light,  lo 

With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 

With  a  clamour  of  waters,  and  with  might; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet,  V 

Ever  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet ;  j  * 

1  Here  evidently  used  for  Itys;  v.  Philomela,  Procne, 
♦r  T«reus,  in  Class-Did,  and  cf .  Swinburne's  poem  Itylus. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


651 


For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west 
shivers,  15 

Round  the  feet  of  the  aay  and  the  feet  of  the 
night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing  to 
her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees  and  cling? 
O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could 
spring  to  her. 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that 
spring!  20 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her, 
And  the  south  west- wind  and  the  west- wind 
sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over,  25 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins; 

The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover. 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins; 

And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten, 

And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten,         30 

And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes. 

Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot,       34 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 
From  leaf  to  flower  and  from  flower  to  fruit; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root.     40 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 
Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid. 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid;^ 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide  45 

The  laughing  leaves  of  the  tree  divide. 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 

Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes;  50 

The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 

Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs; 
The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves. 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare     55 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 


CHORUS 
(From  the  same) 

We  have  seen  thee,  O  Love,  thou  art  fair;  thou 

art  goodly,  O  Love; 
Thy  wings  make  light  in  the  air  as  the  wings  of 

a  dove. 

•  Bassarid  (Gr.  Pa<r<rdpa),  and  Maenad,  are  names 
for  a  bacchante, — a  priestess  of  Bacchus,  or  a  woman 
who  joined  in  the  festivals  of  Bacchus  and  who  was  in- 
spired with  the  bacchic  frenzy. 


Thy  feet  are  as  winds  that  divide  the  stream  of 

the  sea; 
Earth  is  thy  covering  to  hide  thee,  the  garment 

of  thee. 
Thou  art  swift  and  subtle  and  blind  as  a  flame 

of  fire;  5 

Before  thee  laughter,  behind  thee  the  tears  of 

desire; 
And  twain  go  forth  beside  thee,  a  man  with  a 

maid; 
Her  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  a  bride,  whom  delight 

makes  afraid; 
As  the  breath  in  the  buds  that  stir  is  her  bridal 

breath: 
But  fate  is  the  name  of  her:  and  his  name  is 

Death.  10 

For  an  evil  blossom  was  born 
Of  sea-foam  and  the  frothing  of  blood. 
Blood-red  and  bitter  of  fruit, 
And  the  seed  of  it  laughter  and  tears, 
And  the  leaves  of  it  madness  and  scorn:         13 
A  bitter  flower  from  the  bud, 
Sprung  of  the  sea  without  root, 
Sprung  without  graft  from  the  years.  .  . . 

What  hadst  thou  to  do  beidg  born, 

Mother,  when  winds  were  at  ease,  20 

As  a  flower  of  the  springtime  of  com, 

A  flower  of  the  foam  of  the  seas? 
For  bitter  thou  wast  from  thy  birth. 

Aphrodite,  a  mother  of  strife; 
For  before  thee  some  rest  was  on  earth,         25 
A  little  respite  from  tears, 
A  little  pleasure  of  life: 
For  life  was  not  then  as  thou  art, 
But  as  one  that  waxeth  in  years 
Sweet-spoken,  a  fruitful  wife;  30 

Earth  had  no  thorn  and  desire 
No  sting,  neither  death  any  dart; 
What  hadst  thou  to  do  amongst  these, 
Thou,  clothed  with  a  burning  fire. 
Thou  girt  with  sorrow  of  heart  36 

Thou  sprung  of  the  seed  of  the  seas 
As  an  ear  from  a  seed  of  com, 

As  a  brand  plucked  forth  of  a  pyre, 
As  a  ray  shed  forth  of  the  morn. 

For  division  of  soul  and  disease,  40 

For  a  dart  and  a  sting  and  a  thorn? 
What  ailed  thee  then  to  be  bom? 

Was  there  not  evil  enough. 
Mother,  and  anguish  on  earth 
Born  with  a  man  at  his  birth,  45 

Wastes  underfoot,  and  above 

Storm  out  of  heaven,  and  dearth 
Shaken  down  from  the  shining  thereof, 
Wrecks  from  afar  over  seas 
And  peril  of  shallow  and  firth,  50 

And  tears  that  spring  and  increase 
In  the  barren  places  of  mirth, 
That  thou  having  wings  as  a  dove. 
Being  girt  with  desire  for  a  girtn. 
That  thou  must  come  after  these,  55 

That  thou  must  lay  on  him  love? 


650 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Beheld  next  day  his  visage  wild  and  wan, 
Peering  from  out  a  thicket  of  the  wood 
Where  he  had  spilt  that  well-beloved  blood. 

And  now  the  day  of  burial  pomp  must  be, 
And  to  those  rites  all  lords  of  Lydia  came    450 
About  the  King,  and  that  day,  they  and  he 
Cast  royal  gifts  of  rich  things  on  the  flame; 
But  while  they  stood  and  wept,  and  called  by 

name 
Upon  the  dead,  amidst  them  came  a  man 
With  raiment  rent,  and  haggard  face  and  wan. 

Who  when  the  marshalls  would  have  thrust 

him  out  ^  456 

And  men  looked  strange  on  him,  began  to  say, 

"Surely  the  world  has  changed  since  ye  have 

doubt 
Of  who  I  am ;  nay,  turn  me  not  away, 
For  ye  have  called  me  princely  ere  tonday —  460 
Adrastus,  son  of  Gordius,  a  great  king, 
Where  unto  Pallas  Phrygian  maidens  sing. 

"O  Lydians,  many  a  rich  thing  have  ye  cast 
Into  this  flame,  but  I  myself  will  give 
A  greater  gift,  since  now  1  see  at  last  465 

The  gods  are  wearied  for  that  still  I  live, 
And  with  their  will,  why  should  I  longer  strive? 
Atys,  O  Atj^s,  thus  I  give  to  thee. 
A  life  that  lived  for  thy  felicity." 

And  therewith  from  his  side  a  knife  he  drew, 
And,  crying  out  upon  the  pile  he  leapt,  471 
And  with  one  mighty  stroke  himself  he  slew. 
So  there  these  princes  both  together  slept, 
And  their  Ught  ashes,  gathered  up,  were  kept 
Within  a  golden  vessel  wrought  all  o'er  475 
With  histories  of  this  hunting  of  the  boar. 

L'ENVOI 

(From  the  same) 

"Death  have  we  hated,  knowing  not  what  it 

meant; 
Life  have  we  loved  through  green  leaf  and 

through  sere, 
Though  still  the  less  we  know  of  its  intent: 
The  Earth  and  Heaven  through  countless  year 

on  year, 
Slow  changing,  were  to  us  but  curtains  fair     5 
Hung  round  about  a  little  room,  where  play 
Weeping  and  laughter,  of  man's  empty  day. 

"O  Master,  1  if  thine  heart  could  love  us  yet, 
Spite  of  things  left  undone,  and  wrongly  done, 
Some  place  in  loving  hearts  then  should  we 

get,  10 

For   thou,    sweet-souled,    didst   never   stand 

alone, 
But  knew'st  the  joy  and  woe  of  many  an  one — 
By  lovers  dead,  who  live  through  thee,  we  pray, 
Help  thus  us  singers  of  an  empty  day ! " 

1  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  to  whom  Morris  has  commended 
his  book  in  a  preceding  stanza.  This  was  more  than 
a  general  tribute  to  Chaucer's  genius;  Chaucer  was  Mor- 
ris's actual  master  and  model,  and  the  Earthly  Paradise 
shows  its  author's  debt  to  the  poet  of  The  Canterbury 
Tales. 


Fearest  thou,  Book,  what  answer  thou  mayst 
gain,  15 

Lest  he  should  scorn  thee,  and  thereof  thou  die? 
Nay,  it  shall  not  be. — Thou  mayst  toil  in  vain, 
And  never  draw  the  House  of  Fame  anigh; 
Yet  he  and  his  shall  know  whereof  we  cry. 
Shall  call  it  not  ill  done  to  strive  to  lay,  20 

The  ghosts  that  crowd  about  life's  empty  day. 

Then  let  the  others  go!  and  if  indeed 
In  some  old  garden  thou  and  I  have  wrought. 
And  made  fresh  flowers  spring  up  from  hoarded 


And  fragrance  of  old  days  and  deeds  have 
brought  25 

Back  to  folk  weary;  all  was  not  for  nought. 
— No  little  part  it  was  for  me  to  play — 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


DRAWING  NEAR  THE  LIGHT 

(From  Poems  by  the  Way,  1892) 

Lo,  when  we  wade  the  tangled  wood. 
In  haste  and  hurry  to  be  there. 
Nought  seem  its  leaves  and  blossoms  good, 
For  all  that  they  be  fashioned  fair. 

But  looking  up,  at  last  we  see  5 

The  glimmer  of  the  open  light. 
From  o'er  the  place  where  we  would  be: 
Then  grow  the  very  brambles  bright. 

So  now,  amidst  our  day  of  strife. 
With  many  a  matter  glad  we  play,  10 

When  once  we  see  the  light  of  life 
Gleam  through  the  tangle  of  to-day. 


Algernon  Clftarto  g^tDinbume 

1837-1909 

CHORUS 

(From  Atalanta  in  Calydon,  1865) 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 
traces. 

The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous        5 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus,^ 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces. 

The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  qnd  with  emptying  of 
quivers,  Sn 

Maiden  most  perfect,  nlfO^  ^^  light,  lo 

With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers. 

With  a  clamour  of  waters,  and  with  might; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet. 
Ever  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet; 

1  Here  evidently  used  for  Itys;  v.  Philomela,  Procne, 
fir  Tareus,  in  Class-Diet,  and  of.  Swinburne's  poem  Itylus, 


\i 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


651 


For  the  faint  east  quickens,   the  wan  west 
shivers,  15 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the 
night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing  to 
her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees  and  cling? 
O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could 
spring  to  her, 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that 
spring!  20 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her, 
And  the  southwest-wind  and  the  west- wind 
sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over,  25 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins; 

The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 
The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins; 

And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten, 

And  frosts  are  slain  and  fiowers  begotten,         30 

And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 

Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot,       34 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 
From  leaf  to  flower  and  from  flower  to  fruit; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre. 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root.     40 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 
Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid. 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid;^ 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide  45 

The  laughing  leaves  of  the  tree  divide. 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing  the  maiden  hid. 


The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 

Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes; 
The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 

Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs; 
The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves. 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  woK  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 


50 


55 


CHORUS 
(From  the  same) 

We  have  seen  thee,  O  Love,  thou  art  fair;  thou 

art  goodly,  O  Love; 
Thy  wings  make  light  in  the  air  as  the  wings  of 

a  dove. 

'  Bassarid  (Gr.  Paaffdpa),  and  Mcenad,  are  names 
for  a  bacchante, — a  priestess  of  Bacchus,  or  a  woman 
who  joined  in  the  festivals  of  Bacchus  and  who  was  in- 
spired with  the  bacchio  frenzy. 


Thy  feet  are  as  winds  that  divide  the  stream  of 

the  sea; 
Earth  is  thy  covering  to  hide  thee,  the  garment 

of  thee. 
Thou  art  swift  and  subtle  and  blind  as  a  flame 

of  fire;  5 

Before  thee  laughter,  behind  thee  the  tears  of 

desire; 
And  twain  go  forth  beside  thee,  a  man  with  a 

maid; 
Her  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  a  bride,  whom  delight 

makes  afraid; 
As  the  breath  in  the  buds  that  stir  is  her  bridal 

breath: 
But  fate  is  the  name  of  her:  and  his  name  is 

Death.  10 

For  an  evil  blossom  was  born 
Of  sea-foam  and  the  frothing  of  blood. 
Blood-red  and  bitter  of  fruit, 
And  the  seed  of  it  laughter  and  tears. 
And  the  leaves  of  it  madness  and  scorn:         15 
A  bitter  flower  from  the  bud, 
Sprung  of  the  sea  without  root. 
Sprung  without  graft  from  the  years.  .  .  . 

What  hadst  thou  to  do  beidg  born, 

Mother,  when  winds  were  at  ease,  20 

As  a  flower  of  the  springtime  of  com, 

A  flower  of  the  foam  of  the  seas? 
For  bitter  thou  wast  from  thy  birth, 

Aphrodite,  a  mother  of  strife; 
For  before  thee  some  rest  was  on  earth,         25 
A  little  respite  from  tears, 
A  little  pleasure  of  life: 
For  life  was  not  then  as  thou  art, 
But  as  one  that  waxeth  in  years 
Sweet-spoken,  a  fruitful  wife;  30 

Earth  had  no  thorn  and  desire 
No  sting,  neither  death  any  dart; 
What  hadst  thou  to  do  amongst  these, 
Thou,  clothed  with  a  burning  fire. 
Thou  girt  with  sorrow  of  heart  36 

Thou  sprung  of  the  seed  of  the  seas 
As  an  ear  from  a  seed  of  corn. 

As  a  brand  plucked  forth  of  a  pyre, 
As  a  ray  shed  forth  of  the  morn. 

For  division  of  soul  and  disease,  40 

For  a  dart  and  a  sting  and  a  thorn? 
What  ailed  thee  then  to  be  born? 


Was  there  not  evil  enough. 
Mother,  and  anguish  on  earth 
Born  with  a  man  at  his  birth, 
Wastes  underfoot,  and  above 

Storm  out  of  heaven,  and  dearth 
Shaken  down  from  the  shining  thereof. 
Wrecks  from  afar  over  seas 
And  peril  of  shallow  and  firth. 

And  tears  that  spring  and  increase 
In  the  barren  places  of  mirth. 
That  thou  having  wings  as  a  dove. 
Being  girt  with  desire  for  a  girth. 
That  thou  must  come  after  these. 
That  thou  must  lay  on  him  love? 


45 


50 


55 


652 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Thou  shouldst  not  so  have  been  bom: 
But  death  should  have  risen  with  thee, 
Mother,  and  visible  fear, 

Grief,  and  wringing  of  hands,  60 

And  noise  of  many  that  mourn; 
The  smitten  bosom,  the  knee 
Bowed,  and  in  each  man's  ear 
A  cry  as  of  perishing  lands, 
A  moan  as  of  people  in  prison,  65 

A  tumult  of  infinite  griefs; 

And  thunder  of  storm  on  the  sands, 
And  wailing  of  wives  on  the  shore; 
And  under  thee  newly  arisen 

Loud  shoals  and  shipwrecking  reefs,        70 
Fierce  air  and  violent  light; 

Sail  rent  and  sundering  oar, 
Darkness,  and  noises  of  night; 
Clashing  of  streams  in  the  sea. 

Wave  against  wave  as  a  sword,  75 

Clamour  of  currents,  and  foam; 
Rains  making  ruin  on  earth; 
Winds  that  wax  ravenous  and  roam 
As  wolves  in  a  wolfish  horde; 
Fruits  growing  faint  in  the  tree,  80 

And  blind  things  dead  in  their  birth: 
Famine  and  blighting  of  corn, 
When  thy  time  was  come  to  be  bom. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE^ 

(From  LaiLS  Veneris,  1866) 

Here  where  the  world  is  quiet; 

Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 

In  doubtful  dream  of  dreams; 
I  watch  the  green  field  growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing. 
For  harvest  time  and  mowing, 

A  sleepy  world  of  streams. 


I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter, 
And  men  that  laugh  and  weep, 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap : 
I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours. 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers 
And  everything  but  sleep. 


10 


15 


Here  life  hath  death  for  neighbour, 

And  far  from  eye  or  ear 
Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labour, 

Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer;  20 

1  Proserpine  was  the  child  of  Demeter,  the  mother- 
earth.  While  gathering  flowers  in  the  Sicilian  fields, 
she  was  caught  up  and  carried  off  by  Pluto,  king  of  the 
Infernal  regions,  who  made  her  queen  of  the  lower  realm, 
of  darkness  and  death.  She  was  afterwards  permitted 
to  leave  the  Shades  for  a  part  of  each  year  and  to  visit 
Olympus.  She  typifies  the  corn,  or  grain,  which  passes 
from  the  dark  prison  in  the  earth  to  light,  and  leaves  the 
light  to  return  again  to  darkness.  In  this  poem,  Swin- 
burne pictures  the  world  as  her  garden,  a  place  presided 
over  by  the  Queen  of  the  kingdom  of  darkness,  a  spot 
from  which  life  is  continually  being  carried  off  to  the  dark 
region  of  oblivion. 


They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 
They  wot  not  who  make  thither; 
But  no  such  winds  blow  hither. 
And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice,  25 

No  heather-flower  or  vine. 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies,^ 

Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes  30 

Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 

For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number. 

In  fruitless  fields  of  com. 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber  35 

All  night  till  light  is  born; 
And  like  a  soul  belated. 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated, 
By  clouds  and  mLst  abated 

Comes  out  of  darkness  mom.  40 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven, 

He  too  with  death  shall  dwell, 
Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven, 

Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell; 
Though  one  were  fair  as  roses,  45 

His  beauty  clouds  and  closes; 
And  well  though  love  reposes. 

In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 

Pale,  beyond  porch  or  portal, 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands    50 
Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 

With  cold  immortal  hands; 
Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her  55 

From  many  times  and  lands. 


She  waits  for  each  and  other. 
She  waits  for  all  men  bom; 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 
The  life  of  fruits  and  corn; 
And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 
And  flowers  are  put  to  scom. 


There  go  the  loves  that  wither, 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings; 
And  aU  dead  years  draw  thither; 

And  all  disastrous  things; 
Dead  dreams  of  things  forsaken. 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken, 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken. 
Red  strays  of  ruined  springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow 

And  joy  was  never  sure; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure; 


60 


65 


TO 


75 


\> 


2  The  poppy,  the  flower  of  oblivion,  was  associated  with 
Proserpine.  She  is  often  represented  with  a  garland  of 
poppies  on  her  head. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


653 


And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 

Weeps  that  no  loves  endure.  80 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 

We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 
Whatever  gods  may  be 

That  no  life  lives  forever;  85 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 

That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 

Nor  any  change  of  light:  90 

Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 
Nor  any  sound  or  sight: 

Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal, 

Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal; 

Only  the  sleep  eternal  95 

In  an  eternal  night. 


PASTICHEi 

(From  Poems  and  Ballads,  1878) 

Now  the  days  are  all  gone  over 

Of  our  singing,  love  by  lover, 

Days  of  summer-coloured  seas 

Blown  adrift  through  beam  and  breeze. 

Now  the  nights  are  all  past  over  5 

Of  our  dreaming,  dreams  that  hover 
In  a  mist  of  fair  false  things. 
Nights  afloat  on  wide  wan  wings. 

Now  the  loves  with  faith  for  mother. 
Now  the  fears  with  hope  for  brother,       lo 
Scarce  are  with  us  as  strange  words, 
Notes  from  songs  of  last  year's  birds. 

Now  all  good  that  comes  or  goes  is 

As  the  smell  of  last  year's  roses, 

And  the  radiance  in  our  eyes  15 

Shot  from  summer's  ere  he  dies. 

Now  the  morning  faintlier  risen 
Seems  no  god  come  forth  of  prison, 
But  a  bird  of  plume  plucked  wing. 
Pale  with  thought  of  evening.  20 

Now  hath  hope,  outraced  in  running 
Given  the  torch  up  of  his  cunning 
And  the  palm  he  thought  to  wear 
Even  to  his  own  strong  child— despair. 


A  FORSAKEN  GARDENi 

In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and 
highland. 
At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  windward 
and  lee 
Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island. 
The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 

1  Pastiche  (or  pasticcio)  is  the  French  word  for  a  medley, 
or  a  work  in  imitation  of  the  style  of  several  masters. 

1  The  scene  of  this  poem  is  said  to  be  East  Dene,  Boa- 
church,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight. 


A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses        5 
The  steep  square  slope  of  the  blossomless 
bed 
Where  the  weeds  that  grew  green  from  the 
graves  of  its  roses 

Now  he  dead. 

The  fields  fall  southward,  abrupt  and  broken. 
To  the  low  last  edge  of  the  long  lone  land,    lo 
If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  be  spoken, 
Would  a  ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange  guest's 
hand? 
So  long  have  the  gray  bare  walks  lain  guestless. 
Through  branches  and  briers  if  a  man  make 
way, 
He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind's  restless 
Night  and  day.  kj 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  blind  and  stifled 
That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  climb 

To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years  have 
rifled 
Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched  not  by 


time. 


20 


The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose  is  taken; 

The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the  plain; 
The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shaken. 
These  remain. 

Not  a  flower  to  be  prest  of  the  foot  that  falls 
not;  25 

As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed-plots  are 
dry; 
From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  night- 
ingale calls  not, 
Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose  to 
reply. 
Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither. 

Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song.      30 
Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  burns  sear,  and  the  rain  dishevels 

One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 

Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels  35 

In  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 

Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there   was 

weeping. 

Haply  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know. 

Whose  eyes  went  seaward  a  hundred  sleeping 

Years  ago.  40 

Heart  handfast  in  heart  as  they  stood,  "Look 
hither," 
Did  he  whisper?     "Look  forth  from   the 
flowers  to  the  sea; 
For  the  foam-flowers  endure  when  the  rose- 
blossoms  wither, 
And  men  that  love  lightly  may  die — But 
we?" 
And  the  same  wind  sang,  and  the  same  waves 
whitened,  45 

And  or  ever  the  garden's  last  petals  were 
shed. 
In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes  that 
had  lightened. 

Love  was  dead. 


654 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Or  they  loved  their  life,  through,  and  then 
went  whither? 
And  were  one  to  the  end — but  what  end  who 
knows?  50 

Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  rose  must  wither, 
As  the  rose-red   seaweed  that   mocks  the 
rose. 
Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead  to 
love  them? 
What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave? 
They  are  loveless  now  as   the  grass  above 
them 

Or  the  wave.  56 

All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 
Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and  the 


No  word  that  ever  was  spoken 
Of  human  or  godlike  tongue, 

Gave  ever  such  godlike  token 
Since  human  harps  were  strung. 

No  sign  that  ever  was  given 
To  faithful  or  faithless  eyes 

Showed  ever  beyond  clouds  riven 
So  clear  a  paradise. 


10 


Earth's  creeds  may  be  seventy  times  seven 
And  blood  have  defiled  each  creed; 

If  of  such  be  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  i5 

It  must  be  heaven  indeed. 


Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 
In  the  air  now  soft  with  summer  to  be.  60 

Not  a  breath  shall  there  sweeten  the  seasons 
hereafter 
Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now  or 
weep, 
When  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and 
laughter 

We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  forever;  65 

Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change 
end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall 
rise  up  never, 
Who  have  left  naught  living  to  ravage  and 
rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and  thorns  of  the  wild  ground 
growing. 
While  the  sun  and  the  rain  Uve,  these  shall 
be;  ,  70 

Till  a  last  wind's  breath,  upon  all  these  blowing 
Roll  the  sea. 


THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

If  childhood  were  not  in  the  world. 
But  only  men  and  women  grown; 

No  baby-locks  in  tendrils  curled, 
No  baby-blossoms  blown; 

Though  men  were  stronger,  women  fairer,   5 
And  nearer  all  delights  in  reach. 

And  verse  and  music  uttered  rarer 
Tones  of  more  godlike  speech; 

Though  the  utmost  life  of  life's  best  hours 
Found,  as  it  cannot  now  find  words;  10 

Though  desert  sands  were  sweet  as  flowers, 
And  flowers  could  sing  hke  birds. 

But  children  never  heard  them,  never 
They  felt  a  child's  feet  leap  and  run; 

This  were  a  drearier  star  than  ever  15 ; 

Yet  looked  upon  the  sun. 


Till  the  slow  sea  rise,  and  the  sheer  cliff  crum- 
ble. 
Till  the  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs 
drink. 
Tin  the  strength  of  the  waves  the  high  tides 
humble  75 

The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink. 
Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  fal- 
ter. 
Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own  hand 


As  a  god  self -slain  on  his  own  strange  altar. 
Death  lies  dead. 


UPON  A  CHILD 

Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
No  glory  that  ever  was  shed 

From  the  crowning  star  of  the  seven 
That  crown  the  north  world's  head, 


U.  e.  the  North-star,  or  Pole-star,  the  brightest  star 
in  the  Little  Bear  (Ursa  Minor),  a  constellation  composed 
of  Beven  stars. 


ON  THE  DEATHS  OF  THOMAS  CARLYLE 
AND  GEORGE  ELIOT 

Two  souls  diverse  out  of  our  human  sight 
Pass,  followed  one  with  love  and  each  with 

wonder: 
The    stormy    sophist   with   his    mouth    of 
thunder. 
Clothed  with  loud  words  and  mantled  in  the 

might 
Of  darkness  and  magnificence  of  night;     ^         5 
And  one  whose  eye  could  smite  the  night  in 

sunder. 
Searching  if  light  or  no  light  were  there- 
under,^ 
And  found  in  love  of  loving-kindness  Ught. 
Duty  divine  and  Thought  with  eyes  of  fire 
StiU  following  Righteousness  with  deep  de- 
sire 10 
Shone  stern  and  firm  before  her  and  above 
Sure  stars  and  sole  to  steer  by;  but  more  sweec^ 
Shone  lower  the  loveliest  lamp  for  earthj^^' 
feet, — 
The  light  of  Httle  children  and  their  love. 


THOMAS  HOOD 


655 


OTHER   POETS  OF  THE 
VICTORIAN   AGE 

1796-1849 

SONG 
(From  Poems,  1833) 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be, 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me; 
Oh!  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright,       5 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 

The  love-light  in  her  eye:  10 

Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far. 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 


SONNET  ON  PRAYER 

There  is  an  awful  quiet  in  the  air, 

And  the  sad  earth,  with  moist  imploring  eye, 

Looks  wide  and  wakeful  at  the  pondering  sky, 

Like  Patience  slow  subsiding  to  Despair. 

But  see,  the  blue  smoke  as  a  voiceless  prayer,  3 

Sole  witness  of  a  secret  sacrifice, 

Unfolds  its  tardy  wreaths,  and  multiplies 

Its  soft  chameleon  breathings  in  the  rare 

Capacious  ether, — so  it  fades  away, 

And  naught  is  seen  beneath  the  pendant  blue,  10 

The  undistinguishable  day. 

50  have  I  dream'd! — Oh!  may  the  dream  be 

true! — • 
That  praying  souls  are  purged  from  mortal  hue, 
A.nd  grow  as  pure  as  He  to  whom  they  pray. 


1798-1845 

THE  DEATH  BED 

(From  Poems,  1825) 

We  watched  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak,  6 

So  slowly  moved  about. 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

»  Hartley  Coleridge  was  the  eldest  son  of  Samuel  Taylor 
/Oleridge.  As  a  child  he  was  shy,  dreamy,  and  sensitive; 
ke  his  father  he  had  a  vivid  imagination,  and  like  his 
ither  he  was  hampered  (but  in  even  greater  measure)  by 
'eakness  of  will.  He  published  several  volumes  of  prose. 
.8  a  poet,  he  belongs  to  the  school  of  Wordsworth,  and 
e  18  probably  at  his  best  in  the  sonnet. 


Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears. 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied —  lo 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept. 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  mom  came  dim  and  sad. 

And  chill  with  early  showers. 
Her  quiet  eyehds  closed— she  had  is 

Another  morn  than  ours. 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 

("Drowned!  drowned!"— A'awifeO 

(First  pubhshed  in  Hood's  Magazine^  1844) 

One  more  Unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath. 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death! 

Take  her  up  tenderly,  5 

Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments 

Clinging  like  cerements;  10 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing; 

Take  her  up  instantly. 

Loving,  not  loathing. — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully;  15 

Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly; 

Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 

All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly.  20 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 

Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful: 

Past  all  dishonor. 

Death  has  left  on  her  25 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hera 
Oozing  so  clammilyo  30 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 

Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 

Whilst  wonderment  guesses 

Where  was  her  home?  35 

Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 

Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one  40 

Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 


656 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Alas!  for  the  rarity 

Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun!  45 

Oh!  it  was  pitiful! 

Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 

Fatherly,  motherly  50 

Feelings  had  changed: 

Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 

Thrown  from  its  eminence; 

Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged.  55 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement,  60 

She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 

But  not  the  dark  arch,  65 

Or  the  black  flowing  river: 

Mad  from  life's  history. 

Glad  to  death's  mystery, 

Swift  to  be  hurled — 

Anywhere,  anywhere  70 

Out  of  the  world. 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 

No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran, — 

Over  the  brink  of  it,  75 

Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  Man! 

Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it. 

Then,  if  you  can! 

Take  her  up  tenderly,  80 

Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 

Stiffen  too  rigidly,  85 

Decently, — kindly, — 

Smooth,  and  compose  them; 

And  her  eyes,  close  them. 

Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring   ^  90 

Thro'  muddy  impurity. 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
,  Fix'd  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily,  95 

Spurred  by  contumely, 

Cold  inhumanity, 

Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. — 

Cross  her  hands  humbly  100 

As  if  praying  dumbly. 

Over  her  breast. 


Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior. 

And  leaving,  with  meekness,  IDS 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour! 


GCIftomasf  Babington  ^acaula^ 

1800-1859 

THE  BATTLE  OF  IVRYi 

(1842) 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all 

glories  are! 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry 

of  Navarre! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and 

the  dance; 
Through    thy    corn-fields    green,    and    sunny 

vines,  O  pleasant  land  of  France! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,^  our  own  Rochelle,  proud 

city  of  the  waters,  5 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourn- 
ing daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous 

in  our  joy; 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  wrought 

thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  a  single  field  hath  turned  the 

chance  of  war! 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry  of 

Navarre.  10 

Oh!  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the 

dawn  of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in 

long  array; 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel 
peers. 

And  Appenzel's'  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's* 
Flemish  Spears; 

There  rode  the  blood  of  false  Lorraine,^  the 
curses  of  our  land;  1.5 

And  dark  Mayenne^  was  in  the  midst,  a  trun- 
cheon^ in  his  hand; 

And,  as  we  look'd  on  them,  we  thought  of 
Seine's  empurpled  flood, 

And  good  Coligni's^  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with 
his  blood; 

J  A  village  in  France,  where  the  battle  was  foiighl 
in  1590,  between  Henry  of  Navarre  the  Champion  of 
Protestantism,  and  the  forces  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
"League." 

2  A  forti6ed  sea-port  in  France,  a  stronghold  of  the 
Protestants. 

»  Appenzell  is  a  double  canton  in  Switzerland,  hali 
Protestant,  half  Roman  Catholic.  In  this  passage  it  is 
obvious  that  the  Roman  Catholics  are  meant. 

♦  Count  Philip  of  Egmont.  a  foremost  man  in  the 
Spanish  army,  who  commanded  a  body  of  Flemish  troops, 

5  Henry  of  Lorraine,  Duke  of  Guise,  a  spy,  and  agent 
of  Philip  II  of  Spain. 

«  Duke  of  Mayenne,  lieutenant-general  for  the  League.  \ 

">  A  commander's  stafif.  ^  > 

8  Gaspard  of  Coligni,  the  great  commander  of  the  i] 
Huguenots,  was  murdered  by  the  Roman  Catholics  on  j 
St.  Bartholomew's  Eve.  The  remembrance  of  that  i 
goassacre  always  aroused  the  opposite  party  to  action. 


JOHN   HENRY   NEWMAN 


657 


And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules 

the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of 

Navarre.  20 

The  King  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his 

armor  drest; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his 

gallant  crest. 
Ho  look'd  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in 

his  eye! 
He  look'd  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was 

stern  and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smil'd  on  us,  as  roU'd  from 

wing  to  wing,  25 

Down  all  our  line,  in  deafening  shout:  "God 

save  our  lord,  the  King!" 
"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full 

well  he  may. 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody 

fray, 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine  amidst 

the  ranks  of  war. 
And  be  your  oriflamme'  to-day  the  helmet  of 

Navarre."  30 

Hurrah!  the  foes  are  moving.     Hark  to  the 

mingled  din, 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and 

roaring  culverin. 
The   fiery   duke   is   pricking  fast   across   St. 

Andre's  plain, 
With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders^"  and 

Almayne." 
Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen 

of  France,  35 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies,  ^^ — upon  them  with 

the  lance  I 
A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand 

spears  in  rest, 
A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind 

the  snow-white  crest; 
And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while, 

like  a  guiding  star, 
Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet 

of  Navarre.  40 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours.   Mayenne 

hath  turned  his  rein; 
D'Aumale"  hath  cried  for  quarter;  the  Flemish 

count  is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before 

a  Biscay  gale; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and 

flags,  and  cloven  mail. 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and,  all 

along  our  van,  45 

"Remember  Saint  Barthomolew!"  was  passed 

from  man  to  man. 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  "  No  Frenchman 

is  my  foe: 

'  The  banner  of  France. 

w  A  Dutch  province  half  Protestant  and  half  Roman 
Catholic. 

II  Germany.  "  The  lily  is  the  emblem  of  France. 

"  Charles  de  Lorraine,  Duke  d'Aumale,  an  ardent 
partisan  of  the  "League." 


Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your 

brethren  go." 
Oh!  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship 

or  in  war, 
As  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier 

of  Navarre?  50 

Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought 

for  France  to-day; 
And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a 

prey. 
But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in 

fight; 
And  the  good  Lord  of  Rosny"  hath  ta'en  the 

cornet  white. 
Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  comet  white 

hath  ta'en,  55 

The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag 

of  false  Lorraine. 
Up  with  it  high;  unfurl  it  wide;  that  all  the  host 

may  kno^ 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which 

wrought  His  Church  such  woe. 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound 

their  loudest  point  of  war. 
Fling   the  red  shreds,   a  footcloth   meet  for 

Henry  of  Navarre.  60 

Ho!  maidens  of  Vienna;  ho!  matrons  of  Lucerne; 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who 

never  shall  return. 
Ho!  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican 

pistoles,  1^ 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy 

poor  spearmen's  souls. 
Ho!  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that 

your  arms  be  bright;  65 

Ho!  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve, ^^  keep  watch 

and  ward  to-night; 
For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God 

hath  raised  the  slave. 
And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the 

valor  of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  his  holy  name,  from  whom  all 

glories  are; 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry 

of  Navarre.  70 


(1801-1890)  ' 

LEAD  KINDLY  LIGHT 

(1833) 

Lead  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  thou  me  on; 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home. 

Lead  thou  me  on. 
Keep  thou  my  feet;  I  do  not  ask  to  see  5 

The  distant  scene:  one  step  enough  for  me. 

1*  Maximilian  de  Bethune  Sully.  Baron  de  Rosny  and 
due  de  Sully,  fought  with  the  squadron  which  met  Eg- 
mont's  first  onset,  and  received  seven  wounds, 

1*  An  allusion  to  the  moneys  received  from  the  Spanish 
conquest  of  Mexico.  A  pistole  was  a  common  name  in 
Italy,  Spain,  and  elsewhere  for  coins  of  differing  values. 

16  i.  e.  citizens  of  Paris,  as  St.  Genevieve  was  the  patron 
aaiut  of  that  eity. 


658 


THE   VICTORIAN  AGE 


I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path;  but  now 

Lead  thou  me  on.  10 

I  loved  the  garish  day;  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will:  remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone;  16 

And  with  the  morn  those  Angel  faces  smile. 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 

Robert  ^ttp\)tn  l^atokn: 

1803-1875 

THE   SONG   OF   THE   WESTERN   MEN 
(Written  in  1852) 

A  g#od  sword  and  a  trusty  hand! 

A  merry  heart  and  true! 
King  James's  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do! 

And  have  they  fixed  the  where  and  when?       5 

And  shall  Trelawney^  die? 
Here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why! 

Out  spake  their  Captain  brave  and  bold: 
A  merry  wight  was  he : —  10 

"If    London    Tower    were    Michael's^    hold, 
We'd  set  Trelawney  free! 

"We'll  cross  the  Tamar,  land  to  land: 

The  Severn  is  no  stay : 
With  'one  and  all,'  and  hand  in  hand;  15 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay? 

"And  when  we  come  to  London  wall, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view, 
Come  forth!  come  forth!  ye  cowards  all; 

Here's  men  as  good  as  you.  20 

"Trelawney  he's  in  keep  and  hold: 

Trelawney  he  may  die: 
But  here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold 

Will  know  the  reason  why!" 

l^icl)arU  €^t\^tnix  Wxmti) 

1807-1886 

"SOME  MURMUR  WHEN  THEIR  SKY 
IS  CLEAR" 

I 

Some  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear, 

And  wholly  bright  to  view. 
If  one  small  speck  of  dark  appear 

In  their  great  heaven  of  blue. 

'James  II  issued  a  "Declaration  of  Indulgence,"  the 
object  of  which  was  to  give  the  Roman  Catholics  greater 
power.  He  ordered  it  to  be  read  in  the  churches.  Many 
of  the  clergy  refused  to  read  this  "declaration  "  and  the 
King  threatened  to  put  them  in  the  Tower.  Among  those 
who  refused  was  Trelawney,  Bishop  of  Bristol,  a  native 
of  Cornwall. 

*  A  small,  precipitous,  and  rocky  island,  crowned  by  a 
castle,  off  the  coast  of  Cornwall. 


And  some  with  thankful  love  are  filled, 

If  but  one  streak  of  light. 
One  ray  of  God's  good  mercy,  gild 

The  darkness  of  their  night. 

II 
In  palaces  are  hearts  that  ask, 

In  discontent  and  pride. 
Why  life  is  such  a  dreary  task, 

And  all  good  things  denied. 
And  hearts  in  poorest  huts  admire 

How  love  has  in  their  aid 
(Love  that  not  ever  seems  to  tire) 

Such  rich  provision  made. 


10 


15 


CEDtDarD  ifit^geralui 

1809-1883 
(From  his  translation  of  The  Rubaiyat,"^  1859) 

VII 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring 
Your  Winter-garment  of  repentance  fling: 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter — and  the  bird  is  on  the  Wing. 

VIII 

Whether  at  Naishapur^  or  Babylon,  5 

Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  run. 

The  Wine  of  Life  keeps  oozing  drop  by  drop, 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling  one  by  one. 

IX 

Each  morn  a  thousand  Roses  brings,  you  say; 
Yes,  but  where  leaves  the  Rose  of  Yesterday?  lo 
And  this  first  Summer  month  that  brings  the 
Rose 
Shall  take  Jamshyd*  and  Kaikobdd  away. 


Well,  let  it  take  them!  What  have  we  to  do 
With  KaikobM  the  Great,  or  Kaikhosrii? 

Let  Zdl  and  Rustum^  thunder  as  they  will,  15 
Or  Hatim^  call  to  Supper — heed  not  you.  .  .  . 

1  Edward  Fitzgerald,  a  man  of  wide  and  curious  learn- 
ing and  fastidious  taste,  held  a  unique  position  among 
the  poets  of  his  time.  His  original  productions  were  few, 
and  comparatively  unimportant;  his  reputation  rests 
on  his  work  as  a  translator,  and  it  rests  largely  on  his 
translation  of  a  single  poem.  He  translated  six  plays  of 
the  Spanish  dramatist  Calderon;  he  translated  several 
poems  from  the  Persian,  and  then,  in  1859,  he  astounded 
and  delighted  innumerable  readers  by  his  rendering  of 
the  "quatrains"  of  Omar  Khayyam.  While  Fitzgerald 
lived  a  most  secluded  life,  he  was  the  warm  friend  of 
Tennyson,  (Thackeray.  Spedding,  and  other  eminent  men. 
Tennyson,  in  dedicating  his  Tiresias  to  "Old  P^'itz,"  as 
he  calls  his  life-long  friend,  declared  that  he  knew  no 
translation  in  English  done  "more  divinely  well"  than 
Fitzgerald's  Omar. 

2  A  poem  by  Omar  Khayyam  (i.  e.  Omar,  the  Tent- 
maker)  a  Persian  poet  and  astronomer  of  the  11th  and 
12th  centuries.  The  title  of  his  most  f ami  us  poem  refers 
simply  to  its  poetic  form.  Rubaiyat  is  the  i«chnical  name 
for  a  quatrain  of  a  certain  metrical  character. 

3  The  birthplace  of  Omar,  in  the  province  of  Khorasin, 
northern  Persia. 

*  Jamshyd,  Kaikobdd,  and  Kaikhosru,  were  early  Per- 
sian kings  in  Firdusi's  poem  Shahnamah,  or  epic  of  kings. 

B  Heroes  in  Firdusi's  great  epic.  Zdl  is  Rustum's  father. 
The  tragic  error  of  Rustum,  who  unwittingly  kills  his  sor 
Sohrab,  is  the  theme  of  Arnold's  Sohrab  and  Rustum. 

«  fidtim  Tai,  a  type  of  oriental  generosity. 


\J 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


659 


XII 


A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow!  20 


XIII 


Some  for  the  Glories  of  this  World;  and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come; 

Ah,  take  the  cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum.  .  .  . 


XVII 


Think,  in  this  batter'd  Caravanserai  25 

Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 

How  Sultdn  after  SuMn  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destined  Hour,  and  went  his  way.  .  .  . 


XXI 


30 


Ah,  my  Belov6d,  fill  the  cup  that  clears 
To-day  of  past  Regrets  and  future  Fears: 

To-morrow! — ^Why,  To-morrow  I  may  be 
Myself     with    Yesterday's     sev'n     thousand 
Years.  .  .  . 


XXIV 


Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend; 

Dust  into  Dust,  and  under  Dust,  to  lie,      35 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and- 
End! 


§>ir  jFrancfe  J^asfting^  Cljarto  SDo^l? 

1810-1888 

THE  PRIVATE  OF  THE  BUFFS 

(1866) 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs, 

He  jested,  quaff 'd,  and  swore: 
A  drunken  Private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  look'd  before. 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown,  5 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place, 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown. 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewilder'd,  and  alone,  10 

A  heart  with  English  instinct  fraught. 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb. 

Bring  cord,  or  axe,  or  flame: 
He  only  knows,  that  not  through  him         15 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seem'd, 

Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleam'd, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow;  20 

The  smoke,  above  his  father's  door. 

In  grey  soft  eddyings  hung: 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doom'd  by  himself,  so  young? 


Yes,  honour  calls!— with  strength  like  steel  25 

He  put  the  vision  by. 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel; 

An  EngHsh  lad  must  die. 
And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent,  '  30 

Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink, 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain,  mightiest  fleets,  of  iron  framed; 

Vain,  those  all-shattering  guns; 
Unless  proud  England  keep,  untam'd,  35 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons. 
So  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring — 

A  man  of  mean  estate. 
Who  died  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king,i 

Because  his  soul  was  great.  40 


William  ^afeepeace  ©Ijacfeera^ 

1811-1863 

AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE 

(From  Pendmnis,  1849-1850) 

Although  I  enter  not. 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover: 
And  near  the  sacred  gate. 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait,  5 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming: 
They've  hushed  the  Minster  bell:  10 

The  organ  'gins  to  swell: 

She's  coming,  she's  coming! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid,  and  stepping  fast. 

And  hastening  hither,  16 

With  modest  eyes  downcast: 
She  comes — she's  here —  she's  past — 

May  heaven  go  with  her. 

Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  Saint! 

Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint!  20 

Meekly  and  duly; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace  23 

Round  the  forbidden  place. 

Lingering  a  minute 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it.  39 

1  Leonidas,  King  of  Sparta  who  died  at  Thermopylae, 
after  rejecting  the  offer  of  the  Persian  king  to  make  him 
the  ruler  of  all  Greece. 


660 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY 

(From  Dr.  Birch  and  His  Young  Friends, 
1848-1849) 

The  play  is  done;  the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell: 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task 

And,  when  he's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that's  anything  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends, 

Let's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme. 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  aU  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time. 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts, 

That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play; 
Good  night!  with  honest  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway! 


10 


15 


Good  night! — I'd  say,  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page. 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age.  20 

I'd  say,  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men; 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I'd  say,  we  suffer  and  we  strive,  25 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys; 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five. 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray,        30 
Pray  Heaven  that  early  Love  and  Truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school) 

I'd  say,  how  fate  may  change  and  shift; 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool,  35 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown. 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all. 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down.  40 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave! 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine. 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave? 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  will'd  it  so,  46 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all. 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That's  free  to  give,  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit: 

Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state?  60 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we'll  kneel,  55 

Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 


So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance. 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed; 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance. 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled.  60 

Amen!  whatever  fate  be  sent. 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent. 

And  whitened  with  the  winter's  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill,  65 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part. 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart, 
Who  misses  or  who  wins  the  prize. 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can;  70 

But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise. 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old,  or  young! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays) ; 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung  75 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days: 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then: 
Glory  to  God,  on  high,  it  said. 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men.  80 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside. 
And  wish  you  health,  and  joy,  and  mirth. 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth,  85 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth. 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 


William  €.  Si^tonn 

1813-1865 
THE  WIDOW  OF  GLENCOEi 


Do  not  lift  him  from  the  bracken. 

Leave  him  lying  where  he  fell — 
Better  bier  ye  cannot  fashion: 

None  beseems  him  half  so  well 
As  the  bare  and  broken  heather,  5 

And  the  hard  and  trampled  sod. 
Whence  his  angry  soul  ascended 

To  the  judgment-seat  of  God! 
Winding  sheet  we  cannot  give  him— 

Seek  no  mantle  for  the  dead,  lo 

Save  the  cold  and  spotless  covering 

Showered  from  heaven  upon  his  head. 
Leave  his  broadsword  as  we  found  it. 

Bent  and  broken  with  the  blow, 
Which  before  he  died,  avenged  him  15 

On  the  foremost  of  the  foe. 
Leave  the  blood  upon  his  bosom — 

Wash  not  off  that  sacred  stain; 

1  The  Clan  of  Macdonald,  in  the  Highland  valley  of 
Glencoe,  were  late  in  taking  the  required  oath  of  loyalty 
to  King  William  III.  Under  royal  warrant  a  regiment 
was  sent  to  Glencoe  and  many  of  the  Macdonalds  were 
treacherously  killed. 


WILLIAM  E.  AYTOUN 


661 


Let  it  stiffen  on  the  tartan, 

Let  his  wounds  unclosed  remain,  20 

Till  the  day  when  he  shall  show  them 

At  the  throne  of  God  on  high, 
When  the  murderer  and  the  murdered 

Meet  before  the  judge's  eye. 


^ay — ye  should  not  weep,  my  children!     25 

Leave  it  to  the  faint  and  weak; 
Sobs  are  but  a  woman's  weapon — 

Tears  befit  a  maiden's  cheek. 
Weep  not,  children  of  Macdonald! 

Weep  not,  thou  his  orphan  heir —  30 

Not  in  shame,  but  stainless  honour, 

Lies  thy  slaughtered  father  there. 
Weep  not — but  when  years  are  over, 

And  thine  arm  is  strong  and  sure. 
And  thy  foot  is  swift  and  steady  35 

On  the  mountain  and  the  muir — 
Let  thy  heart  be  hard  as  iron, 

And  thy  wrath  as  fierce  as  fire. 
Till  the  hour  when  vengeance  cometh 

For  the  race  that  slew  thy  sire!  40 

Till  in  deep  and  dark  Glenlyon 

Rise  a  louder  shriek  of  woe, 
Than  at  midnight,  from  their  eyrie. 

Scared  the  eagles  of  Glencoe: 
Louder  than  the  screams  that  mingled        45 

With  the  howhng  of  the  blast, 
When  the  murderer's  steel  was  clashing, 

And  the  fires  were  rising  fast; 
When  thy  noble  father  bounded 

To  the  rescue  of  his  men,  50 

And  the  slogan  of  our  kindred 

Pealed  throughout  the  startled  glen! 
When  the  herd  of  frantic  women 

Stumbled  through  the  midnight  snow, 
With  their  fathers'  houses  blazing,  55 

And  their  dearest  dead  below! 
Oh,  the  horror  of  the  tempest, 

As  the  flashing  drift  was  blown. 
Crimsoned  with  the  conflagration, 

And  the  roofs  went  thundering  down!     60 
Oh,  the  prayers — the  prayers  and  curses 

That  together  winged  their  flight 
From  the  maddened  hearts  of  many 

Through  that  long  and  woful  night! 
Till  the  fires  began  to  dwindle,  65 

And  the  shots  grew  faint  and  few, 
And  we  heard  the  foeman's  challenge 

Only  as  a  far  halloo. 
Till  the  silence  once  more  settled 

O'er  the  gorges  of  the  glen  70 

Broken  only  by  the  Cona 

Plunging  through  its  naked  den. 
Slowly  from  the  mountain  summit 

Was  the  drifting  veil  withdrawn, 
And  the  ghastly  valley  glimmered  75 

In  the  grey  December  dawn. 
Better  had  the  morning  never 

Dawned  upon  our  dark  despair! 
Black  amidst  the  common  whiteness 

Rose  the  spectral  ruins  there:  80 

But  the  sight  of  these  was  nothing 

More  than  wrings  the  wild  dove's  breast, 


When  she  searches  for  her  offspring 

Round  the  relics  of  her  nest. 
For  in  many  a  spot  the  tartan  85 

Peered  above  the  wintry  heap. 
Marking  where  a  dead  Macdonald 

Lay  within  his  frozen  sleep. 
Tremblingly  we  scooped  the  covering 

From  each  kindred  victim's  head,  90 

And  the  living  lips  were  burning 

On  the  cold  ones  of  the  dead. 
And  I  left  them  with  their  dearest — 

Dearest  charge  had  every  one — 
Left  the  maiden  with  her  lover,  95 

Left  the  mother  with  her  son. 
I  alone  of  all  was  mateless — 

Far  more  wretched  I  than  they, 
For  the  snow  would  not  discover 

Where  my  lord  and  husband  lay.  lOO 

But  I  wandered  up  the  valley, 

Till  I  found  him  lying  low, 
With  the  gash  upon  his  bosom 

And  the  frown  upon  his  brow — 
Till  I  found  him  lying  murdered,  105 

Where  he  wooed  me  long  ago! 

Ill 
Woman's  weakness  shall  not  shame  me — 

Why  should  I  have  tears  to  shed? 
Could  I  rain  them  down  like  water, 

O  my  hero!  on  thy  head —  no 

Could  the  cry  of  lamentation 

Wake  thee  from  thy  silent  sleep, 
Could  it  set  thy  heart  a-throbbing. 

It  were  mine  to  wail  and  weep! 
But  I  will  not  waste  my  sorrow,  115 

Lest  the  Campbell  women  say 
That  the  daughters  of  Clanranald 

Are  as  weak  and  frail  as  they. 
I  had  wept  thee  hadst  thou  fallen. 

Like  our  fathers,  on  thy  shield,  120 

When  a  host  of  English  foemen 

Camped  upon  a  Scottish  field — 
I  had  mourned  thee,  hadst  thou  perished 

With  the  foremost  of  thy  name. 
When  the  valiant  and  the  noble  125 

Died  around  the  dauntless  Graeme! 
But  I  will  not  wrong  thee,  husband! 

With  my  unavailing  cries. 
Whilst  thy  cold  and  mangled  body 

Stricken  by  the  traitor  lies;  130 

Whilst  he  counts  the  gold  and  glory 

That  this  hideous  night  has  won. 
And  his  heart  is  big  with  triumph 

At  the  murder  he  has  done. 
Other  eyes  than  mine  shall  glisten,  135 

Other  hearts  be  rent  in  twain, 
Ere  the  heathbells  on  thy  hillock 

Wither  in  the  autumn  rain. 
Then  I'll  seek  thee  where  thou  sleepest, 

And  I'll  veil  my  weary  head,  140 

Praying  for  a  place  beside  thee, 

Dearer  than  my  bridal  bed : 
And  I'll  give  thee  tears,  my  husband! 

If  the  tears  remain  to  me. 
When  the  widows  of  the  foeman  145 

Cry  the  coronach  for  thee! 


662 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


1819-1875 

SONG 

(From  The  Saint's  Tragedy,  1848) 

Oh!  that  we  two  were  Maying 

Down  the  stream  of  the  soft  spring  breeze; 

Like  children  with  violets  playing 

In  the  shade  of  the  whispering  trees. 

Oh!  that  we  two  sat  dreaming  5 

On  the  sward  of  some  sheep-trimmed  down 
Watching  the  white  mist  steaming 
Over  river  and  mead  and  town. 

Oh!  that  we  two  lay  sleeping 

In  our  nest  in  the  churchyard  sod,  10 

With  our  limbs  at  rest  on  the  quiet  earth's 

breast, 
And  our  souls  at  home  with  God. 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE 

(From  AUon  Locke,  1849) 

"O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee;" 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with 
foam  5 

And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see.  10 

The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land: 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"Oh!  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair  15 

Above  the  nets  at  sea? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 

The  cruel  crawling  foam,  20 

The  cruel  hungry  foam. 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea: 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle 
home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 


THE  THREE  FISHERS 

(1851) 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the  West, 

Away  to  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him 
the  best, 


And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of 

the  town, 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep,     5 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbour  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower. 
And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went 
down; 
They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked 
at  the  shower,  10 

And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  ragged 
and  brown. 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbour  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands    15 
In  the  morning  gleam   as   the  tide  went 

down, 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their 

hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  home  to  the 

town; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep;  20 
And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


CLEAR  AND  COOL 
(Song  from  The  Water  Babies,  1863) 

Clear  and  cool,  clear  and  cool. 
By  laughing  shallow,  and  dreaming  pool; 

Cool  and  clear,  cool  and  clear. 
By  shining  shingle,  and  foaming  wear; 
Under  the  crag  where  the  ouzel  sings,  5 

And   the   ivied   wall   where   the   church-bell 
rings, 

Undefiled,  for  the  undefiled; 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child. 

Dank  and  foul,  dank  and  foul. 
By  the  smoky  town  in  its  murky  cowl;  10 

Foul  and  dank,  foul  and  dank, 
By  wharf  and  sewer  and  slimy  bank; 
Darker  and  darker  the  further  I  go. 
Baser  and  baser  the  richer  I  grow; 

Who  dare  sport  with  the  sin-defiled?  15 

Shrink  from  me,  turn  from  me,  mother  and 
chHd. 

Strong  and  free,  strong  and  free; 
The  floodgates  are  open,  away  to  the  sea. 

Free  and  strong,  free  and  strong. 
Cleansing  my  streams  as  I  hurry  along        20 
To  the  golden  sands,  and  the  leaping  bar. 
And  the  taintless  tide  that  awaits  me  afar. 
As  I  lose  myself  in  the  infinite  main,  . 

Like  a  soul  that  has  sinned  and  is  pardonea\ 


agam. 
Undefiled,  for  the  undefiled; 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child. 


25 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 


663 


George  Cliot 

(Mary  Ann  Evans) 
1819-1880 

'O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE" 

(1867) 

Longum  illud  tempus,  quum  non  ero,  magis 
me  movet,  quam  hoc  exiguum. — Cicero,  ad 
ALL,  xii.  18.1 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence:  live 

In  pulses  stirr'd  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn  5 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self. 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like 

stars, 
And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's 

search 
To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven :  lo 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world. 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  Hfe  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggl'd,  fail'd,  and  agoniz'd     15 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child. 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved; 
Its  discords,  quench'd  by  meeting  harmonies,  20 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self. 
That  sobb'd  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That   watch 'd   to   ease   the   burthen   of   the 

world, 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be;  25 

And  what  may  yet  be  better, — saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary. 
And  shap'd  it  forth  before  the  multitude, 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence  more  mix'd  with  love, —  30 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall   fold   its   eyelids,   and   the   human   sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb, 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come,  35 
Which  martyr'd  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.    May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love,        40 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty. 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffus'd, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense! 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world.      45 

J  That  long  timo,   when    I    shall   not  be,   moves  me 
more  than  this  brief,  mortal  life. 


artftur  C^ugl)  C'louglfti 

1819-1861 

QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS 
(From  Ambarvalia,  1843) 
As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 

With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 
Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried; 
When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze,         5 

And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 

By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side: 
E'en  so — but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged,     10 
Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled. 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed,  15 

Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared! 

To  veer,  how  vain!    On,  onward  strain. 
Brave  barks!    In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true.        20 

But  O  blithe  breeze!  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  ahke  they  sought,        25 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare, — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there. 

"WITH  WHOM  IS  NO  VARIABLENESS, 
NEITHER  SHADOW  OF  TURNING "» 

(From  the  same) 
It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know 
That,  though  I  perish.  Truth  is  so: 
That,  howsoe'er  I  stray  and  range, 
Whate'er  I  do.  Thou  dost  not  change. 
I  steadier  step  when  I  recall  5 

That,  if  I  slip  Thou  dost  not  fall. 

SAY    NOT,    THE   STRUGGLE    NOUGHT 
AVAILETH 

(From  the  same) 
Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 

The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain. 
The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth. 

And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars;  5 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed. 

Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 
And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain,  lo 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

*  V.  note  on  Arnold's  Thyrsis,  p.  636,  supra. 

1  St.  James,  i.  17. 


664 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


1828-1909 

JUGGLING  JERRY 

(From  Modem  Love  and  Poems  of  the  English 
Roadside,  1862) 

I 
Pitch  here  the  tent,  while  the  old  horse  grazes: 

By  the  old  hedge-side  we'll  halt  a  stage. 
It's  nigh  my  last  above  the  daisies: 

My  next  leaf'U  be  man's  blank  page. 
Yes,  my  old  girl!  and  it's  no  use  crying:  5 

Juggler,  constable,  king,  must  bow. 
One  that  outjuggles  all's  been  spying 

Long  to  have  me,  and  he  has  me  now. 


We've  travelled  times  to  this  old  common: 

Often  we've  hung  our  pots  in  the  gorse.      lo 
We've  had  a  stirring  life,  old  woman! 

You,  and  I,  and  the  old  grey  horse. 
Races,  and  fairs,  and  royal  occasions, 

Found  us  coming  to  their  call: 
Now  they'll  miss  us  at  their  stations:  15 

There's  a  Juggler  outjuggles  all! 

Ill 
Up  goes  the  lark,  as  if  all  were  jolly! 

Over  the  duck-pond  the  willow  shakes. 
Easy  to  think  that  grieving's  folly, 

When  the  hand's  firm  as  driven  stakes!      20 
Ay,  when  we're  strong,  and  braced,  and  manful, 

Life's  a  sweet  fiddle:  but  we're  a  batch 
Born  to  become  the  Great  Juggler's  han'ful: 

Balls  he  shies  up,  and  is  safe  to  catch. 


IV 


25 


Here's  where  the  lads  of  the  village  cricket: 

I  was  a  lad  not  wide  from  here: 
Couldn't  I  whip  off  the  bale  from  the  wicket? 

Like  an  old  world  those  days  appear! 
Donkey,    sheep,    geese,    and    thatched    ale- 
house— I  know  them! 

They  are  old  friends  of  my  halts,  and  seem,  30 
Somehow,  as  if  kind  thanks  I  owe  them : 

Juggling  don't  hinder  the  heart's  esteem. 


Juggling's  no  sin,  for  we  must  have  victual: 

Nature  allows  us  to  bait  for  the  fool. 
Holding  one's  own  makes  us  juggle  no  little;    35 

But,  to  increase  it,  hard  jugghng's  the  rule. 
You  that  are  sneering  at  my  profession, 

Haven't  you  juggled  a  vast  amount? 
There's  the  Prime  Minister,  in  one  Session, 

Juggles  more  games  than  my  sins  '11  count.  40 


I've  murdered  insects  with  mock  thunder: 
Conscience,  for  that,  in  men  don't  quail. 

I've  made  bread  from  the  bump  of  wonder: 
That's  my  business,  and  there's  my  tale. 


Fashion  and  rank  all  praised  the  professor:      45 
Ay!  and  I've  had  my  smile  from  the  Queen: 

Bravo,  Jerry!  she  meant:  God  bless  her! 
Ain't  this  a  sermon  on  that  scene? 

VII 

I've  studied  men  from  my  topsy-turvey 

Close,  and  I  reckon,  rather  true.  50 

Some  are  fine  fellows:  some,  right  scurvy: 

Most,  a  dash  between  the  two. 
But  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  makes  me 

Think  more  kindly  of  the  race: 
And  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  shakes  me       55 

When  the  Great  JugglerJ  must  face. 

VIII 

We  two  were  married,  due  and  legal: 

Honest  we've  lived  since  we've  been  one. 
Lord!  I  could  then  jump  like  an  eagle: 

You  danced  bright  as  a  bit  o'  the  sun.        60 
Birds  in  a  May-bush,  we  were!  right  merry! 

All  night  we  kiss'd,  we  juggled  all  day. 
Joy  was  the  heart  of  Juggling  Jerry! 

Now  from  his  old  girl  he's  juggled  away. 


IX 


65 


It's  past  parsons  to  console  us: 

No,  nor  no  doctor  fetch  for  me: 
I  can  die  without  my  bolus  ;^ 

Two  of  a  trade,  lass,  never  agree! 
Parson  and  Doctor! — don't  they  love  rarely. 

Fighting  the  devil  in  other  men's  fields!        70 
Stand  up  yourself  and  match  him  fairly: 

Then  see  how  the  rascal  yields! 


I,  lass,  have  lived  no  gypsy,  flaunting 

Finery  while  his  poor  helpmate  grubs: 
Coin  I've  stored,  and  you  won't  be  wanting:    75 

You  sha'n't  beg  from  the  troughs  and  tubs. 
Nobly   you've   stuck   to   me,   though  in   his 
kitchen 

Many  a  Marquis  would  hail  you  Cook! 
Palaces  you  could  have  ruled  and  grown  rich  in, 

But  your  old  Jerry  you  never  forsook.  80 

XI 

Hand  up  the  chirper !  ripe  ale  winks  in  it ; 

Let's  have  comfort  and  be  at  peace. 
Once  a  stout  draught  made  me  light  as  a  linnet. 

Cheer  up!  the  Lord  must  have  his  lease. 
May  be — for  none  see  in  that  black  hollow —  85 

It's  just  a  place  where  we're  held  in  pawn. 
And  when   the  Great  Juggler  makes   as   to 
swallow, 

It's  just  the  sword  trick — I  ain't  quite  gone! 

XII 

Yonder  came  smells  of  the  gorse,  so  nutty, 

Gold-like  and  warm:  it's  the  prime  of  May.  90 
Better  than  mortar,  brick  and  putty, 

Is  God's  house  on  a  blowing  day. 
Lean  me  more  up  the  mound;  now  I  feel  it:        \ 

All  the  old  heath-smells!    Ain't  it  strange?      ^ 
There's  the  world  laughing,  as  if  to  conceal  it,  95    '' 

But  He's  by  us,  juggling  the  change. 
iPilL 


HENRY  AUSTIN  DOBSON 


665 


XIII 

I  mind  it  well,  by  the  sea-beach  lying, 

Once — it's  long  gone— when  two  gulls  we 
beheld, 
Which,  as  the  moon  got  up,  were  flying 

Down  a  big  wave  that  sparkled  and  swelled. 
Crack,  went  a  gun:  one  fell:  the  second  loi 

Wheeled  round  him  twice,  and  was  o£f  for 
new  luck: 
Wh(Me  in  the  dark  her  white  wing  beckon'd: — 

Drop  me  a  kiss — I'm  the  bird  dead-struck! 


LUCIFER  IN  STARLIGHT 

(From  Poems  and  Lyrics,  1883) 

On  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 
Tired  of  his  dark  dominion  swung  the  fiend 
Above  the  rolling  ball  in  cloud  part  screened. 
Where  sinners  hugged  their  spectre  of  repose. 
Poor  prey  to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those.        5 
And  now  upon  his  western  wing  he  leaned, 
Now  his  huge  bulk  o'er  Afric's  sands  careened. 
Now  the  black  planet  shadowed  Arctic  snows. 
Soaring  through  wider  zones  that  pricked  his 

scars 
With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe,         10 
He  reached  a  middle  height,  and  at  the  stars. 
Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,  he  looked,  and 

sank. 
Around  the  ancient  track  marched,  rank  on 

rank, 
The  army  of  unalterable  law. 


LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY 

(From  the  same) 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  single  on  the  green- 
sward. 
Couched  with  her  arms  behind  her  golden 
head. 
Knees  and  tresses  folded  to  slip  and  ripple  idly, 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  slip  an  arm  beneath  her,     5 
Press  her  parting  lips  as  her  waist  I  gather 
slow. 
Waking    in    amazement   she   could   not   but 
embrace  me: 
Then  would  she  hold  me  and  never  let  me 
go?  .  .  . 

Shy  as  the  squirrel  and  wayward  as  the  swal- 
low. 
Swift  as  the  swallow  along  the  river's  light  lo 
Circleting  the  surface  to  meet  his  mirrored 
winglets, 
Fleeter  she  seems  in  her  stay  than  in  her 
flight. 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  that  leaps  among  the  pine 
tops. 
Wayward  as  the  swallow  overhead  at  set  of 
sun, 
She  whom  I  love  is  hard  to  catch  and  conquer, 
Hard,  but  O  the  glory  of  the  winning  were 
she  won!  ...  16 


Lovely  are  the  curves  of  the  white  owl  sweeping 

Wavy  in  the  dusk  lit  by  one  large  star. 
Lone  on  the  fir-branch,  his  rattle  note  unvaried. 
Brooding  o'er  the  gloom,  spins  the  brown 
eve-jar.  20 

Darker  grows  the  valley,  more  and  more  for- 
getting: 
So  were  it  with  me  if  forgetting  could  be 
willed. 
Tell  the  grassy  hollow  that  holds  the  bubbling 
well-spring. 
Tell  it  to  forget  the  source  that  keeps  it 
filled.  ... 

Large  and  smoky  red  the  sun's  cold  disk  drops. 
Clipped  by  naked  hills,  on  violet  shaded 
snow:  26 

Eastward  large  and  still  lights  up  a  bower  of 
moonrise, 
Whence  at  her  leisure  steps  the  moon  aglow. 
Nightlong  on  black  print-branches  our  beech- 
tree 
Gazes  in  this  whiteness:  nightlong  could  I.  30 
Here  may  life  on  death  or  death  on  life  be 
painted. 
Let  me  clasp  her  soul  to  know  she  cannot  die! 

Could  I  find  a  place  to  be  alone  with  heaven, 
I  would  speak  my  heart  out:  heaven  is  my 
need. 
Every  woodland  tree  is  flushing  like  the  dog- 
wood, 35 
Flashing  like  the  whitebeam,i  swaying  like 
the  reed. 
Flushing  like  the  dogwood  crimson  in  October; 
Streaming    like    the    flag-reed    South-West 
blown; 
Flashing  as  in  gusts  the  sudden-lighted  white- 
beam  : 
All  seem  to  know  what  is  for  heaven  alone.  40 

l^enr^  Siufiftm  S[)obs^on 

1840 
A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL 

(From  OU  World  Idylls,  1883) 

He  lived  in  that  past  Georgian  day 
When  men  were  less  inclined  to  say 
That  "Time  is  Gold,"  and  overlay 

With  toil  their  pleasure; 
He  held  some  land,  and  dwelt  thereon, —     9 
Where,  I  forget, — the  house  is  gone; 
His  Christian  name,  I  think  was  John, — 

His  surname.  Leisure. 

Reynolds^  has  painted  him, — a  face 

Filled  with  a  fine,  old-fashioned  grace,        10 

Fresh-colored,  frank,  with  ne'er  a  trace 

Of  trouble  shaded; 
The  eyes  are  blue,  the  hair  is  drest 
In  plainest  way, — one  hand  is  prest 
Deep  in  a  flapped  canary  vest,  15 

With  buds  brocaded. 

1  A  small  tree,  whose  leaves  are  silvery  underneath. 
1  Sir   Joshiui    Reynolds,   a    famous    English    portrait 
painter.     Cf.  p.  435,  supra. 


666 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


He  wears  a  brown  old  Brunswick  coat, 
With  silver  buttons, — round  his  throat, 
A  soft  cravat; — in  all  you  note 

An  elder  fashion, — 
A  strangeness,  which,  to  us  who  shine 
In  shapely  hats, — whose  coats  combine 
All  harmonies  of  hue  and  line, — 

Inspu*es  compassion. 


We  read — alas,  how  much  we  read! 
The  jumbled  strifes  of  creed  and  creed 
With  endless  controversies  feed  75 

20  Our  groaning  tables; 

His   books — and    they    sufficed   him — were 
Cotton's  "Montaigne,"  "The  Grave"  of  Blair, 
A  "Walton"  much  the  worse  for  wear — 

And  "^sop's  Fables."  80 


He  lived  so  long  ago,  you  see! 
Men  were  untravelled  then,  but  we, 
Like  Ariel,  post  o'er  land  and  sea 

With  careless  parting; 
He  found  it  quite  enough  for  him 
To  smoke  his  pipe  in  "garden  trim," 
And  watch  ©.bout  the  fish  tank's  brim, 

The  swallows  darting. 


25 


30 


One  more,— "The  Bible."    Not  that  he 
Had  searched  its  pages  as  deep  as  we; 
No  sophistries  could  make  him  see 

Its  slender  credit; 
It  may  be  that  he  could  not  count 
The  sires  and  sons  to  Jesse's  fount, — 
He  liked  the  "Sermon  on  the  Mount," — 

And  more,  he  read  it. 


85 


He  liked  the  well-wheel's  creaking  tongue, — 
He  liked  the  thrush  that  stopped  and  sung, — 
He  liked  the  drone  of  flies  among  35 

His  netted  peaches; 
He  liked  to  watch  the  sunlight  fall 
Athwart  his  ivied  orchard  wall; 
Or  pause  to  catch  the  cuckoo's  call 

Beyond  the  beeches.  40 


Once  he  had  loved,  but  failed  to  wed, 
A  red-cheeked  lass  who  long  was  dead; 
His  ways  were  far  too  slow,  he  said, 

To  quite  forget  her; 
And  still  when  time  had  turned  him  gray, 
The  earliest  hawthorn  buds  in  May 
Would  find  his  lingering  feet  astray, 

Where  first  he  met  her. 


90 


95 


His  were  the  times  of  Paint  and  Patch, 
And  ye  no  Ranelagh^  could  match 
The  sober  doves  that  round  his  thatch 

Spread  tails  and  sidled; 
He  liked  their  ruffling,  puffed  content,- 
For  him  their  drowsy  wheelings  meant 
More  than  a  Mall  of  Beaus  that  bent. 

Or  Belles  that  bridled. 


45 


"In  Caelo  Quies"^  heads  the  stone 
On  Leisure's  grave, — now  little  known, 
A  tangle  of  wild-rose  has  grown 

So  thick  across  it; 
The  "Benefactions"  still  declare 
He  left  the  clerk  an  elbow-chair. 
And  "twelve  Pence  Yearly  to  Prepare 

A  Christmas  Posset." 


100 


Not  that,  in  truth,  when  life  began, 
He  shunned  the  flutter  of  the  fan; 
He  too  had  maybe  "pinked  his  man" 

In  Beauty's  quarrel; 
But  now  his  "fervent  youth"  had  flown 
Where  lost  things  go;  and  he  was  grown 
As  staid  and  slow-paced  as  his  own 

Old  hunter,  Sorrel. 


Lie  softly,  Leisure!  Doubtless  you  105 

60      With  too  serene  a  conscience  drew 

Your  easy  breath,  and  slumbered  through 

The  gravest  issue; 
But  we  to  whom  our  age  allows 
Scarce  space  to  wipe  our  weary  brows,  no 

55      Look  down  upon  your  narrow  house, 
Old  friend,  and  miss  you! 


Yet  still  he  loved  the  chase,  and  held 
That  no  composer's  score  excelled 
The  merry  horn,  when  Sweetlip  swelled 

Its  jovial  riot;  60 

But  most  his  measured  words  of  praise 
Caressed  the  angler's  easy  ways, — 
His  idly  meditative  days, — 

His  rustic  diet. 

Not  that  his  "meditating"  rose  66 

Beyond  a  sunny  summer  doze; 
He  never  troubled  his  repose 

With  fruitiest  prying; 
But  held,  as  law  for  high  and  low, 
What  God  withholds  no  man  can  know,         70 
And  smiled  away  inquiry  so. 

Without  replying. 

'Pleasure  gardens  in  Chelsea,  near  London,  famous 
for  their  entertainments  in  the  18th  century. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   /'BEAU   BROCADE" 

''Hark!  I  hear  the  sound  of  Coaches!" 

Beggar's  Opera.^ 

Seventeen  hundred  and  thirty-nine: — • 
That  was  the  date  of  this  tale  of  mine. 

First  Great  George  was  buried  and  gone: 
George  the  Second  was  plodding  on. 

London  then  as  the  "Guides"  aver,  5 

Shared  its  glories  with  Westminster; 

And  people  of  rank,  to  correct  their  "tone," 
Went  out  of  town  to  Marybone.  \ 

'  At  rest  in  Heaven. 

1  An  opera  by  John  Gay:  the  characters  are  highway- 
men, pickpockets,  etc. 


HENRY  AUSTIN  DOBSON 


667 


Those  were  the  days  of  the  war  with  Spaing 
Porto-Bello  would  soon  be  ta'en;  10 

Whitefield  preached  to  the  coHiers  grim, 
Bishops  in  lawn  sleeves  preached  at  him; 

Walpole  talked  of  "a  man  and  his  price;" 
Nobody's  virtue  was  over-nice; — ■ 

Those,  in  fine,  were  the  brave  days  when  15 

Coaches  were  stopped  by  .  .  .  Highwaymen! 

And  of  all  the  knights  of  the  gentle  trade 
Nobody  bolder  than  "Beau  Brocade." 


This  they  knew  on  the  whole  way  down; 
Best, — maybe, — at  the  ''Oak  and  Crown." 


20 


25 


(For  timorous  cits^  on  their  pilgrimage 
Would  "club"  for  a  "Guard"  to  ride  the  stage; 

And  the  Guard  that  rode  on  more  than  one 
Was  the  Host  of  this  hostel's  sister's  son.) 

Open  we  here  on  a  March-day  fine. 
Under  the  oak  with  the  hanging  sign. 

There  was  Barber  Dick  with  his  basin  by; 
Cobbler  Joe  with  the  patch  on  his  eye: 

Portly  product  of  Beef  and  Beer, 
John  the  host  he  was  standing  near. 

Straining  and  creaking,  with  wheels  awry, 
Lumbering  came  the  "Plymouth  Fly." 

Lumbering  up  from  Bagshot  Heath, 
Guard  in  the  basket  armed  to  the  teeth; 

Passengers  heavily  armed  inside; 


30 


35 

Not  the  less  surely  the  coach  had  been  tried! 

Tried! — but  a  couple  of  miles  away, 

By  a  well-dressed  man! — in  the  open  day! 

Tried  successfully,  never  a  doubt, — 

Pockets  of  passengers  all  turned  out!  40 

Cloak-bags  rifled  and  cushions  ripped, — 
Even  an  Ensign's  wallet  stripped! 

Even  a  Methodist  hosier's  wife 

Offered  the  choice  of  her  Money  or  Life! 

j  Highwayman's  manners  no  less  polite, 
Hoped    that   their   coppers    (returned)    were 
right;— 


Sorry  to  find  the  company  poor. 
Hoped    that   next   time   they'd    travel   with 
more; — 


Plucked  them  all  at  his  ease,  in  short: — 
Such  was  the  ''Plymouth  Fly's"  report. 


50 


Sympathy!  horror!  and  wonderment! 

" Catch  the  Villain! "    (But  Nobody  went.) 

Hosier's  wife  led  into  the  Bar; 

(That's  where  the  best  strong  waters  are!) 

Followed  the  tale  of  the  hundred-and-one        55 
Things  that  Somebody  ought  to  have  done. 

Ensign  (of  Bragg's)  made  a  terrible  clangour: 
But  for  the  Ladies  had  drawn  his  hanger! 

Robber,  of  course,  was  "Beau  Brocade;" 
Out-spoke  Dolly  the  Chambermaid.  60 

Devonshire  Dolly,  plump  and  red, 
Spoke  from  the  gallery  overhead; — 

Spoke  it  out  boldly,  staring  hard: — 
"Why  didn't  you  shoot  then,   George  the 
Guard?" 

Spoke  it  out  bolder,  seeing  him  mute : —  65 

"George  the  Guard,  why  didn't  you  shoot?" 

Portly  John  grew  pale  and  red, 
(John  was  afraid  of  her,  people  said;) 

Gasped  that  "Dolly  was  surely  cracked," 
(John  was  afraid  of  her— that's  a  fact !)  70 

George  the  Guard  grew  red  and  pale, 
Slowly  finished  his  quart  of  ale: — 

"Shoot?       Why— Rabbit     him!— didn't     he 

shoot?" 
Muttered— "The  Baggage  was  far  too  'cute!" 

"Shoot?     Why  he'd  flashed  the  pan  in  his 
eye!"  75 

Muttered— "She'd  pay  for  it  by  and  by  I" 
Further  than  this  he  made  no  reply. 

Nor  could  a  further  reply  be  made, 
For  George  was  in  league  with  "Beau  Bro- 
cade!" 

And  John  the  Host,  in  his  wakef  ullest  state,     80 
Was  not — on  the  whole — immaculate. 

But  nobody's  virtue  was  over-nice 

When  Walpole  talked  of  "a  man  and  his  price;" 


45      And  wherever  Purity  found  abode, 
'Twas  certainly  not  on  a  posting  road. 


85 


2  Citizens. 


"Forty"  followed  to  "thirty-nine." 
Glorious  days  of  the  Hanover  line! 

Princes  were  bom,  and  drums  were  banged ; 
Now  and  then  batches  of  Highwaymen  hanged. 

'  *  Glorious  news ! ' '—from  the  Spanish  Main;   90 
Porto-Bello  at  last  was  ta'en. 


668 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


" Glorious  news" ! — for  the  liquor  trade; 
Nobody  dreamed  of  "Beau  Brocade." 

People  were  thinking  of  Spanish  Crowns; 
Money  was  coming  from  seaport  towns !  95 

Nobody  dreamed  of  "Beau  Brocade," 
(Only  Dolly  the  Chambermaid!) 

Blessings  on  Vernon!    Fill  up  the  cans; 
Money  was  coming  in  "Flys"  and  ^'Vans" 

Possibly  John  the  Host  had  heard:  lOO 

Also,  certainly,  George  the  Guard. 

And  Dolly  had  possibly  tidings,  too. 
That  made  her  rise  from  her  bed  anew, 

Plump  as  ever,  but  stem  of  eye, 

With  a  fixed  intention  to  warn  the  "  Fly."      105 

Lingering  only  at  John  his  door, 
Just  to  make  sure  of  a  jerky  snore; 

Saddling  the  grey  mare,  Dumpling  Star, 
Fetching  the  pistol  out  of  the  bar; 

(The  old  horse-pistol  that,  they  say,  lio 

Came  from  the  battle  of  Malplaquet;) 

Loading  with  powder  that  maids  would  use. 
Even  in  "Forty,"  to  clear  the  flues; 

And  a  couple  of  silver  buttons,  the  Squire 
Gave  her,  away  in  Devonshire.  115 

These  she  wadded — for  want  of  better — 
With  the  B-sh-p  of  L-nd-n's  "Pastoral  Letter;" 

Looked  to  the  flint,  and  hung  the  whole, 
Ready  to  use,  at  her  pocket-hole. 

Thus  equipped  and  accoutred,  Dolly  120 

Clattered  away  to  ^'Exciseman's  FoUy;" — 

Such  was  the  name  of  a  ruined  abode, 
Just  on  the  edge  of  the  London  road. 

Thence  she  thought  she  might  safely  tiy, 

As  soon  as  she  saw  it,  to  warn  the  "Fly."        1 25 

But,  as  chance  fell  out,  her  rein  she  drew, 
As  the  Beau  came  cantering  into  view. 

By  the  light  of  the  moon  she  could  see  him  drest 
In  his  famous  gold-sprigged  tambour  vest; 

And  under  his  silver-gray  surtout,  130 

The  laced,  historical  coat  of  blue, 

That  he  wore  when  he  went  to  London-Spaw, 
And  robbed  Sir  Mungo  Mucklethraw. 


But  the  Beau  drew  nearer  and  would  not 

speak, 
For  he  saw  by  the  moonlight  a  rosy  cheek ; 

And  a  spavined  mare  with  a  rusty  hide; 

And  a  girl  with  her  hand  at  her  pocket-side.   140 

So  never  a  word  he  spoke  as  yet, 

For  he  thought  'twas  a  freak  of  Meg  or  Bet; — 

A  freak  of  the  "Rose"  or  the  ''Rummer"  set. 


145 


Out-spoke  Dolly  the  Chambermaid, 
(Tremulous  now,  and  sore  afraid), 
"Stand  and  Deliver,  O  'Beau  Brocade'!" 

Firing  then,  out  of  sheer  alarm, 
Hit  the  Beau  in  the  bridle-arm. 

Button  the  first  went  none  knows  where, 
But  it  carried  away  his  solitaire; 

Button  the  second  a  circuit  made. 
Glanced  in  under  the  shoulder  blade; — 
Down  from  the  saddle  fell  "Beau  Brocade ! ' 

Down  from  the  saddle  and  never  stirred! — 
Dolly  grew  white  as  a  Wi7idsor  curd, 

Slipped  not  less  from  the  mare,  and  bound 
Strips  of  her  kirtle  about  her  wound. 

Then,  lest  his  Worship  should  rise  and  flee, 
Fettered  his  ankles — tenderly. 

Jumped  on  his  chestnut.  Bet  the  fleet 
(Called  after  Bet  of  Portugal  Street) ; 


150 


155 


160 


Came  like  the  wind  to  the  old  Inn-door; — 
Roused  fat  John  from  a  three-fold  snore; — • 

Vowed  she'd  'peach  if  he  misbehaved  .  .  . 
Briefly,  the  "Plymouth  Fly"  was  saved!         165 

Staines  and  Windsor  were  all  on  fire: — • 
Dolly  was  wed  to  a  Yorkshire  squire; 
Went  to  Town  at  the  K--g'8  desire! 

But  whether  His  M-j-sty  saw  her  or  not, 
Hogarth  j  otted  her  down  on  the  spot ;  1 70 

And  something  of  Dolly  one  still  may  trace 
In  the  fresh  contours  of  his  "Milkmaid's"  face. 

George  the  Guard  fled  over  the  sea: 
John  had  a  fit — of  perplexity; 


Turned  King's  evidence,  sad  to  state; — 
But  John  was  never  immaculate. 


175 


Out-spoke  Dolly  the  Chambermaid, 
(Trembling  a  little,  but  not  afraid,) 
"Stand  and  Deliver,  O  Beau  Brocade!' 


135 


As  for  the  Beau,  he  was  duly  tried, 

When  his  wound,  was  healed,  at  Whitsuntide; 

Served — for  a  day— as  the  last  of  "sights," 
To  the  world  of  St.  James's  Street  and  "  White's." 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


669 


Went  on  his  way  to  Tyburn  Tree  181 

With  a  pomp  befitting  his  high  degree. 

Every  privilege  rank  confers: — 
Bouquet  of  pinks  at  St.  Sepulchre's; 

Flagon  of  ale  at  Holhom  Bar;  ISS" 

Friends  (in  mourning)  to  follow  his  Car — 
("  t"  is  omitted  where  our  Heroes  are!) 

Every  one  knows  the  speech  he  made; 
Swore  that  he  "rather  admired  the  Jade!" 

Waved  to  the  crowd  with  his  gold-laced  hat:  190 
Talked  to  the  Chaplain  after  that; 

Turned  to  the  Topsman  undismayed  .  .  . 
This  was  the  finish  of  "Beau  Brocade! " 

And  this  is  the  Ballad  that  seemed  to  hide; 

In  the  leaves  of  a  dusty  '  *  Londoners'  Guide; "    195 

"Humbly  Inscribed  (with  curls  and  tails) 

By  the  Author  to  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales:^ 

"Published  by  Francis  and  Oliver  Pine; 
Ludgate-Hill,  at  the  BlacTzmoor  Sign. 
Seventeen-Hundred-and~  Thirty-Nine."  200 


(1850-1894) 

A  SONG  OF  THE  ROAD 

(From  UnderwoodSj  1887) 

The  gauger  walked  with  willing  foot, 
And  aye  the  gauger  played  the  flute; 
And  what  would  Master  Gauger  play 
But  Over  the  hills  and  far  away? 

Whene'er  I  buckle  on  my  pack  5 

And  foot  it  gaily  in  the  track 

0  pleasant  gauger,  long  since  dead, 

1  hear  you  fluting  on  ahead. 

You  go  with  me  the  self-same  way— 
The  self-same  air  for  me  you  play;  10 

For  I  do  think  and  so  do  you 
It  is  the  tune  to  travel  to. 

For  who  would  gravely  set  his  face 
To  go  to  this  or  t'other  place? 
There's  nothing  under  heav'n  so  blue     15 
That's  fairly  worth  the  travelling  to. 

On  every  hand  the  roads  begin, 
And  people  walk  with  zeal  therein; 
But  wheresoe'er  the  highways  tend, 
Be  sure  there's  nothing  at  the  end.         20 

Then  follow  you  wherever  hie 
The  travelling  mountains  of  the  sky. 
Or  let  the  streams  of  civil  mode 
Direct  your  choice  upon  the  road; 


For  one  and  all,  or  high  or  low, 
Will  lead  you  where  you  wish  to  go; 
And  one  and  all  go  night  and  day 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away! 


THE  CELESTIAL  SURGEON 

(From  the  same) 

If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 
In  my  great  task  of  happiness; 
If  I  have  moved  among  my  race 
And  shown  no  glorious  morning  face; 
If  beams  from  happy  human  eyes 
Have  moved  me  not;  if  morning  skies, 
Books,  and  my  food,  and  summer  rain 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain: — ■ 
Lord,  thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake; 
Or,  Lord,  if  too  obdurate  I, 
Choose  thou,  before  that  spirit  die, 
A  piercing  pain,  a  killing  sin. 
And  to  my  dead  heart  run  them  in! 


25 


i 


10 


THE  COUNTERBLAST- 

(From  the  same) 


-1886 


My  bonny  man,  the  warld,  it's  true, 
Was  made  for  neither  me  nor  you; 
It's  just  a  place  to  warstle^  through. 

As  Job  confessed  o't; 
And  aye  the  best  that  we'll  can  do  a 

Is  mak  the  best  o't. 

There's  rowth^  o'  wrang,  I'm  free  to  say: 
The  simmer  brunt,^  the  winter  blae,* 
The  face  of  earth  a'  fyled^  wi'  clay 

An'  dour  wi'  chuckles,*  lo 

An'  b'fe  a  rough  an'  land'art  play 

For  country  buckles. 

An'  food's  anither  name  for  clart;^ 
An'  beasts  and  brambles  bite  an'  scart;' 
An'  what  would  WE  be  like,  my  heart!      15 

If  bared  o'  claethin'?^ 
— Aweel,  I  cannae  mend  your  cart: 

It's  that  or  naethin'. 

A  feck^o  o'  folk  frae  first  to  last  19 

Have  through  this  queer  experience  passed: 
Twa-three,  I  ken,  just  damn  an'  blast^^ 

The  hale  transaction; 
But  twa-three  ithers,  east  an'  wast, 

Fand  satisfaction. 

Whaur  braid  ^^  the  briery  muirs^'  expand,  25 

A  waefu'  an'  a  weary  land, 

The  bumblebees,  a  gowden  band. 

Are  blithely  hingin' ; 
An'  there  the  canty^*  wanderer  fand 

The  laverock^^  singin'.  30 


1  Wrestle.  '  Abundance. 

«  Cold,  with  east  winds. 

•  Hard  with  stones. 

«  Scare.  »  Clothing. 

"  Curse.  "  Broad. 

1*  lively. 


«  Burnt,  hot. 

8  Dirtied. 

^  Grease  or  dirt. 

i»  Quantity. 

"  Moors. 

"  Lark. 


670 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Trout  in  the  burn^''  grow  great  as  herr'n; 
The  simple  sheep  can  find  their  fair'n';" 
The  wind  blaws  clean  about  the  cairn 

Wi'  caller ^8  air; 
The  muircock^^  an'  the  barefit  bairn 

Are  happy  there. 


35 


Sic-like,  the  howes^o  o'  life  to  some: 

Green  loans^i  whaur  they  ne'er  fash  their  thumb, 

But  mark  the  muckle  winds  that  come, 

Soopin'22  an(j  cool,  40 

Or  hear  the  powrin'  burnie  drum-' 

In  the  shilfa's^*  pool. 

The  evil  wi'  the  guid  they  tak; 

They  ca'  a  gray  thing  gray,  no  black; 

To  a  steigh  brae,^^  a  stubborn  back  45 

Addressin'  daily; 
An'  up  the  rude,  unbieldy^s  track 

O'  Ufe,  gang  gaily. 

What  you  would  like's  a  palace  ha', 

Or  Sinday  parlour  dink^^  and  braw  60 

Wi'  a'  things  ordered  in  a  raw 

By  denty  leddies. 
Weel,  than,  ye  cannae  hae't,  that's  a' 

That  to  be  said  is. 

An'  since  at  life  ye've  ta'en  the  grue,**  65 

An'  winnae  blithely  hirstle^^  through, 
Ye've  fund  the  very  thing  to  do — 

That's  to  drink  speerit; 
An'  shiine'"  we'll  hear  the  last  o'  you — 

An'  blithe^i  to  hear  it!  60 

The  shoon  ye  coft,'^  tj^g  life  ye  lead, 
Ithers  will  heir  when  aince  ye're  deid; 
They'll  heir  your  tasteless  bite  o'  breid, 

An'  find  it  sappy;'' 
They'll  to  your  dulefii'  house  succeed,  65 

An'  there  be  happy. 

An'  whan  a  glum  an'  fractious  wean 
Has  sat  an'  sullened  by  his  lane 
Till,  wi'  a  rowstin'  skelp,"'  he's  taen 

An'  shoo'd  to  bed—  70 

The  ither  bairns  a'  fa'  to  play'n. 

As  gleg's  a  gled.'^ 


A  LAD  THAT  IS  GONE 

(From  the  same) 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone 

Say,  could  that  lad  be  I? 
Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 

Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

16  Brook.  "  Fodder.  is  Cold.  "  Moor-cock. 
*•  Valleys.  21  An  open  space  between  fields  of  corn. 
22  Sweeping.  23  Pouring  brook  beat  rhythmically. 
24  Chaffinch.        25  Steep  hill.  26  Uncomfortable. 

27  Neat.  28  Grudge. 

29  To  push  one's  self  along  over  a  rough  surface. 
»  Soon.       31  Glad.  32  The  shoes  you  cast  off. 

*»  Tasty.     34  Rough  slap,     ^s  As  quickly  as  a  hawk. 


Mull  was  astern,  Rum^  on  the  port,         5 

Egg2  on  the  starboard  bow; 
Glory  of  youth  glowed  in  his  soul: 

Where  is  that  glory  now? 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone, 
Say,  could  that  lad  be  I?  10 

Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 
Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

Give  me  again  all  that  was  there, 

Give  me  the  sun  that  shone! 
Give  me  the  eyes,  give  me  the  soul,        15 

Give  me  the  lad  that's  gone! 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone. 

Say,  could  that  lad  be  I? 
Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 

Over  the  sea  to  Skye.  20 

Billow  and  breeze,  islands  and  seas. 

Mountains  of  rain  and  sun. 
All  that  was  good,  all  that  was  fair. 

All  that  was  me  is  one. 


REQUIEM 

(Froip  the  same) 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live,  and  gladly  die. 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  he; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


Wi^omns  Carl^le 

1795-1881 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  CLOTHES^ 

(From  Sartor  Resartus,  1831) 

"Well  sang  the  Hebrew  Psalmist i^  "If  I 
take  the  wings  of  the  morning  and  dwell  in 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  universe,  God  is 
there."     Thou  thyself,  O  cultivated  reader, 

1  2  Two  small  islands  in  the  Hebrides. 

iThe  "Philosophy  of  Clothes,"  by  which  Carlyle 
meant  the  true  significance  of  the  relations  in  which  out- 
ward, visible,  and  material  things  stand  to  the  inner  or 
underlying  world  of  reality  or  spirit,  is  the  theme  of  the 
book  Sartor  Resartus  (the  tailor  patched  or  restored). 
Carlyle  regarded  the  whole  world  of  the  senses — Nature, 
man's  history,  institutions,  and  customs — as  the  vesture, 
or  clothes,  of  the  spirit  beneath.  This  philosophy  he  puts 
in  the  mouth  of  an  imaginary  German  professor,  Herr 
Teufelsdrockh,  whose  "Life  and  Opinions"  are  supposed 
to  be  set  forth  by  his  friend  the  editor,  "a  young  and 
enthusiastic  Englishman."  Teufelsdrockh  is  described 
as  professor  of  Allerlei  Wissenschaft  (all  sorts  of  knowl- 
edge) at  Weissnichtwo  (Don't  know  where),  a  name 
which  is  the  equivalent  of  Sir  Thomas  More's  Utopia. 

2  Psalms,  cxxxix.  9-10. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  671 

who  too  probably  art  no  psalmist,  but  a  Pro-  seest  is  not  there  on  its  own  account;  strictly 
saist,  knowing  God  only  by  tradition,  knowest  taken,  is  not  there  at  all:  Matter  exists  only 
thou  any  corner  of  the  world  where  at  least  spiritually,  and  to  represent  some  Idea,  and 
Force  IS  not?  The  drop  which  thou  shakest  body  it  forth.  Hence  Clothes,  as  despicable 
from  thy  wet  hand,  rests  not  where  it  falls,  5  as  we  think  them,  are  so  unspeakably  signi- 
but  tomorrow  thou  findest  it  swept  away;  ficant.  Clothes,  from  the  King's  mantle  down- 
already  on  the  wings  of  the  North-wind,  it  is  wards,  are  emblematic,  not  of  want  only  but  of 
nearing  the  Tropic  of  Cancer.  How  came  it  a  manifold  cunning  Victory  over  Want  On 
to  evaporate,  and  not  he  motionless?  Thinkest  the  other  hand,  all  Emblematic  things  are 
thou  there  IS  aught  motionless;  without  Force,  10  properly  Clothes,  thought-woven  or  hand- 
and  utterly  dead?  woven:    must    not    the    Imagination    weave 

As  1  rode  through  the  Schwarzwald,'  I  Garments,  visible  Bodies,  wherein  the  else 
said  to  myself:  That  Httle  fire  which  glows  invisible  creations  and  inspirations  of  our 
star-hke  across  the  dark  growing  (nachtende)  Reason,  are,  Hke  Spirits,  revealed,  and  first 
moor,  where  the  sooty  smith  bends  over  his  15  become  all-powerful;— the  rather  if,  as  we 
anvil,  and  thou  hopest  to  replace  thy  lost  often  see,  the  Hand  too  aid  her,  and  (by  wool 
horse-shoe,— IS  it  a  detached,  separated  speck,  Clothes  or  otherwise)  reveal  such  even  to  the 
cut  of!  from  the  whole  Universe;  or  indissolubly     outward  eye? 

joined  to  the  whole?  Thou  fool,  that  smithy-  "Men  are  properly  said  to  be  clothed  with 
fire  was  primarily  kindled  at  the  Sun;  is  fed  20  Authority,  clothed  with  Beauty,  with  Curses, 
by  air  that  circulates  from  before  Noah's  and  the  hke.  Nay,  if  you  consider  it,  what  is 
Deluge,  from  beyond  the  Dog-star;  therein,  Man  himself,  and  his  whole  terrestrial  life, 
with  Iron  Force,  and  Coal  Force,  and  the  far  but  an  Emblem;  a  Clothing  or  visible  Garment 
stranger  Force  of  Man,  are  cunning  affinities  for  that  divine  Me  of  his,  cast  hither,  hke  a 
and  battles  and  victories  of  Force  brought  25  light-particle,  down  from  Heaven?  Thus  is 
about;  it  is  a  Httle  ganghon,  or  nervous  centre,  he  said  also  to  be  clothed  with  a  Body, 
in  the  great  vital  system  of  Immensity.    Call  "Languageiscalled  the  Garment  of  Thought: 

it,  if  thou  will,  an  unconscious  Altar,  kindled  however,  it  should  rather  be.  Language  is  the 
on  the  bosom  of  the  All;  whose  iron  sacrifice,  Flesh-Garment,  the  Body  of  Thought.  I  said 
whose  iron  smoke  and  influence,  reach  quite  30  that  Imagination  wove  this  Flesh-Garment; 
through  the  All;  whose  dingy  Priest,  not  by  and  does  not  she?  Metaphors  are  her  stuff: 
word,  yet  by  brain  and  sinew,  preaches  forth  examine  Language;  what,  if  you  except  some 
the  mystery  of  Force;  nay,  preaches  forth  primitive  elements  (of  natural  sound),  what  is 
(exoterically*  enough)  one  little  textlet  from  it  all  but  Metaphors,  recognized  as  such,  or 
the  Gospel  of  Freedom,  the  Gospel  of  Man's  35  no  longer  recognized;  still  fluid  and  florid,  or 
Force,  commanding,  and  one  day  to  be  all-  now  solid-grown  and  colorless?  If  those  same 
commanding.  primitive   elements   are   the   osseous   fixtures 

"Detached,  separated!  I  say  there  is  no  in  the  Flesh-Garment,  Language, — then  are 
such  separation:  nothing  hitherto  was  ever  Metaphors  its  muscles  and  tissues,  and  hving 
stranded,  cast  aside;  but  all,  were  it  only  a  40  integuments.  An  unmetaphorical  style  you 
withered  leaf,  works  together  with  all;  is  borne  shall  in  vain  seek  for;  is  not  your  very  Attention 
forward  on  the  bottomless,  shoreless  flood  a  Stretching-tof  The  difference  hes  here: 
of  Action,  and  fives  through  perpetual  meta-  some  styles  are  lean,  adust,^  wiry,  the  muscle 
morphoses.  The  withered  leaf  is  not  dead  and  itself  seems  osseous;  some  are  even  quite 
lost,  there  are  Forces  in  it  and  around  it,  45paHid,  hunger-bitten,  and  dead-looking;  while 
though  working  in  inverse  order;  else  how  others  again  glow  in  the  flush  of  health  and 
could  it  rot?  Despise  not  the  rag  from  which  vigorous  self -growth,  sometimes  (as  in  my 
man  makes  Paper,  or  the  fitter  from  which  the  own  case)  not  without  an  apoplectic  tendency, 
earth  makes  Corn.  Rightly  viewed  no  meanest  Moreover,  there  are  sham  Metaphors,  which 
object  is  insignificant;  all  objects  are  as  win- 60  overhanging  that  same  Thought's  Body 
dows,  through  which  the  philosophic  eye  looks  (best  naked),  and  deceptively  bedizening,  or 
into  infinitude  itself."  bolstering  it  out,  may  be  called  its  false  stuff- 

Again  leaving  that  wondrous  Schwarzwald  ings,  superfluous  show-cloaks  (Putz-Mdntel), 
Smithy-Altar,  what  vacant,  high-saihng  air-  and  tawdry  woolen  rags:  whereof  he  that  runs 
ships  are  these,  and  whither  will  they  sail  55  and  reads  may  gather  whole  hampers, — and 
with  us?  burn  them." 

"All  visible  things  are  emblems;  what  thou         Than  which  paragraph  on  Metaphors  did 
» The  Black  Forest  *^^  reader  ever  chance  to  see  a  more  surpris- 

*  In  a  manner  intelligible  to  the  uninitiated,  the  public.  8  Dried  up  with  heat,  dry-aa-dust. 


672  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

ingly  metaphorical?  However,  that  is  not  our  lection  and  adjustment,  shall  study  to  do 
chief    grievance;    the    Professor    continues: —     ours: 

"Why  multiply  instances?     It  is  written,  "Deep  has  been,  and  is,  the  significance  of 

the  Heavens  and  the  earth  shall  fade  away  Miracles,"  thus  quietly  begins  the  Professor; 
like  a  Vesture:®  which  indeed  they  are:  the  5  "far  deeper  perhaps  than  we  imagine.  Mean- 
Time-vesture  of  the  Eternal.  Whatsoever  while  the  question  of  questions  were:  What 
sensibly  exists,  whatsoever  represents  Spirit  specially  is  a  Miracle?  To  that  Dutch  King 
to  Spirit,  is  properly  a  Clothing,  a  suit  of  of  Siam,  an  icicle  had  been  a  miracle;  whoso 
Raiment,  put  on  for  a  season,  and  to  be  laid  had  carried  with  him  an  air-pump,  and  phial 
off.  Thus  in  this  one  pregnant  subject  of  lo  of  vitriolic  ether,  might  have  worked  a  miracle. 
Clothes,  rightly  understood,  is  included  all  To  my  Horse  again  who  unhappily  is  still 
that  men  have  thought,  dreamed,  done,  and  more  unscientific,  do  not  I  work  a  miracle, 
been:  the  whole  External  Universe  and  what  and  magical  'Open  sesame'^  every  time  I 
it  holds  is  but  Clothing;  and  the  essence  of  all  please  to  pay  twopence,  and  open  for  him  an 
Science  Hes  in  the  Philosophy  of  Clothes."        15  impassable    Schlaghaum,    or    shut    Turnpike? 

"But  is  not  a  real  Miracle  simply  a  violation 

NATURAL  SUPERNATURALISM  ?^  *^^  ^^l^  of  Nature?"  a^k  several     Whom 

I  answer  by  this  new  question:  What  are  the 
(From  the  same)  Laws  of  Nature?    To  me  perhaps  the  rising 

20  of  one  from  the  dead  were  no  violation  of  these 

It  is  in  his  stupendous  Section,  headed  Laws,  but  a  confirmation;  were  some  far 
Natural  Supernaturalism,  that  the  Professor  deeper  Law,  now  first  penetrated  into,  and  by 
first  becomes  a  Seer;  and,  after  long  effort.  Spiritual  Force,  even  as  the  rest  have  all  been, 
such  as  we  have  witnessed,  finally  subdues  brought  to  bear  on  us  with  its  Material  Force, 
under  his  feet  this  refractory  Clothes-Philos- 25  "HereHoo  may  some  inquire,  not  without 
ophy,  and  takes  victorious  possession  thereof,  astonishment:  On  what  ground  shall  one,  that 
Phantasms  enough  he  has  had  to  struggle  with;  can  make  Iron  swim,^  come  and  declare  that 
"Cloth-webs  and  Cobwebs,"  of  Imperial  therefore  he  can  teach  Religion?  To  us,  truly, 
Mantles,  Superannuated  Symbols,  and  what  of  the  Niireteenth  Century,  such  declaration 
not:  yet  still  did  he  courageously  pierce  through.  30  were  inept  enough;  which  nevertheless  to  our 
Nay,  worst  of  all,  two  quite  mysterious,  world-  fathers,  of  the  First  Century,  was  full  of  mean- 
embracing  Phantasms,  time  and  space,  have     j^g^ 

ever  hovered  round  him,  perplexing  and  be-  "'But  is  it  not  the  deepest  Law  of  Nature 

wildering:  but  with  these  also  he  now  resolutely  that  she  be  constant?"  cries  an  illuminated 
grapples,  these  also  he  victoriously  rends 35 class:  'Is  not  the  Machine  of  the  Universe 
asunder.  In  a  word,  he  has  looked  fixedly  fixed  to  move  by  unalterable  rules? '  Probable 
on  Existence,  till,  one  after  the  other,  its  enough,  good  friends:  nay,  I  too  must  beUeve 
earthly  hulls  and  garnitures  have  all  melted  that  the  God,  whom  ancient,  inspired  men, 
away;  and  now,  to  his  rapid  vision,  the  interior  assert  to  be  'without  variableness  or  shadow 
celestial  Holy  of  Hohes  lies  disclosed.  40  of  turning,'  does  indeed  never  change;  that 

Here,  therefore,  properly  it  is  that  the  Nature,  that  the  Universe,  which  no  one 
Philosophy  of  Clothes  attains  to  Transcen-  whom  it  so  pleases  can  be  prevented  from  call- 
dentahsm;!  this  last  leap,  can  we  but  clear  it,  i^g  a  Machine,  does  move  by  the  most  unal- 
takes  us .  safe  into  the  promised  land,  where  terable  rules.  And  now  of  you,  too,  I  make  the 
Palingenesia,^  in  all  senses,  may  be  considered  45  inquiry ;  what  those  same  unalterable  rules, 
as  beginning.  "Courage,  then!"  may  our  forming  the  complete  Statute-Book  of  Nature, 
Diogenes'    exclaim,    with    better    right    than      j^^y  possibly  be? 

Diogenes  the  First  once  did.  This  stupendous  "They  stand  written  in  our  Works  of  Science, 
Section  we,  after  long  painful  meditation,  g^y  you;  in  the  accumulated  records  of  man's 
have  found  not  to  be  unintelligible;  but  on  the  50  Experience?— Was  Man  with  his  Experience 
contrary  to  grow  clear,  nay  radiant,  and  all-  present  at  the  Creation,  then,  to  see  how  it 
illuminating.  Let  the  reader,  turning  on  it  all  went  on?  Have  any  deepest  scientific  in- 
what  utmost  force  of  speculative  intellect  is  dividuals  yet  dived  down  to  the  foundations 
in  him,  do  his  part;  as  we,  by  judicious  se-     of  the  Universe,  and  gauged  everything  there? 

«P«Zm.,  cii.  26-27.  55  Did  the  Maker  take  them  into  His  counsel* 

U.  e.  succeeds  in  passing  beyond  the  world  of  appear-  ^jj^^^  ^j^gy  j.^^^  jjjg  ground-plan  of  the  incom- 
anoe  woven  by  the  senses  on  the  loom  of      lime  and  •'  °     _  .       .      -^r.  ,      ^ 

Space,"  to  the  world  of  the  Real,  the  Essential  which  « In  the  tale  of  Ah  Baba,  m  The  Arabian  N%ghts,  Open 

trarucends  the  visible  and  tangible.  Sesame,  was  the  magic  phrase   by  which   the  robbers' 

«  The  new  birth,  the  regeneration.  cavern  was  opened. 

«  Diogenes  Teufelsdrockh.  »  V.  II  Kings,  vi.  6. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  673 

prehensible  All;  and  can  say,  This  stands  descriptive  Pages,  poetical  and  philosophical, 
marked  therein,  and  no  more  than  this?  Alas,  spread  out  through  Solar  Systems,  and  Thou- 
not  in  any  wise!  These  scientific  individuals  sands  of  Years,  we  shall  not  try  thee.  It  is  a 
have  been  nowhere  but  where  we  also  are;  Volume  written  in  celestial  hieroglyphs,  in 
have  seen  some  handbreadths  deeper  than  we  5  the  true  Sacred- writing;  of  which  even  Prophets 
see  into  the  Deep  that  is  infinite,  without  are  happy  that  they  can  read  here  a  line  and 
bottom  as  without  shore.  there   a   line.     As   for   your   Institutes,    and 

"Laplace's  Book  on  the  Stars,^  wherein  he  Academies  of  Science  they  strive  bravely;  and 
exhibits  that  certain  Planets,  with  their  Satel-  from  amid  the  thick-crowded,  inextricably 
lites,  gyrate  round  our  worthy  Sun,  at  a  rate  10  intertwisted  hieroglyphic  writing,  pick  out  by 
and  in  a  course,  which,  by  greatest  good  for-  dexterous  combination,  some  Letters  in  the 
tune,  he  and  the  hke  of  him  have  succeeded  in  vulgar  Character,'  and  therefrom  put  together 
detecting, — is  to  me  as  precious  as  to  another,  this  and  the  other  economic  Recipe,  of  high 
But  is  this  what  thou  namest  'Mechanism  avail  in  Practice.  That  Nature  is  more  than 
of  the  Heavens,'  and  'System  of  the  World;' 15 some  boundless  Volume  of  such  Recipes,  or 
this,  wherein  Sirius  and  the  Pleiades,  and  all  huge  well-nigh  inexhaustible  Domestic-Cookery 
Herschel's  Fifteen-thousand  Suns^  per  minute,  Book,  of  which  the  whole  secret  will  in  this 
being  left  out,  some  paltry  handful  of  Moons,  manner  one  day  evolve  itself,  the  fewest  dream, 
and  inert  Balls,  had  been — looked  at,  nick-  "Custom,"  continues  the  Professor,  "doth 
named,  and  marked  in  the  Zodiacal  way-bill;  20  make  dotards  of  us  all.  Consider  well,  thou 
so  that  we  can  now  prate  of  their  Whereabout;  wilt  find  that  Custom  is  the  greatest  of  Weav- 
their  How,  their  Why,  their  What,  being  hid  ers;  and  weaves  air-raiment  for  all  the  Spirits 
from  us,  as  in  the  signless  Inane?  of  the  Universe;  whereby  indeed  these  dwell 

"System  of  Nature!  To  the  wisest  man,  with  us  visibly,  as  ministering  servants,  in 
wide  as  is  his  vision.  Nature  remains  of  quite  25  our  houses  and  workshops;  but  their  spiritual 
infinite  depth,  of  quite  infinite  expansion;  and  nature  becomes,  to  the  most,  for  ever  hidden. 
all  Experience  thereof  hmits  itself  to  some  Philosophy  complains  that  Custom  has  hood- 
few  computed  centuries,  and  measured  square-  winked  us,  from  the  first;  that  we  do  every- 
miles.  The  course  of  Nature's  phases,  on  this  thing  by  Custom,  even  Believe  by  it;  that  our 
our  little  fraction  of  a  Planet,  is  partially  30  very  Axioms,  let  us  boast  of  Free-thinking  as 
known  to  us;  but  who  knows  what  deeper  we  may,  are  oftenest  simply  such  BeHefs  as 
courses  these  depend  on;  what  infinitely  larger  we  have  never  heard  questioned.  Nay,  what 
Cycle  (of  causes)  our  little  Epicycle^  revolves  is  Philosophy  throughout  but  a  continual 
on?  To  the  Minnow  every  cranny  and  pebble,  battle  against  Custom;  an  ever-renewed  effort 
and  quality  and  accident,  of  its  httle  native  35  to  transcend  the  sphere  of  blind  Custom,  and 
Creek  may  have  become  f amihar :  but  does  the  so  become  Transcendental? 
Minnow    understand    the    Ocean    Tides    and  "Innumerable  are  the  illusions  and  legerde- 

periodic  Currents,  the  Trade-winds,  and  Mon-  main-tricks  of  Custom:  but  of  all  these,  perhaps 
soons,  and  Moon's  Eclipses;  by  all  which  the  the  cleverest  is  her  knack  of  persuading  us  that 
condition  of  its  little  Creek  is  regulated,  and  40  the  Miraculous,  by  simple  repetition,  ceases 
may,  from  time  to  time,  (wnmiraculously  to  be  Miraculous.  True,  it  is  by  this  means 
enough),  be  quite  overset  and  reversed?  Such  we  live:  for  man  must  work  as  well  as  wonder: 
a  minnow  is  man;  his  Creek  this  Planet  Earth;  and  herein  is  Custom  so  far^'a  kind  nurse,  guid- 
his  Ocean  the  ,  immeasurable  All;  his  Mon-  ing  him  to  his  true  benefit.  But  she  is  a  fond 
soons  and  periodic  Currents  the  mysterious  45  foohsh  nurse,  or  rather  we  are  false  foolish 
Course  of  Providence  through  Aeons  of  Aeons.      nursUngs,  when,  in  our  resting  and  reflecting 

"We  speak  of  the  Volume  of  Nature:  and  hours,  we  prolong  the  same  deception.  Am  I 
truly  a  Volume  it  is, — whose  Author  and  to  view  the  Stupendous  with  stupid  indiffer- 
Writer  is  God.  To  read  it!  Dost  thou,  does  ence,  because  I  have  seen  it  twice,  or  two- 
man,  so  much  as  well  know  the  Alphabet  50  hundred  or  two-million  times?  There  is  no 
thereof?    With  its  Words,  Sentences,  and  grand      reason  in  Nature  or  in  Art  why  I  should:  un- 

.T     ,  .  J  t:.      u      .  M-T^o  100TN       less,  indeed,  I  am  a  mere  Work-Machine,  for 

« Laplace,    a  noted   French   astronomer    (1749-1827),  '         ,,       '  t    •  -fi.       r    rr<u         Ui. 

wrote  M€canique  Celeste,  and  Exposition  du  Systeme  du       whom    the    divme    gltt    Ot     1  fiOUght    WCre    no 

^«'"^«.  to  which  Carlyie  refers  in  the  next  sentence.  o^-^er  than  the  terrestrial  gift  of  Steam  is  to 

7  Sir  Wilham  Herschel  (1738-1822),  the  discoverer  of       ^,        „,  .  u       u  i.^ 

the  planet  Saturn,  erected  a  great  telescope  (completed  55  the    StCam-engme;    a    power    Whereby    COtton 

in  1789),  by  means  of  which  he  greatly  extended  our      miorht  be  spun,  and  money  and  money 's  worth 

knowledge  of  the  heavens  and  enlarged  our  conception  °.      ,        ^      '  "^  "^ 

of  the  vastness  of  the  universe.    Carlyle  means,  that  in  realised. 

every  minute  of  time,  15,000  stars  rise  and  begin  their  "Notable    enough    too,    here    as    elsewhere, 

westward  course  across  the  sky.  .  •  •        i     -u 

'  A  cycle  moving  upon  another  cycle.  •  i.  e.  the  common  writing,  legible  to  all. 


674  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

wilt  thou  find  the  potency  of  Names;  which  torically  present  in  the  First  Century,  convers- 
indeed  are  but  one  kind  of  such  custom-woven,  ing  face  to  face  with  Paul  and  Seneca;  there 
wonder-hiding  Garments.  Witchcraft,  and  prophetically  in  the  Thirty-first,  conversing 
all  manner  of  Spectre-work,  and  Demonology,  also  face  to  face  with  other  Pauls  and  Senecas, 
we  have  now  named  Madness,  and  Diseases  of  5  who  as  yet  stand  hidden  in  the  depth  of  that 
the  Nerves.     Seldom  reflecting  that  still  the     late  time! 

new  question  comes  upon  us:  What  is  Madness,  "Or  thinkest  thou,  it  were  impossible,  un- 

what  are  Nerves?  Ever,  as  before,  does  Mad-  imaginable?  Is  the  Past  annihilated,  then, 
ness  remain  a  mysterious-terrific,  altogether  or  only  past;  is  the  Future  non-extant,  or  only 
infernal  boiling-up  of  the  Nether  Chaotic  lo  future?  Those  mystic  faculties  of  thine, 
Deep,  through  this  fair-painted  Vision  of  Crea-  Memory  and  Hope,  already  answer:  already 
tion,  which  swims  thereon,  which  we  name  the  through  those  mystic  avenues,  thou  the  Earth- 
Real.  Was  Luther's  Picture  of  the  Devil^°  less  blinded  summonest  both  Past  and  Future,  and 
a  ReaUty,  whether  it  were  formed  within  the  communest  with  them,  though  as  yet  darkly, 
bodily  eye,  or  without  it?  In  every,  the  wisest  15  and  with  mute  beckonings.  The  curtains  of 
Soul,  lies  a  whole  world  of  internal  Madness,  Yesterday  drop  down,  the  curtains  of  To- 
an  authentic  Demon-Empire;  out  of  which,  morrow  roll  up;  but  Yesterday  and  Tomorrow 
indeed,  his  world  of  Wisdom  has  been  creatively  both  are.  Pierce  through  the  Time-Element, 
built  together,  and  now  rests  there,  as  on  its  glance  into  the  Eternal.  Believe  what  thou 
dark  foundations  does  a  habitable  flowery  20  findest  written  in  the  sanctuaries  of  Man's 
Earth-rind.  Soul,  even  as  all  Thinkers,  in  all  ages,  have 

"But  deepest  of  all  illusory  Appearances,  for  devoutly  read  it  there:  that  Time  and  Space 
hiding  Wonder,  as  for  many  other  ends,  are  are  not  God,  but  creations  of  God;  that  with 
your  two  grand  fundamental  world-enveloping  God  as  it  is  a  universal  here,  so  is  it  an  ever- 
Appearances,    space    and    time.      These,    as  25  lasting  now. 

spun  and  woven  for  us  before  Birth  itself,  to  "And  seest  thou  therein  any  gUmpse  of  im- 
clothe  our  celestial  me  for  dwelling  here,  and  mortality?  O  Heaven!  Is  the  white  Tomb 
yet  to  bhnd  it, — lie  all-embracing,  as  the  uni-  of  our  Loved  One,  who  died  from  our  arms, 
versal  canvas,  or  warp  and  woof,  whereby  all  and  had  to  be  left  behind  us  there,  which  rises 
minor  Illusions,  in  this  Phantasm  Existence,  30  in  the  distance,  like  a  pale,  mournfully  receding 
weave  and  paint  themselves.  In  vain,  while  Milestone,  to  tell  how  many  toilsome  un- 
here  on  Earth,  shall  you  endeavour  to  strip  cheered  miles  we  have  journeyed  on  alone, — 
them  off;  you  can  at  best  but  rend  them  asunder  but  a  pale  spectral  Illusion !  Is  the  lost  Friend 
for  moments,  and  look  through.  still  mysteriously  Here,  even  as  we  are  Here 

"Fortunatus  had  a  wishing  Hat,  which  when  35  mysteriously  with  God! — Know  of  a  truth 
he  put  on,  and  wished  himself  Anywhere,  be-  that  only  the  Time-shadows  have  perished, 
hold  he  was  There.  By  this  means  had  For-  or  are  perishable;  that  the  real  Being  of  what- 
tunatus  triumphed  over  Space,  he  had  anni-  ever  was,  and  whatever  is,  and  whatever  will 
hilated  Space;  for  him  there  was  no  Where,  be,  is  even  now  and  for  ever.  This,  should  it 
but  all  was  Here.  Were  a  Hatter  to  estabhsh  40  unhappily  seem  new,  thou  mayest  ponder  at 
himself  in  the  Wahngasse"  of  Weissnichtwo,  thy  leisure;  for  the  next  twenty  years,  or  the 
and  make  felts  of  this  sort  for  all  mankind,  next  twenty  centuries:  beheve  it  thou  must; 
what  a  world  we  should  have  of  it!  Still  understand  it  thou  canst  not. 
stranger,  should,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  "That  the  Thought-forms,  Space  and  Time, 
street,  another  Hatter  establish  himseK;  and,  45  wherein,  once  for  all,  we  are  sent  into  this 
as  his  fellow-craftsman  made  Space-annihilat-  Earth  to  Uve,  should  condition  and  determine 
ing  hats,  make  Time-annihilating!  Of  both  our  whole  Practical  reasonings,  conceptions, 
would  I  purchase,  were  it  with  my  last  gros-  and  imagings  or  imaginings,  seems  altogether 
chen;!^  but  chiefly  of  this  latter.  To  clap  on  fit,  just  and  unavoidable.  But  that  they  should 
your  felt,  and,  simply  by  wishing  that  you  50  furthermore,  usurp  such  sway  over  pure  spirit- 
were  Anywhere,  straightway  to  be  There!  ual  Meditation,  and  bhnd  -us  to  the  wonder 
Next  to  clap  on  your  other  felt,  and,  simply  everywhere  lying  close  on  us,  seems  nowise  so. 
by  wishing  that  you  were  Anywhen,  straight-  Admit  Space  and  Time  to  their  due  rank  as 
wsiy  to  he  ThenI  This  were  indeed  the  grander:  Forms  of  Thought;  nay,  even  if  thou  wilt,  to 
shooting  at  will  from  the  Fire-Creation  of  the  55  their  quite  undue  rank  of  Realities:  and  con- 
World,   to  its  Fire-Consummation;  here  his-      sider,  then,  with  thyself,  how  their  thin  dis- 

10  The  devil  was  so  real  to  Luther,  that  according  to  the       guises   hide   from   US   the   brightest   God-efful- 

^*°,^X!T^®°°'^^J?'■*'7.^^^^'^^P°****^°^•  gences!    Thus,  were  it  not  miraculous,  could 

11  illusion  otreet.  xi,i<..i  i         i         i     ■,        ,i,-.« 

"  A  small  German  coin.  1  stretch  forth  my  hand  and  clutch  the  Sun? 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  675 

Yet  thou  seest  me  daily  stretch  forth  my  hand,  of  elastic  balls,  was  it  less  a  stroke  than  if  the 
and  therewith  clutch  many  a  thing,  and  swing  last  ball  only  had  been  struck,  and  sent  flying? 
it  hither  and  thither.  Art  thou  a  grown  Baby,  Oh,  could  I  (with  the  Time-annihilating  Hat) 
then,  to  fancy  that  the  Miracle  lies  in  miles  transport  thee  direct  from  the  Beginnings  to 
of  distance,  or  in  pounds  avoirdupois  of  weight;  5  the  Endings,  how  were  thy  eyesight  unsealed, 
and  not  to  see  that  the  true  inexphcable  God-  and  thy  heart  set  flaming  in  the  Light-sea 
revealing  Miracle  Ues  in  this,  that  I  can  stretch  of  celestial  wonder!  Then  sawest  thou  that 
forth  my  hand  at  all;  that  I  have  free  Force  this  fair  Universe,  were  it  in  the  meanest 
to  clutch  aught  therewith?  Innumerable  other  province  thereof,  is  in  very  deed,  the  star- 
of  this  sort  are  the  deceptions,  and  wonder- lo  domed  City  of  God;  that  through  every  star, 
hiding  stupefactions,  which  Space  practises  through  every  grassblade,  and  most  through 
on  us.  every  Living  Soul,  the  glory  of  a  present  God 

"StiU  worse  is  it  with  regard  to  Time.  Your  still  beams.  But  Nature,  which  is  the  Time- 
grand  anti-magician  and  universal  wonder-  vesture  of  God,  and  reveals  Him  to  the  wise, 
hider,  is  this  same  lying  Time.  Had  we  but  15  hides  Him  from  the  foolish, 
the  Time-annihilating  Hat,  to  put  on  for  once  "Again,  could  anything  be  more  miraculous 
only,  we  should  see  ourselves  in  a  World  of  than  an  actual  authentic  Ghost?  The  English 
Miracles,  wherein  all  fabled  or  authentic  Johnson ^^  longed,  all  his  life,  to  see  one;  but 
Thaumaturgy,  and  feats  of  Magic,  were  out-  could  not,  though  he  went  to  Cock  Lane,  and 
done.  But  unhappily  we  have  not  such  a  20  thence  to  the  church-vaults,  and  tapped  on 
Hat;  and  man,  poor  fool  that  he  is,  can  seldom  coffins.  Foolish  Doctor!  Did  he  never  with  the 
and  scantily  help  himself  without  one.  Mind's  eye,  as  well  as  with  the  body's,  look 

"Were  it  not  wonderful,  for  instance,  had  round  him  into  that  full  tide  of  human  Life 
Orpheus,  or  Amphion,  built  the  walls  of  Thebes  he  so  loved;  did  he  never  so  much  as  look  into 
by  the  mere  sound  of  his  Lyre?^^  Yet  tell  me,  25  Himself?  The  good  Doctor  was  a  Ghost,  as 
Who  built  these  walls  of  Weissnichtwo;  sum-  actual  and  authentic  as  heart  could  wish; 
moning  out  all  the  sandstone  rocks,  to  dance  wellnigh  a  million  of  Ghosts  were  travelling 
along  from  the  SteinhrucW-*-  (now  a  huge  Trog-  the  streets  by  his  side.  Once  more  I  say,  sweep 
lodyte  Chasm, 1^  with  frightful  green-mantled  away  the  illusion  of  Time:  compress  the  three- 
pools);  and  shape  themselves  into  Doric  and  30  score  years  into  three  minutes:  what  else  was 
Ionic  pillars,  squared  ashlar  houses,  and  he,  what  else  are  we?  Are  we  not  Spirits, 
noble  streets?  Was  it  not  the  still  higher  shaped  into  a  Body,  into  an  Appearance;  and 
Orpheus,  or  Orpheuses,  who,  in  past  centuries,  that  fade  away  again  into  air,  and  Invisibihty? 
by  the  divine  Music  of  Wisdom,  succeeded  in  This  is  no  metaphor,  it  is  a  simple  scientific 
civilizing  Man?  Our  highest  Orpheus  walked  35 fact:  we  start  out  of  Nothingness,  take  figure, 
in  Judea,  eighteen-hundred  years  ago:  his  and  are  Apparitions;  round  us,  as  round  the 
sphere-melody,  flowing  in  wild  native  tones,  veriest  spectre,  is  Eternity;  and  to  Eternity 
took  captive  the  ravished  souls  of  men;  and  minutes  are  as  years  and  seons.  Come  there 
being  of  a  truth  sphere-melody,  still  flows  and  not  tones  of  Love  and  Faith,  as  from  celestial 
sounds,  though  now  with  thousandfold  Ac- 40  harp-strings,  Hke  the  Song  of  beatified  Souls? 
companiments,  and  rich  symphonies,  through  And  again,  do  not  we  squeak  and  gibber  (in 
all  our  hearts;  and  modulates  and  divinely  leads  our  discordant  screech-owlish  debatings  and 
them.  Is  that  a  wonder,  which  happens  in  recriminatings);  and  gUde,  bodeful,  and  feeble, 
two  hours;  and  does  it  cease  to  be  wonderful,  and  fearful;  or  uproar  (poUern),  and  revel  in 
if  happening  in  two  million?  Not  only  was  45  our  mad  Dance  of  the  Dead,^^ — till  the  scent 
Thebes  built,  by  the  Music  of  an  Orpheus;  but  of  the  morning-air  summons  us  to  our  still 
without  the  music  of  some  inspired  Orpheus,  Home;  and  dreamy  Night  becomes  awake 
was  no  city  ever  built,  no  work  that  man  and  Day?  Where  now  is  Alexander  of  Mace- 
glories  in  ever  done.  don:  does  the  steel  Host,  that  yelled  in  fierce 

"Sweep  away  the  Illusion  of  Time;  glance,  50  battle-shouts  at  Issus  and  Arbela,  remain 
if  thou  have  eyes,  from  the  near  moving-  behind  him;  or  have  they  all  vanished  utterly, 
cause  to  its  far  distant  Mover:  The  stroke  even  as  perturbed  Goblins  must?  Napoleon 
that  came  transmitted  through  a  whole  galaxy     too,  and  his  Moscow  Retreats  and  Auster- 

„ww      .1,     .    •      ^r^    I  ^    *  A      V,-     *  litz  Campaigns!     Was  it  all  other  than  the 

1' "Were  the  stones  of  Orpheus  and  of  Amphion  true,  .      ,o,r      tt       j.        i--i-t.                        -xu   -a 
would  they  not  be  miraculous?"     Orpheus  gathered  the 65  Veriest  Spectre-Hunt;  whlCh  has  now,  Wltn  itS 
wild  creatures  of  the  forest  about  him  to  listen  to  his  lyre; 

and  Amphion,  by  the  mere  power  and  beauty  of  his  i»  For  the  story  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  the  Cock  Lane 

music,  built  the  walls  of  Thebes.  '  Ghost,  see  Boswell's  Johnson. 

"  A  quarry.  i7  The  Dance  of  Death  was  a  medieval  allegory  of 

"  A  hole  or  cavern,  like  those  once  occupied  by  the  Death;  a  skeleton  musician  leads  the  dance,  in  which  all 

Troglodytes,  or  pre-historic  cave-dwellers.  men  join. 


676  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

howling    tumult    that    made    Night   hideous,  '"We  are  such  stuj^ 

flitted    away? — Ghosts!    There    are    nigh    a         As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 

thousand-million    walking    the    earth    openly         Is  rounded  with  a  sleep! '"^^ 

at  noontide;  some  half-hundred  have  vanished 

from  it,  some  half -hundred  have  arisen  in  it,  5    ^^^„  „        _ 

ere  thy  watch  ticks  once.  BOSWELL  THE  HERO-WORSHIPPER 

"O  Heaven,  it  is  mysterious,  it  is  awful  to  ^^^^^  ^ssay  on  Johnson,  1832) 

consider  that  we  not  only  carry  each  a  future 

Ghostwithinhim;butarein  very  deed,  Ghosts!  We  have  a  word  to  say  of  James  Boswell.* 

These  Limbs,  whence  had  we  them;  this  lo  Boswell  has  already  been  much  commented 
stormy  Force;  this  life-blood  with  its  burning  upon;  but  rather  in  the  way  of  censure  and 
Passion?  They  are  dust  and  shadow;  a  Shadow-  vituperation  than  of  true  recognition.  He  was 
system  gathered  round  our  me;  wherein,  a  man  that  brought  himself  much  before  the 
through  some  moments  or  years,  the  Divine  world;  confessed  that  he  eagerly  coveted  fame, 
Essence  is  to  be  revealed  in  the  Flesh.  That  15  or  if  that  were  not  possible,  notoriety;  of  Which 
warrior  on  his  strong  war-horse,  fire  flashes  latter  as  he  gained  far  more  than  was  his  due, 
through  his  eyes;  force  dwells  in  his  arm  and  the  public  were  incited,  not  only  by  their 
heart:  but  warrior  and  war-horse  are  a  vision;  natural  love  of  scandal,  but  by  a  special 
a  revealed  Force,  nothing  more.  Stately  ground  of  envy,  to  say  whatever  ill  of  him 
they  tread  the  Earth,  as  if  it  were  a  firm  sub-  20  could  be  said.  Out  of  the  fifteen  millions  that 
stance:  fool!  the  Earth  is  but  a  film;  it  craclcs  then  Uved,  and  had  bed  and  board  in  the 
in  twain  and  warrior  and  war-horse  sink  be-  British  islands,  this  man  has  provided  us  a 
yond  plummet's  sounding.  Plummet's?  Fan-  greater  pleasure  than  any  other  individual, 
tasy  herself  will  not  follow  them.  A  little  while  at  whose  cost  we  now  enjoy  ourselves;  perhaps 
ago,  they  were  not;  a  little  while,  and  they  25  has  done  us  a  greater  service  than  can  be  es- 
are  not,  their  very  ashes  are  not.  pecially  attributed  to  more  than  two  or  three: 

"So  has  it  been  from  the  beginning,  and  so  yet,  ungrateful  that  we  are,  no  written  or 
will  it  be  to  the  end.  Generation  after  genera-  spoken  eulogy  of  James  Boswell  anyivhere 
tion  takes  to  itself  the  Form  of  a  Body;  and  exists;  his  recompense  in  solid  pudding  (so 
forth-issuing  from  Cimmerian  Night, ^^  on  30  far  as  copyright  went)  was  not  excessive; 
heaven's  mission  appears.  What  Force  and  and  as  for  the  empty  praise,  it  has  altogether 
Fire  is  in  each  he  expends:  one  grinding  in  been  denied  him.  Men  are  unwiser  than 
the  mill  of  Industry;  one  hunter-Uke  climbing  children;  they  do  not  know  the  hand  that  feeds 
the  giddy  Alpine  heights  of  Science;  one  madly      them. 

dashed  in  pieces  on  the  rocks  of  Strife,  in  war  35  Boswell  was  a  person  whose  mean  or  bad 
with  his  fellow: — and  then  the  Heaven-sent  qualities  lay  open  to  the  general  eye;  visible, 
is  recalled;  his  earthly  Vesture  falls  away,  palpable  to  the  dullest.  His  good  qualities, 
and  soon  even  to  Sense  becomes  a  vanished  again,  belonged  not  to  the  time  he  lived  in; 
Shadow.  Thus,  like  some  wild-flaming,  wild-  were  far  from  common  then;  indeed,  in  such  a 
thundering  train  of  Heaven's  Artillery,  does 40 degree,  were  almost  unexampled;  not  recog- 
this  mysterious  Mankind  thunder  and  flame,  nizable  therefore  by  every  one;  nay,  apt  even 
in  long-drawn,  quick-succeeding  grandeur,  (so  strange  had  they  grown)  to  be  confounded 
through  the  unknown  Deep.  Thus  hke  a  God-  with  the  very  vices  they  lay  contiguous  to  and 
created,  fire-breathing  Spirit-host,  we  emerge  had  sprung  out  of.  That  he  was  a  wine- 
from  the  Inane;  haste  stormfully  across  the  45  bibber  and  gross  liver;  gluttonously  fond  of 
astonished  Earth;  then  plunge  again  into  the  whatever  would  yield  him  a  little  solacempnt, 
Inane.  Earth's  mountains  are  levelled,  and  were  it  only  of  a  stomachic  character,  is  un- 
her  seas  filled  up,  in  our  passage:  can  the  deniable  enough.  That  he  was  vain,  heedless. 
Earth  which  is  but  dead  and  a  vision,  resist  a  babbler;  had  much  of  the  sycophant,  alter- 
Spirits  which  have  reality  and  are  alive?  On  50  nating  with  the  braggadocio,  curiously  spiced 
the  hardest  adamant  some  foot-print  of  us  too  with  an  all-pervading  dash  of  the  coxcomb; 
is  stamped-in;  the  last  Rear  of  the  host  will  that  he  gloried  much  when  the  tailor,  by  a 
read  traces  of  the  earliest  Van.  But  whence? —  court-suit,  had  made  a  new  man  of  him;  that 
O  Heaven,  whither?  Sense  knows  not;  Faith  he  appeared  at  the  Shakespeare  Jubilee  with  a 
knows  not;  only  that  it  is  through  Mystery  to  55 ribbon,  imprinted  "Corsica  Boswell,"^  round  y 
Mystery,  from  God  and  to  God.  his  hat;  and  in  short,  if  you  will,  lived  no  day  ^ 

»»  Tempest,  IV.  1^. 
18  A  proverbial  expression  for  utter  darkness.    The  ^  See  p.  424,  supra. 

Cimmerians  are  mentioned  by  Homer  as  living  beyond  ^  An  allusion  to  his  adoption  of  the  r-ause  of  Corsican 

the  ocean-stream  in  a  land  where  no  sun  ever  shines.  independence  and  to  his  Account  of  Corsica,  p}^   J  768, 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  677 

of  his  life  without  doing  and  saying  more  than  of  all  bipeds  yet  known.  Boswell  too  was  a 
one  pretentious  ineptitude:  all  this  unhappily  Tory;^  of  quite  peculiarly  feudal,  genealogical, 
is  evident  as  the  sun  at  noon.  The  very  look  pragmatical  temper;  had  been  nurtured  in  an 
of  Boswell  seems  to  have  signified  so  much,  atmosphere  of  heraldry,  at  the  feet  of  a  very 
In  that  cocked  nose,  cocked  partly  in  triumph  sGamaliel^  in  that  kind;  within  bare  walls, 
over  his  weaker  fellow-creatures,  partly  to  adorned  only  with  pedigrees,  amid  serving- 
snuff  up  the  smell  of  coming  pleasure,  and  men  in  threadbare  livery;  all  things  teaching 
scent  it  from  afar;  in  those  bag-cheeks,  hanging  him,  from  birth  upwards,  that  a  laird  was  a 
like  half-filled  wine-skins,  still  able  to  contain  laird.  Perhaps  there  was  a  special  vanity  in 
more;  in  that  coarsely  protruded  shelf-mouth,  lohis  very  blood:  old  Auchinleck  had,  if  not  the 
that  fat  dew-lapped  chin:  in  all  this,  who  sees  gay,  tail-spreading,  peacock  vanity  of  his  son, 
not  sensuaHty,  pretension,  boisterous  im-  no  little  of  the  slow  stalking,  contentious, 
becility  enough;  much  that  could  not  have  hissing  vanity  of  the  gander;  a  still  more  fatal 
been  ornamental  in  the  temper  of  a  great  man's  species.  Scottish  advocates  will  tell  you  how 
overfed  great  man  (what  the  Scotch  name  15  the  ancient  man,  having  chanced  to  be  the 
flunky),  though  it  had  been  more  natural  first  sheriff  appointed  (after  the  abolition  of 
there?  The  under  part  of  Boswell's  face  is  of  *' hereditary  jurisdiction  "i°)  by  royal  authority, 
a  low,  almost  brutish  character.  was  wont,  in  dull-snuffling  pompous  tone,  to 

Unfortunately,  on  the  other  hand,  what  preface  many  a  deliverance  from  the  bench 
great  and  genuine  good  lay  in  him  was  nowise 20  with  these  words:  "I,  the  first  king's  sheriff 
so  self-evident.     That  Boswell  was  a  hunter     in  Scotland." 

after  spiritual  notabilities,  that  he  loved  such,  And  now  behold  the  worthy  Bozzy,  so  pre- 
and  longed,  and  even  crept  and  crawled  to  be  possessed  and  held  back  by  nature  and  by 
near  them;  that  he  first  (in  old  Touchwood  art,  fly  nevertheless  like  iron  to  its  magnet 
Auchinleck's'  phraseology)  "took  on  with  25  with  what  enclosures  and  encumbrances  you 
Paoli;"*  and  then  being  off  with  "the  Corsican  please — with  wood,  with  rubbish,  with  brass: 
landlouper,"^  took  on  with  a  schoolmaster,^  it  matters  not,  the  two  feel  each  other,  they 
"ane  that  keeped  a  schule,  and  ca'd  it  an  struggle  restlessly  towards  each  other,  they 
academy;"  that  he  did  all  this,  and  could  not  vnll  be  together.  The  iron  may  be  a  Scottish 
help  doing  it,  had  an  "open  sense,"  an  open 30 squirelet,  full  of  gulosity  and  "gigmanity;"" 
loving  heart,  which  so  few  have:  where  ex-  The  magnet  an  English  plebeian,  and  moving 
cellence  existed,  he  was  compelled  to  acknowl-  rag-and-dust  mountain,  coarse,  proud,  iras- 
edge  it;  was  drawn  towards  it,  and  (let  the  cible,  imperious:  nevertheless,  behold  how  they 
old  sulphur-brand  of  a  laird  say  what  he  embrace,  and  inseparably  cleave  to  one  an- 
liked)  could  not  hut  walk  with  it — if  not  as  35  other!  It  is  one  of  the  strangest  phenomena 
superior,  if  not  as  equal,  then  as  inferior  and  of  the  past  century,  that  at  a  time  when  the 
lackey,  better  so  than  not  at  all.  If  we  reflect  old  reverent  feeling  of  discipleship  (such  as 
now  that  this  love  of  excellence  had  not  only  brought  men  from  far  countries  with  rich 
such  as  evil  nature  to  triumph  over;  but  also  gifts,  and  prostrate  soul,  to  the  feet  of  the 
what  an  education  and  social  position  withstood  40  prophets)  had  passed  utterly  away  from  men's 
it  and  weighed  it  down,  its  innate  strength,  practical  experience,  and  was  no  longer  sur- 
victorious  over  all  these  things,  may  astonish  mised  to  exist  (as  it  does),  perennial,  inde- 
us.  Consider  what  an  inward  impulse  there  structible,  in  man's  inmost  heart — James  Bos- 
must  have  been,  how  many  mountains  of  im-  well  should  have  been  the  individual,  of  all 
pediment  hurled  aside,  before  the  Scottish  45  others,  predestined  to  recall  it,  in  such  singular 
laird  could,  as  humble  servant,  embrace  the  guise,  to  the  wondering  and,  for  a  long  while, 
knees  (the  bosom  was  not  permitted  him)  of  laughing  and  unrecognizing  world.  It  has  been 
the  English  dominie!  Your  Scottish  laird,  commonly  said,  "The  man's  vulgar  vanity 
says  an  English  naturalist  of  these  days, 
may  be  defined  as  the  hungriest  and  vainest  50    '^  member  of  the  Toiy  party,  which  was  the  ultra- 

^                                                    ^  conservative  party  of  the  time. 

'  Boswell's  father,  Alexander  Boswell,  who  had  the  s  Self-important,    busy;    engrossed     with     every-day 

title  of  Lord  Auchinleck  from  the  name  of  his  property  business,  and  hence  commonplace. 

in  Ayrshire.     He  was  one  of  the  Judges  of  the  Court  of  »  A  member  of  the  Sanhedrin,  and  St.  Paul's  instructor 

Session.    Carlyle  calls  him  "Touchwood"  in  allusion  to  in  the  law.      V.  Acts  v.  34-39;  xxii.  3.      Boswell's  Ga- 

his  explosive  irascibility.  maliel  presumably  was  his  father. 

^Pasquale  Paoli  (1725-1807),  a  Corsican  patriot,  to  lo  In  Scotland  the  Sherifif  was  the  judge  of  the  county, 

whom  Boswell  was  introduced  by  a  letter  from  Rousseau,  After  1748,  the  oflBce,  which  had  been  hereditary,  was  filled 

and  with  whom  he  contracted  a  warm  and  lasting  friend-  by  royal  appointment, 

ship.  11  Gulosity  is  gluttony,  voracity;  gigmanity  is  narrow- 


'  An  adventurer,  a  vagabond.  minded  respectability.    The  latter  word  was  invented  by 

•i.  e.    Johnson  himself,  who  set  up  an  "academy"       Carlyle  (gig  and  man)  to  indicate  the  character  of  "one 

near  Litchfield,  where  "young  gentlemen  are  boarded       whose  respectability  is  measured  by  his  keeping  a  gig." 


678  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

was  all  that  attached  him  to  Johnson;  he  de-  Johnson.  Mr.  Croker**  says,  Johnson  was,  to 
lighted  to  be  seen  near  him,  to  be  thought  con-  the  last,  little  regarded  by  the  great  world; 
nected  with  him.  Now  let  it  be  at  once  granted  from  which,  for  a  vulgar  vanity,  all  honor, 
that  no  consideration  springing  out  of  vulgar  as  from  its  fountain,  descends.  Bozzy,  even 
Tanity  could  well  be  absent  from  the  mind  of  5  among  Johnson's  friends  and  special  admirers, 
James  Boswell,  in  this  his  intercourse  with  seems  rather  to  have  been  laughed  at  than 
Johnson,  or  in  any  considerable  transaction  envied:  his  officious,  whisking,  consequential 
of  his  hfe.  At  the  same  time,  ask  yourself;  ways,  the  daily  reproofs  and  rebufifs  he  under- 
whether  such  vanity,  and  nothing  else,  ac-  went,  could  gain  from  the  world  no  golden  but 
tuated  him  therein;  whether  this  was  the  true  10  only  leaden  opinions.  His  devout  discipleship 
essence  and  moving  principle  of  the  phenom-  seemed  nothing  more  than  a  mean  spanielship, 
enon,  or  not  rather  its  outward  vesture,  and  in  the  general  eye.  His  mighty  "constella- 
the  accidental  environment  (and  defacement)  tion,"  or  sun,  round  whom  he,  as  satellite,  ob- 
in  which  it  came  to  light?  The  man  was,  by  servantly  gyrated,  was,  for  the  mass  of  men, 
nature  and  habit,  vain;  a  sycophant-coxcomb,  15  but  a  huge  ill-snuffed  tallow-light,  and  he  a 
be  it  granted :  but  had  there  been  nothing  more  weak  night-moth,  circling  foolishly,  danger- 
than  vanity  in  him,  was  Samuel  Johnson  the  ously  about  it,  not  knowing  what  he  wanted, 
man  of  men  to  whom  he  must  attach  himself?  If  he  enjoyed  Highland  dinners  and  toasts,  as 
At  the  date  when  Johnson  was  a  poor  rusty-  henchmen  to  a  new  sort  of  chieftain,  Henry 
coated  "scholar,"  dwelling  in  Temple-lane, ^^ 20  Erskine^^  could  hand  him  a  shilling  "for  the 
and  indeed  throughout  their  whole  intercourse  sight  of  his. bear."  Doubtless  the  man  was 
afterwards,  were  there  not  chancellors  and  laughed  at,  and  often  heard  himself  laughed  at 
prime  ministers  enough;  graceful  gentlemen,  for  his  Johnsonism.  To  be  envied  is  the  grand 
the  glass  of  fashion;  honor-giving  noblemen;  and  sole  aim  of  vulgar  vanity;  to  be  filled  with 
dinner-giving  rich  men;  renowned  fire-eaters,  25  good  things  is  that  of  sensuality:  for  Johnson 
swordsmen,  gownsmen,  quacks  and  realities  perhaps  no  man  living  enmed  poor  Bozzy;  and 
of  all  hues — any  one  of  whom  bulked  much  of  good  things  (except  himself  paid  for  them) 
larger  in  the  world's  eye  than  Johnson  ever  did?  there  was  no  vestige  in  that  acquaintanceship. 
To  any  one  of  whom,  by  half  that  submissive-  Had  nothing  other  or  better  than  vanity  and 
ness  and  assiduity,  our  Bozzy  might  have  30  sensuality  been  there,  Johnson  and  Boswell 
recommended  himself;  and  sat  there,  the  envy  had  never  come  together,  or  had  soon  and 
of    surrounding    Uckspittles;    pocketing    now      finally  separated  again. 

solid  emolument,  swallowing  now  well  cooked  In  fact,  the  so  copious  terrestrial  dross  that 
viands  and  wines  of  rich  red  vintage;  in  each  welters  chaotically,  as  the  outer  sphere  of  this 
case,  also,  shone-on  by  some  glittering  reflex  35  man's  character,  does  but  render  for  us  more 
of  renown  or  notoriety,  so  as  to  be  the  observed  remarkable,  more  touching,  the  celestial  spark 
of  innumerable  observers.  To  no  one  of  whom,  of  goodness,  of  hght,  and  reverence  for  wisdom 
however,  though  otherwise  a  most  diligent  which  dwelt  in  the  interior,  and  could  struggle 
solicitor  and  purveyor,  did  he  so  attach  him-  through  such  encumbrances,  and  in  some  degree 
self:  such  vulgar  courtierships  were  his  paid  40  illuminate  and  beautify  them.  There  is  much 
drudgery,  or  leisure  amusement;  the  worship  lying  yet  undeveloped  in  the  love  of  Boswell 
of  Johnson  was  his  grand,  ideal,  voluntary  for  Johnson.  A  cheering  proof,  in  a  time  which 
business.  Does  not  the  frothy-hearted,  yet  else  utterly  wanted  and  still  wants  such,  that 
enthusiastic  man,  doffing  his  advocate's  wig,  Uving  wisdom  is  quite  infinitely  precious  to 
regularly  take  post,  and  hurry  up  to  London,  45  man,  is  the  symbol  of  the  god-like  to  him, 
for  the  sake  of  his  sage  chiefly;  as  to  a  feast  of  which  even  weak  eyes  may  discern;  that  loj?^- 
tabernacles,  the  Sabbath  of  his  whole  year?  alty,  discipleship,  all  that  was  ever  meant 
The  plate-licker  and  wine-bibber  dives  into  by  hero-worship,  lives  perennially  in  the  human 
Bolt  Court,  to  sip  muddy  coffee  with  a  cynical  bosom,  and  waits,  even  in  these  dead  days,  only 
old  man  and  a  sour-tempered  bUnd  old  woman ^3  50  for  occasions  to  unfold  it,  and  inspire  all  men 
(feeling  the  cups,  whether  they  are  full,  with  with  it,  and  make  again  the  world  ahve!  James 
her  finger);  and  patiently  endures  contradic-  Boswell  we  can  regard  as  a  practical  witness, 
tions  without  end;  too  happy  so  he  may  be  or  real  martyr,  to  this  high  everlasting  truth, 
but  allowed  to  listen  and  live.    Nay,  it  does  not      A  wonderful  martyr,  if  you  will;  and  in  a  time 

appear    that    vulgar    vanity    could    ever    have  55      "  John  Wilson  Croker,  editor  of  Boawell's  Johnson,  , 

been  much  flattered  by  Boswell's  relation  to      J^f Vame  work.^'F.'^j.'eST.'^^'^"^'    ^^"^"'""^  reviewed  \ 

12  V.  selection,  p.  425,  supra.  _  _  "  Henry  Erskine,  a  brother  of  Lord  Buchan  and  Lord     ' 

1*  Mrs.  Anna  Williams,  who  at  this  time  had  lodgings  Erskine,  was  presented  to  Johnson  by  Boswell.   while 

in  Bolt  Court,  Fleet  Street,  had  formerly  found  an  asylum  on  a  visit  to  the  Parliament  House  at  Edinburgh  in  1773. 

in  Johnson's  house.  The  incident  mentioned  occurred  on  that  occasion. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  679 

Which  made  such  martyrdom  doubly  wonder-  sight  far  deeper  than  the  common.  But  Bos- 
iulryet  the  time  and  its  martyr  perhaps  suited  well's  grand  intellectual  talent  was,  as  such 
each  other.  For  a  decrepit,  death-sick  era,  ever  is,  an  unconscious  one,  of  far  higher  reach, 
when  Cant  had  first  decisively  opened  her  and  significance  than  logic;  and  showed  itself 
poison-breathing  hps  to  proclaim  that  God-  sin  the  whole,  not  in  parts.  Here  again  we 
worship  and  Mammon-worship  were  one  and  have  that  old  saying  verified,  "The  heart  sees 
the  same,  that  life  was  a  lie,  and  the  earth      further  than  the  head." 

Beelzebub's,  which  the  Supreme  Quack  should  Thus  does  poor  Bozzy  stand  out  to  us  an 

inherit,  and  so  all  things  were  fallen  into  the  ill-assorted,  glaring  mixture  of  the  highest  and 
yellow  leaf,  and  fast  hastening  to  noisome  lo  the  lowest.  What,  indeed,  is  man's  life  gener- 
corruption:  for  such  an  era,  perhaps  no  better  ally  but  a  kind  of  beast  godhood;  the  god  in 
prophet  than  a  parti-colored  zany^^.p^ophet,  us  triumphing  in  us  more  and  more  over  the 
concealing,  from  himself  and  others,  his  pro-  beast;  striving  more  and  more  to  subdue  it 
phetic  significance  in  such  unexpected  vestures,  under  his  feet?  Did  not  the  ancients,  in  their 
was  deserved,  or  would  have  been  in  place.  15  wise,  perennially-significant  way,  figure  nature 
A  precious  medicine  lay  hidden  in  floods  of  itself,  in  their  sacred  ALL,  or  PAN,  as  a  por- 
coarsest,  most  composite  treacle;  the  world  tentous  commingling  of  these  two  discords; 
swallowed  the  treacle,  for  it  suited  the  world's  as  musical,  humane,  oracular  in  its  upper  part, 
palate;  and  now,  after  half  a  century,  may  yet  ending  below  in  the  cloven  hairy  feet  of  a 
the  medicine  also  begin  to  show  itself!  James  20  goat?  The  union  of  melodious,  celestial  free- 
Boswell  belonged,  in  his  corruptible  part,  to  will  and  reason  with  foul  irrationality  and  lust; 
the  lowest  classes  of  mankind;  a  foolish,  in-  in  which,  nevertheless,  dwelt  a  mysterious 
flated  creature,  swimming  in  an  element  of  unspeakable  fear  and  haK  mad  panic  awe;  as 
self-conceit:  but  in  his  corruptible  there  dwelt  for  mortals  there  well  might!  And  is  not 
an  incorruptible,  all  the  more  impressive  and  25  man  a  microcosm,  or  epitomized  mirror  of  that 
indubitable  for  the  strange  lodging  it  had  taken,  same  universe;  or  rather,  is  not  that  universe 
Consider,  too,  with  what  force,  diligence,  even  himseK,  the  reflex  of  his  own  fearful  and 
and  vivacity  he  has  rendered  back  all  this  wonderful  being,  "the  waste  fantasy  of  his 
which,  in  Johnson's  neighborhood,  his  "open  own  dream?"  No  wonder  that  man,  that 
sense"  had  so  eagerly  and  freely  taken  in.  30  each  man,  and  James  Boswell  like  the  others. 
That  loose-flowing,  careless-looking  work  of  should  resemble  it!  The  peculiarity  in  his 
his  is  as  a  picture  by  one  of  nature's  own  ar-  case  was  the  unusual  defect  of  amalgamation 
tists;  the  best  possible  remembrance  of  a  and  subordination:  the  highest  lay  side  by  side 
reality;  like  the  very  image  thereof  in  a  clear  with  the  lowest;  not  morally  combined  with  it 
miiTor.  Which  indeed  it  was:  let  but  the  35  and  spiritually  transfiguring  it,  but  tumbling 
mirror  be  clear,  this  is  the  great  point;  the  pic-  in  half-mechanical  juxtaposition  with  it,  and 
ture  must  and  will  be  genuine.  How  the  from  time  to  time,  as  the  mad  alternation 
babbling  Bozzy,  inspired  only  by  love,  and  the  chanced,  irradiating  it,  or  eclipsed  by  it. 
recognition  which  love  can  lend,  epitomizes  The  world,  as  we  said,  has  been  but  unjust 
nightly  the  words  of  wisdom,  the  deeds  and  40  to  him;  discerning  only  the  outer  terrestrial 
aspects  of  wisdom,  and  so,  by  little  and  little,  and  often  sordid  mass;  without  eye,  as  it 
unconsciously  works  together  for  us  a  whole  generally  is,  for  his  inner  divine  secret;  and 
Johnsoniad^''  a  more  free,  perfect,  sunlit  and  thus  figuring  him  nowise  as  a  god  Pan,  but 
spirit-speaking  likeness  than  for  many  cen-  simply  of  the  bestial  species,  like  the  cattle 
turies  had  been  drawn  by  man  of  man!  Scarcely  45  on  a  thousand  hills.  Nay,  sometimes  a  strange 
since  the  days  of  Homer  has  the  feat  been  enough  hj^othesis  has  been  started  of  him ;  as 
equalled;  indeed,  in  many  senses,  this  also  is  if  it  were  in  virtue  even  of  these  same  bad 
a  kind  of  heroic  poem.  The  fit  "Odyssey"  of  qualities  that  he  did  his  good  work;  as  if  it 
our  unheroic  age  was  to  be  written,  not  sung;  were  the  very  fact  of  his  being  among  the  worst 
of  a  thinker,  not  of  a  fighter;  and  (for^  want  of  50  men  in  this  world  that  had  enabled  him  to 
a  Homer)  by  the  first  open  soul  that  might  write  one  of  the  best  books  therein!  Falser 
offer — looked  such  even  through  the  organs  of  hypothesis,  we  may  venture  to  say,  never  rose 
a  Boswell.  We  do  the  man's  intellectual  en-  in  human  soul.  Bad  is  by  its  nature  negative, 
dowment  great  wrong,  if  we  measure  it  by  its  and  can  do  nothing;  whatsoever  enables  us  to 
mere  logical  outcome;  though,  here  too,  there  55  do  anything  is  by  its  very  nature  good.  Alas, 
is  not  wanting  a  light  ingenuity,  a  figurative-  that  there  should  be  teachers  in  Israel,  or  even 
ness  and  fanciful  sport,  with  glimpses  of  in-  learners,  to  whom  this  world-ancient  fact  is 
J  --kfih        f"      lite  still  problematical,  or  even  deniable!    Boswell 

"  AaepS^oTjohS's^i?  hLJuSd^MS!"   ^  ^'  wrote  a  good  book  because  he  had  a  heart  and 


680  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

an  eye  to  discern  wisdom,  and  an  utterance  was  to  this  man,  what  to  the  Thinker  and 
to  render  it  forth;  because  of  his  free  insight,  Prophet  it  forever  is,  preternatural  This 
his  hvely  talent — above  all,  of  his  love  and  green  flowery  rock-built  earth,  the  trees,  the 
open-mindedness.  His  sneaking  sycophancies,  mountains,  rivers,  many-sounding  seas; — 
his  greediness  and  forwardness,  whatever  was  5  that  great  deep  sea  of  azure  that  swims  over- 
bestial  and  earthy  in  him,  are  so  many  blem-  head;  the  tdnds  sweeping  through  it;  the  black 
ishes  in  his  book,  which  still  disturb  us  in  cloud  fashioning  itself  together,  now  pouring 
its  clearness;  wholly  hindrances,  not  helps,  out  fire,  now  hail  and  rain;  what  is  it?  Ay, 
Towards  Johnson,  however,  his  feeling  was  not  what?  At  bottom  we  do  not  yet  know;  we 
sycophancy,  which  is  the  lowest,  but  reverence,  10  can  never  know  at  all.  It  is  not  by  our  superior 
which  is  the  highest  of  human  feehngs.  None  insight  that  we  escape  the  difficulty;  it  is  by 
but  a  reverent  man  (which  so  unspeakably  few  our  superior  levity,  our  inattention,  our  want 
are)  could  have  found  his  way  from  Boswell's  of  insight.  It  is  by  not  thinking  that  we  cease 
environment  to  Johnson's:  if  such  worship  for  to  wonder  at  it.  Hardened  round  us,  encasing 
real  God-made  superiors,  showed  itself  also  as  15  wholly  every  notion  we  form,  is  a  wrappage  of 
worship  for  apparent  tailor-made  superiors,  traditions,  hearsays,  mere  words.  We  call 
even  as  hollow  interested  mouth-worship  for  that  fire  of  the  black  thunder  cloud  "elec- 
such — the  case,  in  this  composite  human  nature  tricity,"  and  lecture  learnedly  about  it,  and 
of  ours,  was  not  miraculous,  the  more  was  the  grind  the  like  of  it  out  of  glass  and  silk;  but 
pity!  But  for  ourselves,  let  every  one  of  us  20  what  is  it?  What  made  it?  Whence  comes  it? 
chng  to  this  last  article  of  faith,  and  know  it  Whither  goes  it?  Science  has  done  much  for 
as  the  beginning  of  all  knowledge  worthy  the  us;  but  it  is  a  poor  science  that  would  hide 
name:  That  neither  James  Boswell's  good  from  us  the  great  deep  sacred  infinitude  of 
book,  nor  any  other  good  thing,  in  any  time  Nescience,  whither  we  can  never  penetrate,  on 
or  in  any  place,  was,  is,  or  can  be  performed  by  25  which  all  science  swims  as  a  mere  super- 
any  man  in  virtue  of  his  badness,  but  always  ficial  film.  This  world,  after  all  our  science 
and  solely  in  spite  thereof.  and   sciences,   is   still   a  miracle;   wonderful, 

inscrutable,  magical  and  more,  to  whosoever 

will  think  of  it. 
.^    ^  30     That  great  mystery  of  Time,  were  there 

itihj  HHiKO  jjQ  other;  the  illimitable,  silent,  never-resting 

(From  Heroes  and  Hero  WarsUp,  1841)  t^i^S  ^aUed  Time   rolling,  rushing  on    swift, 

silent,  like  an  all-embracmg  ocean-tide,  on 
You  remember  that  fancy  of  Plato's,^  of  a  which  we  and  all  the  Universe  swim  Uke  ex- 
man  who  had  grown  to  maturity  in  some  dark  35  halations,  like  apparitions  which  are,  and  then 
distance,  and  was  brought  on  a  sudden  into  the  are  not;  this  is  forever  very  literally  a  miracle; 
upper  air  to  see  the  sun  rise.  What  would  his  a  thing  to  strike  us  dumb, — for  we  have  no 
wonder  be,  his  rapt  astonishment  at  the  sight  word  to  speak  about  it.  This  Universe,  ah  me — 
we  daily  witness  with  indifference!  With  the  what  could  the  wild  man  know  of  It;  what 
free  open  sense  of  a  child,  yet  with  the  ripe  40  can  we  yet  know?  That  it  is  a  Force,  and 
faculty  of  a  man,  his  whole  heart  would  be  thousandfold  Complexity  of  forces;  a  Force 
kindled  by  that  sight,  he  would  discern  it  which  is  not  we.  That  is  all;  it  is  not  we,  it  is 
well  to  be  Godlike,  his  soul  would  faU  down  altogether  different  from  its.  Force,  Force, 
in  worship  before  it.  Now,  just  such  a  childlike  everywhere  Force;  we  ourselves  a  mysterious 
greatness  was  in  the  primitive  nations.  The 45  Force  in  the  centre  of  that.  "There  is  not  a 
first  Pagan  Thinker  among  rude  men,  the  leaf  rotting  on  the  highway  but  has  Force  in  it: 
first  man  that  began  to  think,  was  precisely  how  else  could  it  rot?"  Nay,  surely,  to  the 
this  child-man  of  Plato's.  Simple,  open  as  a  Atheistic  Thinker,  if  such  a  one  were  possible, 
child,  yet  with  the  depth  and  strength  of  a  it  must  be  a  miracle  too,  this  huge  illimitable 
man.  Nature  had  as  yet  no  name  to  him;  he  50  whirlwind  of  Force,  which  envelopes  us  here; 
had  not  yet  united  under  a  name  the  infinite  never-resting  whirlwind,  high  as  Immensity, 
variety  of  sights,  sounds,  shapes  aad  motions,  old  as  Eternity.  What  is  it?  God's  creation, 
which  we  now  collectively  name  Universe,  the  religious  people  answer;  it  is  the  Almighty 
Nature,  or  the  like — and  so  with  a  name  dis-  God's!  Atheistic  science  babbles  poorly  of  it, 
miss  it  from  us.  To  the  wild  deep-hearted  55  with  scientific  nomenclatures,  experiments 
man  all  was  yet  new,  not  veiled  under  names  and  what-not,  as  if  it  were  a  poor  dead  thing^  j 
or  formulas;  it  stood  naked,  flashing-in  on  him  to  be  bottled-up  in  Leyden  jars  and  sold  over(,j 
there,  beautiful,  awful,  unspeakable.  Nature  counters:  but  the  natural  sense  of  man,  in  all 
1  See  Plato's  Republic,  Bk.  VII.  times,  if  he  will  honestly  apply  his  sense,  pro- 


THOMAS  CARLYLE                                         68V 

olaims  it  to  be  a  living  thing, — ah,  an  unspeak-  did,  what  the  horse  and  camel  did, — namely, 

able,  godhke  thing;  towards  which  the  best  nothing! 

attitude  for  us,  after  never  so  much  science,  But  now  if  all  things  whatsoever  that  we  look 

is  awe,  devout  prostration  and  humility  of  soul;  upon  are  emblems  to  us  of  the  Highest  God, 

worship  if  not  in  words,  then  in  silence.  5 1  add  that  more  so  than  any  of  them  is  man 

But  now  I  remark  farther:  What  in  such  a  such   an   emblem.     You   have   heard   of   St. 

time  as  ours  it  requires  a  Prophet  or  Poet  to  Chrysostom's^  celebrated  saying  in  reference 

teach  us,  namely,  the  stripping  off  of  those  poor  to  the  Shekinah,  or  Ark  of  Testimony,  visible 

undevout  wrappages,  nomenclatures  and  scien-  Revelation    of    God,    among    the    Hebrews: 
tific  hearsays, — this,  the  ancient  earnest  soul,  10  "The  true  Shekinah^  is  Man!"    Yes,  it  is  even 

as  yet  unencumbered  with  these  things,  did  so:  this  is  no  vain  phrase,  it  is  veritably  so. 

for  itself.    The  world,  which  is  now  divine  only  The  essence  of  our  being,  the  mystery  in  us 

to  the  gifted,  was  then  divine  to  whosoever  that  calls  itseK  "I," — ah,  what  words  have  we 

would  turn  his  eye  upon  it.     He  stood  bare  for  such  things? — is  a  breath  of  Heaven;  the 
before  it  face  to  face.     "All  was  Godlike  or  15  Highest  Being  reveals  himself  in  man.     This 

God:" — Jean  PauP  still  finds  it  so;  the  giant  body,  these  faculties,  this  life  of  ours,  is  it  not 

Jean  Paul,  who  has  power  to  escape  out  of  all  as  a  vesture  for  that  Unnamed?     "There 

hearsays:  but  there  then  were  no  hearsays,  is  but  one  Temple  in  the  Universe,"  says  the 

Canopus,'  shining-down  over  the  desert,  with  devout  Novalis,^  "and  that  is  the  Body  of  Man. 
its  blue  diamond  brightness  (that  wild  blue  20  Nothing  is  holier  than  that  high  form.    Bend- 

spirit-hke   brightness,    far   brighter   than   we  ing  before  men  is  a  reverence  done  to  this 

ever  witness  here),  would  pierce  into  the  heart  Revelation  in  the  Flesh.     We  touch  heaven 

of  the  wild  Ishmaelitish  man,  whom  it  was  when  we  lay  our  hand  on  a  human  body." 

guiding    through    the    solitary    waste    there.  This  sounds  much  hke  a  mere  flourish  of  rhet- 
To  his  wild  heart,  with  all  feelings  in  it,  with  25  oric;  but  it  is  not  so.     If  well  meditated,  it 

no  speech  for  any  feeling,  it  might  seem  a  Httle  will  turn  out  to  be  a  scientific  fact;  the  expres- 

eye,  that  Canopus,  glancing-out  on  him  from  sion,  in  such  words  as  can  be  had,  of  the  actual 

the  great  deep  Eternity;  reveahng  the  inner  truth  of  the  thing.     We  are  the  miracle  of 

splendour   to   him.      Cannot   we   understand  miracles, — the   great   inscrutable   mystery    of 
how  these  men  worshipped  Canopus;  became  30  God.    We  cannot  understand  it,  we  know  not 

what  we  call  Sabeans,^  worshipping  the  stars?  how  to  speak  of  it;  but  we  may  feel  and  know 

Such  is  to  me  the  secret  of  all  forms  of  Pagan-  it,  if  we  hke,  that  it  is  verily  so. 

ism.    Worship  is  transcendent  wonder;  wonder  Well,  these  truths  were  once  more  readily 

for  which  there  is  now  no  Umit  or  measure;  felt  than  now.    The  young  generations  of  the 
that  is  worship.     To  these  primeval  men,  all  35  world,    who   had   in    them    the   freshness   of 

things  and  everything  they  saw  exist  beside  young  children,  and  yet  the  depth  of  earnest 

them  were  an  emblem  of  the  Godhke,  of  some  men,  who  did  not  think  that  they  had  finished 

God.  off  all  things  in  Heaven  and  Earth  by  merely 

And  look  what  perennial  fibre  of  truth  was  giving  them  scientific  names,  but  had  to  gaze 
in   that.      To   us   also,    through    every   star,  40  direct  at  them  there,  with  awe  and  wonder: 

through  every  blade  of  grass,  is  not  a  God  they  felt  better  what  of  divinity  is  in  man  and 

made  visible,  if  we  will  open  our  minds  and  Nature; — they,    without    being    mad,    could 

eyes?    We  do  not  worship  in  that  way  now:  worship  Nature,  and  man  more  than  anything 

but  is  it  not  reckoned  still  a  merit,  proof  of  else  in  Nature.     Worship,  that  is,  as  I  said 
what   we   call   a   "poetic   nature,"    that  we 45 above,  admire  without  hmit:  this,  in  the  full 

recognize  how  every  object  has  a  divine  beauty  use  of  their  faculties,  with  all  sincerity  of  heart, 

in  it;  how  every  object  still  verily  is  "a  window  they  could  do.     I  consider  Hero-worship  to 

through  which  we  may  look  into  Infinitude  be    the    grand    modifying    element    in    that 

itself."    He  that  can  discern  the  lovehness  of  ancient  system  of  thought.    What  I  called  the 
things,   we  call  him  Poet,   Painter,   Man  of  50  perplexed  jungle  of  Paganism  sprang,  we  may 

Genius,  gifted,  loveable.    These  poor  Sabeans  say,   out  of  many  roots:  every  admiration, 

did  even  what  he  does, — ^in  their  own  fashion,  adoration  of  a  star  or  natural  object,  was  a 
That  they  did  it,  in  what  fashion  soever,  was  a 

merit:  better  than  what  the  entirely  stupid  man  ^^^/A,'^Z^Z)  ZZ°o^  ^hS'^^lJ^^'lTtt 

*Jean  Paul   Richter    (1763-1825),   one  of  the   most  early  Fathers  of  the  Church,  especially  famous  for  his 

widely  known  of  the  German  humorists  and  satirists.  Homilies. 

8  A  very  brilliant  star  of  the  Southern  hemisphere,  in  «  A  term  in  Jewish  and  early  Christian  theology,  ex- 

the  constellation  of  the  ship  Argo.     According  to  Plu-  pressing  the  divine  presence  either  in  heaven  or  upon 

tarch,  it  was  named  from  Canopus,  the  pilot  of  Menelaus.  the  earth,  among  the  people  of  Israel  or  in  the  sanctuary. 

*  A  people  of  Southern  Arabia,  formerly  supposed  to  ^  A    name    assumed    by    Friederich    von    Hardenberg 

be  worshippers  of  the  stars.  (1772-1801),  a  German  romantic  writer. 


682  THE  VICTORIAIsr  AGE 

root,  or  fibre  of  a  root;  but  Hero-woi-ship  is     it  was  always  and  everywhere,   and  cannot 
the  deepest  root  of  all;  the  tap-root,   from      cease  till  man  himself  ceases. 
which  in  a  great  degree  all  the  rest  were  nour-         I  am  well  aware  that  in  these  days  Hero- 
ished  and  grown.  worship,  the  thing  I  call  Hero-worship,  pro- 

And  now  if  worship  even  of  a  star  had  some  5  f esses  to  have  gone  out,  and  finally  ceased, 
meaning  in  it,  how  much  more  might  that  of  a  This,  for  reasons  which  it  will  be  worth  while 
Hero!  Worship  of  a  Hero  is  transcendent  ad-  sometime  to  inquire  into,  is  an  age  that  as  it 
miration  of  a  great  Man!  I  say  great  men  were  denies  the  existence  of  great  men;  denies 
are  still  admirable;  I  say,  there  is  at  bottom,  the  desirableness  of  great  men.  Show  our 
nothing  else  admirable!  No  nobler  feehng  10  critics  a  great  man,  a  Luther  for  example, 
than  this  of  admiration  for  one  higher  than  they  begin  to  what  they  call  "account"  for 
himself  dwells  in  the  breast  of  man.  It  is  to  him;  not  to  worship  him,  but  take  the  dimen- 
this  hour,  and  at  all  hours,  the  vivifying  in-  sions  of  him, — and  bring  him  out  to  be  a 
fluence  in  man's  life.  Religions  I  find  stand  little  kind  of  man!  He  was  the  "creature  of  the 
upon  it;  not  paganism  only,  but  far  higher  and  15 Time,"  they  say;  the  Time  called  him  forth, 
truer  religions, — all  reUgion  hitherto  known,  the  Time  did  everything,  he  nothing — but  what 
Hero-worship,  heartfelt  prostrate  admiration,  we  the  Httle  critic  could  have  done  too!  This 
submission,  burning,  boundless,  for  a  noblest  seems  to  me  but  melancholy  work.  The  Time 
godhke  Form  of  Man, — is  not  that  the  germ  call  forth?  Alas,  we  have  known  Times  call 
of  Christianity  itself?  The  greatest  of  all  20  loudly  enough  for  their  great  man;  but  not 
Heroes  is  One — whom  we  do  not  name  here!  find  him  when  they  called!  He  was  not  there; 
Let  sacred  silence  meditate  that  sacred  matter;  Providence  had  not  sent  him;  the  Time,  calling 
you  will  find  it  the  ultimate  perfection  of  a  its  loudest,  had  to  go  down  to  confusion  and 
principle  extant  throughout  man's  history  wreck  because  he  would  not  come  when  called, 
on  earth.  25     For  if  we  think  of  it,  no  Time  need  have 

Or  coming  into  lower,  less  unspeakable  gone  to  ruin,  could  it  have  found  a  man  great 
provinces,  is  not  all  Loyalty  akin  to  religious  enough,  a  man  wise  and  good  enough:  wisdom 
Faith  also?  Faith  is  loyalty  to  some  inspired  to  discern  truly  what  the  Time  wanted,  valour 
Teacher,  some  spiritual  Hero.  And  what  to  lead  it  on  the  right  road  thither;  these  are 
therefore  is  loyalty  proper,  the  Hf e-breath  of  all  30  the  salvation  of  any  Time.  But  I  hken  common 
society,  but  an  effluence  of  Hero-worshij),  languid  Times,  with  their  unbelief,  distress, 
submissive  admiration  for  the  truly  great?  perplexity,  with  their  languid  doubting  char- 
Society  is  founded  on  Hero-worship.  All  acters  and  embarrassed  circumstances,  im- 
dignities  of  rank,  on  which  human  association  potently  crumbling  down  into  ever  worse 
rests,  are  what  we  may  call  a  Heroaxchy  (Gov- 35  distress  towards  final  ruin: — all  this  I  hken 
ernment  of  Heroes), — or  a  Hierarchy,^  for  it  to  dry  dead  fuel,  waiting  for  the  lightning 
is  "sacred"  enough  withal!  The  Duke  means  out  of  Heaven  that  shall  kindle  it.  The  great 
Dux,  Leader;  King  is  Kon-ning,  Kan-ning,  man,  with  his  free  force  direct  out  of  God's 
Man  that  knows  or  cans.^  Society  everywhere  own  hand,  is  the  lightning.  His  word  is  the 
is  some  representation,  not  wsupportably  40  wise  healing  word  which  all  can  believe  in. 
inaccurate,  of  a  graduated  Worship  of  Heroes:—  All  blazes  round  him  now,  when  he  has  once 
reverence  and  obedience  done  to  men  really  struck  on  it,  into  fire  hke  his  own.  The  dry 
great  and  wise.  Not  insupportably  inaccurate,  mouldering  sticks  are  thought  to  have  called 
I  say!  They  are  all  as  bank-notes,  these  social  him  forth.  They  did  want  him  greatly;  but 
dignitaries,  all  representing  gold; — and  several 45  as  to  calling  him  forth — !  Those  are  critics 
of  them  alas,  always  are  forged  notes.  We  of  small  vision,  I  think,  who  cry:  "See,  is  it 
can  do  with  some  forged  false  notes;  with  a  not  the  sticks  that  made  the  fire? "  No  sadder 
good  many  even;  but  not  with  all,  or  the  most  proof  can  be  given  by  a  man  of  his  own  httle- 
of  them  forged!  No:  there  have  to  come  ness  than  disbelief  in  great  men.  There  is  no 
revolutions  then;  cries  of  Democracy,  Liberty  50  sadder  symptom  of  a  generation  than  such 
and  Equahty,  and  I  know  not  what: — the  general  bhndness  to  the  spiritual  lightning, 
notes  being  all  false,  and  no  gold  to  be  had  for  with  faith  only  in  the  heap  of  barren  dead  fuel. 
them,  people  take  to  crying  in  their  depair  It  is  the  last  consummation  of  unbelief.  In 
that  there  is  no  gold,  that  there  never  was  any!  all  epochs  of  the  world's  history,  we  shall  find 
— "Gold,"  Hero-worship,  is  nevertheless,  as  55  the  Great  Man  to  have  been  the  indispensable 

8 From  the  Greek  hieros,  sacred,  and  archo,  I  rule.       ^^T^'^^l^^  }''^,  epoch:-the  hghtning,   without\ 
Here  used  as  "government  by  the  holy  or  sacred  ones."       WhlCn  the  lUel  never  WOUld  nave  burnt.      i  D.Q  , 

•This  derivation  of  Ain^from  con  is  a  mistaken  etymol-     History  of  the  World,  I  said  akeady,  was  the 

ogy.     King  comes  from  O.  E.  cynxng,  and  xs  related  to-r,.         *',         e  ry       a.  -xit 

English  kin.  Biography  of  Great  Men, 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  683 

BURNS  his  nobleness;  voting  pieces  of  plate  to  him! 

(From  the  same)  However,  he  was  not  lost;  nothing  is  lost. 

^  Robert  is  there;  the  outcome  of  him, — and 

It  was  a  curious  phenom  3non,  in  the  with-  indeed  of  many  generations  of  such  as  him. 
ered,  unbeheving,  secondhand  Eighteenth  Cen-  5  This  Burns  appeared  under  every  disad- 
tury,  that  of  a  hero  starting  up,  among  the  vantage;  uninstructed,  poor,  born  only  to  hard 
artificial  pasteboard  figures  and  productions,  manual  toil;  and  writing,  when  it  came  to  that, 
in  the  guise  of  a  Robert  Burns.  Like  a  little  in  a  rustic  special  dialect,  known  only  to  a 
well  in  the  rocky  desert  places, — hke  a  sudden  small  province  of  the  country  he  Hved  in.  Had 
splendour  of  Heaven  in  the  artificial  Vauxhall!*  10  he  written,  even  what  he  did  write,  in  the  gen- 
People  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it.  They  eral  language  of  England,  I  doubt  not  he  had 
took  it  for  a  piece  of  the  Vauxhall  firework;  already  become  universally  recognized  as 
alas,  it  let  itself  be  so  taken,  though  struggling  being,  or  capable  to  be,  one  of  our  greatest 
half-bhndly,  as  in  bitterness  of  death,  against  men.  That  he  should  have  tempted  so  many 
that!  Perhaps  no  man  had  such  a  false  recep-  15  to  penetrate  through  the  rough  husk  of  that 
tion  from  his  fellowmen.  Once  more  a  very  dialect  of  his,  is  proof  that  there  lay  some- 
wasteful  life-drama  was  enacted  under  the  sun.      thing  far  from  common  within  it.     He  has 

The  tragedy  of  Burns'  life  is  known  to  all  of  gained  a  certain  recognition,  and  is  continu- 
you.  Surely  we  may  say  if  discrepancy  be-  ing  to  do  so  over  all  quarters  of  our  wide  Saxon 
tween  place  held  and  place  merited  constitute  20  world:  wheresoever  a  Saxon  dialect  is  spoken, 
perverseness  of  lot  for  a  man,  no  lot  could  be  it  begins  to  be  understood,  by  personal  inspec- 
more  perverse  than  Burns's.  Among  those  tion  of  this  and  the  other,  that  one  of  the  most 
secondhand  acting-figures,  mimes  for  most  part,  considerable  Saxon  men  of  the  Eighteenth 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  once  more  a  giant  Century  was  an  Ayrshire  Peasant  named 
Original  Man;  one  of  those  men  who  reach  25  Robert  Burns.  Yes,  I  will  say,  here  too  was  a 
down  to  the  perennial  Deeps,  who  take  rank  piece  of  the  right  Saxon  stuff:  strong  as  the 
with  the  Heroic  among  men:  and  he  was  born  Harz-rock,^  rooted  in  the  depths  of  the  world; 
in  a  poor  Ayrshire  hut.  The  largest  soul  of  all  — rock,  yet  with  wells  of  living  softness  in  it! 
the  British  lands  came  among  us  in  the  shape  A  wild  impetuous  whirlwind  of  passion  and 
of  a  hard-handed  Scottish  Peasant.  30  faculty  slumbered  quiet  there;  such  heavenly 

His  Father,  a  poor  toiling  man,  tried  various  melody  dwelhng  in  the  heart  of  it.  A  noble 
things;  did  not  succeed  in  any;  was  involved  in  rough  genuineness;  homely,  rustic,  honest; 
continual  difficulties.  'The  Steward,  Factor  true  simplicity  of  strength;  with  its  lightning- 
as  the  Scotch  call  him,  used  to  send  letters  and  fire,  with  its  soft  dewy  pity; — like  the  old 
threatenings.  Burns  says,  "which  threw  us  35  Norse  Thor,^  the  Peasant-god! 
all  into  tears."    The  brave,  hard-toiling,  hard-  Burns's  brother  Gilbert,  a  man  of  much  sease 

suffering  Father,  his  brave  heroine  of  a  wife;  and  worth,  has  told  me  that  Robert,  in  his 
and  those  children,  of  whom  Robert  was  one!  young  days,  in  spite  of  their  hardship,  was 
In  this  Earth,  so  wide  otherwise,  no  shelter  usually  the  gayest  of  speech;  a  fellow  of  in- 
iovihem.  The  letters  "threw  us  all  into  tears:"  40  finite  frolic,  laughter,  sense  and  heart;  far 
figure  it.  The  brave  Father,  I  say  always; — a  pleasanter  to  hear  there,  stript,  cutting  peats 
silent  Hero  and  Poet;  without  whom  the  son  in  the  bog,  or  suchlike,  than  he  ever  afterwards 
had  never  been  a  speaking  one!  Burns's  school-  knew  him.  I  can  well  believe  it.  The  basis 
master^  came  afterwards  to  London,  learnt  of  mirth  {"fond  gaillard,"  as  old  Marquis 
what  good  society  was;  but  declares  that  in45Mirabeau  calls  it),  a  primal-element  of  sun- 
no  meeting  of  men  did  he  ever  enjoy  better  shine  and  joyfulness,  coupled  with  his  other 
discourse  than  at  the  hearth  of  this  peasant,  deep  and  earnest  qualities,  is  one  of  the  most 
And  his  poor  "seven  acres  of  nursery-ground,"  attractive  characteristics  of  Burns.  A  large 
— not  that,  nor  the  miserable  patch  of  clay-  fund  of  Hope  dwells  in  him;  spite  of  his  tragical 
farm,  nor  anything  he  tried  to  get  a  living  by,  50  history,  he  is  not  a  mourning  man.  He  shakes 
would  prosper  with  him;  he  had  a  sore  unequal  his  sorrows  gallantly  aside;  bounds  forth  vic- 
battle  all  his  days.  But  he  stood  to  it  vahantly;  torious  over  them.  It  is  as  the  Hon  shaking 
a  wise,  faithful,  unconquerable  man; — swal-  "dew-drops  from  his  mane;"  as  the  swift- 
lowing  down  how  many  sore  sufferings  daily  bounding  horse,  that  laughs  at  the  shaking  of 
into  silence;  fighting  like  an  unseen  Hero, —  55  the  spear. — But  indeed,  Hope,  Mirth,  of  the 
nobody  publishing  newspaper  paragraphs  about      sort  hke  Burns's,  are  they  not  the  outcome 

1  Vauxhall  Gardens  on  the  outskirts  of  London,  a  place 

of  public  amusement.  *  Rocky  mountains  in  Germany,  the  highest  peak  the 

2  John   Murdoch,    who   was  instrumental  in  guiding       Brocken  is  the  scene  of  the  witches  in  Goethe's  Faust. 
Burns's  early  reading.  *  The  Scandinavian  god  of  Thunder. 


684  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

properly  of  warm  generous  affection, — such  unresting  man.  But  the  characteristic  of 
as  is  the  beginning  of  all  to  every  man?  Mirabeau  too  is  veracity  and  sense,  power  of 

You  would  think  it  strange  if  I  called  Burns  true  insight,  superiority  of  vision.  The  thing 
the  most  gifted  British  soul  we  had  in  all  that  that  he  says  is  worth  remembering.  It  is  a 
century  of  his:  and  yet  I  believe  the  day  is  5  flash  of  insight  into  some  object  or  other:  so 
coming  when  there  will  be  little  danger  in  say-  do  both  these  men  speak.  The  same  raging 
ing  so.  His  writings,  all  that  he  did  under  such  passions;  capable  too  in  both  of  manifesting 
obstructions  are  only  a  poor  fragment  of  him.  themselves  as  the  tenderest  noble  affections. 
Professor  Stewart^  remarked  very  justly,  what  Wit,  wild  laughter,  energy,  directness,  sin- 
indeed  is  true  of  all  Poets  good  for  much,  that  10  cerity:  these  were  in  both.  The  types  of  the 
his  poetry  was  not  any  particular  faculty;  but  two  men  are  not  dissimilar.  Burns  too  could 
the  general  result  of  a  naturally  vigorous  have  governed,  debated  in  National  Assem- 
original  mind  expressing  itself  in  that  way.  bhes;  policised,  as  few  could.  Alas,  the  cour- 
Burns's  gifts,  expressed  in  conversation,  are  age  which  had  to  exhibit  itseK  in  capture  of 
the  theme  of  all  that  ever  heard  him.  All  kinds  15  smuggling  schooners  in  the  Solway  Frith ;^  in 
of  gifts:  from  the  gracefulest  utterances  of  keeping  silence  over  so  much,  where  no  good 
courtesy,  to  the  highest  fire  of  passionate  speech,  but  only  inarticulate  rage  was  possible: 
speech;  loud  floods  of  mirth,  soft  waiUngs  of  this  might  have  bellowed  forth  Ushers  de  Br4z4' 
affection,  laconic  emphasis,  clear  piercing  in-  and  the  like;  and  made  itself  visible  to  all 
sight;  all  was  in  him.  Witty  duchesses  cele-20men,  in  managing  of  kingdoms,  in  ruling  of 
brate  him  as  a  man  whose  speech  "led  them  great,  ever-memorable  epochs!  But  they  said 
off  their  feet."  This  is  beautiful:  but  still  to  him  reprovingly,  his  Official  Superiors  said, 
more  beautiful  that  which  Mr.  Lockhart^  has  and  wrote:  "You  are  to  work,  not  to  think." 
recorded,  which  I  have  more  than  once  alluded  Of  your  thinking-isiculty,  the  greatest  in  this 
to,  How  the  waiters  and  ostlers  at  inns  would  25  land,  we  have  no  need;  you  are  to  gauge  beer 
get  out  of  bed,  and  come  crowding  to  hear  there;  for  that  only  arfe  you  wanted.  Very 
this  man  speak!  Waiters  and  ostlers: — they  notable; — and  worth  mentioning,  though  we 
too  were  men,  and  here  was  a  man!  I  have  know  what  is  to  be  said  and  answered!  As  if 
heard  much  about  his  speech;  but  one  of  the  thought,  Power  of  Thinking,  were  not  at  all 
best  things  I  ever  heard  of  it  was,  last  year,  30  times,  in  all  places  and  situations  of  the  world, 
from  a  venerable  gentleman  long  familiar  with  precisely  the  thing  that  was  wanted.  The 
him.  That  it  was  speech  distinguished  by  fatal  man,  is  he  not  always  the  -unthinking 
always  having  something  in  it.  "He  spoke  man,  the  man  who  cannot  think  and  see;  but 
rather  Httle  than  much,"  this  old  man  told  only  grope,  and  hallucinate;  and  missee  the 
me;  "sat  rather  silent  in  those  early  days,  as  35  nature  of  the  thing  he  works  with?  He  misses 
in  the  company  of  persons  above  him;  and  it,  mistakes  it  as  we  say;  takes  it  for  one  thing, 
always  when  he  did  speak,  it  was  to  throw  and  it  is  another  thing, — and  leaves  him  stand- 
new  light  on  the  matter."  I  know  not  why  ing  hke  a  Futility  there!  He  is  the  fatal  man; 
any  one  should  ever  speak  otherwise! — But  unutterably  fatal,  put  in  the  high  places  of 
if  we  look  at  his  general  force  of  soul,  his  healthy  40  men. — "Why  complain  of  this?"  say  some: 
robustness  every  way,  the  rugged  downright-  "Strength  is  mournfully  denied  its  arena;  thaf 
ness,  penetration,  generous  valour  and  man-  was  true  from  of  old."  Doubtless;  and  ^tht 
fulness  that  was  in  him, — where  shall  we  worse  for  the  arena,  answer  I!  Complainim 
readily  find  a  better-gifted  man?  profits  Httle;  stating  of  the  truth  may  profit. 

Among  the  great  men  of  the  Eighteenth  45  That  a  Europe,  with  its  French  Revolution 
Century,  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  Burns  might  just  breaking  out,  finds  no  need  of  a  Burns 
be  found  to  resemble  Mirabeau'^  more  than  except  for  gauging  beer, — is  a  thing  I,  for  one, 
any  other.    They  differ  widely  in  vesture;  yet      cannot  rejoice  at. 

look  at  them  intrinsically.  There  is  the  same  Once  more  we  have  to  say  here,  that  the 
burly  thick-necked  strength  of  body  as  of  50  chief  quahty  of  Burns  is  the  sincerity  of  him. 
soul; — built,  in  both  cases,  on  what  the  old  So  in  his  Poetry,  so  in  his  hfe.  The  Song  he 
Marquis  calls  a  fond  gaillard.    By  nature   by         ^  ^^  ^,j^^.^^  ^^  3^^^^,  ^^^^^^,.^^  ^  ^^^-^^  ^^^^^  ^^^ 

course  of  breedmg,  mdeed  by  nation,  Mirabeau       gauger  of  ale  at  Dumfries,  where  it  sometimes  became  his 

has  much  more  of  bluster;   a  noisy,   forward,       duty  to  board  and  seize  a  smuggling  brig,  as  was  the 

'  case  on  l^eb.  ^7,  17y.i. 

9  The  Marquis  de  Br6z4  was  Chief  Usher  to  the  Court\  1 
)rofes3or    of    moral       at  the  time  of  the  French  Revolution.      On  one  occasion,  \  ( 
June  22,  1789,  when  de  Brez6  attempted  to  dismiss  the  '(f 
and  biographer        National  Deputies  by  the  King's  orders,  Mirabeau  defied    ' 
of  Scott,  wrote  also  a  Life  of  Burns,  1828.  him  in  the  name  of  the  will  of  the  people,  and  thus  held 

^  A  famous  French  writer,  orator,  and  statesman  (1749-       the  deputies  in  session.     V.  Carlyle's  French  Revolution,    \ 
91).     The  "old  Marquis,"  mentioned  later,  is  his  father.        Vol.  I.,  Bk.  V.,  chap.  II.  j 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  685 

sings  is  not  of  fantasticalities;  it  is  of  a  thing  message  from  on  high;  and  must  and  will  have 
felt,  really  there;  the  prime  merit  of  this,  as      itself  obeyed. 

of  all  in  him,  and  of  his  life  generally,  is  truth.  My  last  remark  is  on  that  notablest  phasis 

The  life  of  Burnp  is  what  we  may  call  a  great  of  Burns's  history, — his  visit  to  Edinburgh. ^2 
tragic  sincerity.  A  sort  of  savage  sincerity, —  5  Often  it  seems  to  me  as  if  his  demeanour  there 
not  cruel,  far  from  that;  but  wild,  wrestling  were  the  highest  proof  he  gave  of  what  a 
naked  with  the  truth  of  things.  In  that  sense,  fund  of  worth  and  genuine  manhood  was  in 
there  is  something  of  the  savage  in  all  great  him.  If  we  think  of  it,  few  heavier  burdens 
men.  could  be  laid  on  the  strength  of  a  man.     So 

Hero-worship,— Odin,  Bums? ^°  Well:  These  10  sudden;  all  common  Lionism,  which  ruins 
Men  of  Letters  too  were  not  without  a  kind  of  innumerable  men,  was  as  nothing  to  this. 
Hero-worship;  but  what  a  strange  condition  It  is  as  if  Napoleon  had  been  made  a  King  of, 
has  that  got  into  now!  The  waiters  and  ostlers  not  gradually,  but  at  once  from  the  Artillery 
of  Scotch  inns,  prying  about  the  door,  eager  Lieutenantcy  in  the  Regiment  La  F6re.  Burns, 
to  catch  any  words  that  fell  from  Burns,  were  15  still  only  in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  is  no 
doing  unconscious  reverence  to  the  Heroic,  longer  even  a  ploughman;  he  is  flying  to  the 
Johnson  had  his  Boswell  for  worshipper,  Rous-  West  Indies  to  escape  disgrace  and  jail.  This 
seau^^  had  worshippers  enough;  princes  calling  month  he  is  a  ruined  peasant,  his  wages  seven 
on  him  in  his  mean  garret;  the  great,  the  pounds  a  year,  and  these  gone  from  him:  next 
beautiful  doing  reverence  to  the  poor  moon- 20  month  he  is  in  the  blaze  of  rank  and  beauty, 
struck  man.  For  himself  a  most  portentous  handing  down  jewelled  Duchesses  to  dinner; 
contradiction;  the  two  ends  of  his  life  not  to  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes!  Adversity  is  some- 
be  brought  into  harmony.  He  sits  at  the  times  hard  upon  a  man;  but  for  one  man  who 
tables  of  grandees;  and  has  to  copy  music  can  stand  prosperity,  there  are  a  hundred 
for  his  own  living.  He  cannot  even  get  his  25  that  will  stand  adversity.  I  admire  much  the 
music  copied:  "By  dint  of  dining  out,"  says  way  in  which  Burns  met  all  this.  Perhaps 
he,  "I  run  the  risk  of  dying  by  starvation  at  no  man  one  could  point  out,  was  ever  so  sorely 
home."  For  his  worshippers  too  a  most  tried,  and  so  little  forgot  himself.  Tranquil, 
questionable  thing!  If  doing  Hero-worship  unastonished;  not  abashed,  not  inflated,  neither 
well  or  badly  be  the  test  of  vital  wellbeing  or  30  awkwardness  nor  afi"ectation :  he  feels  that 
illbeing  to  a  generation,  can  we  say  that  these  he  there  is  the  man  Robert  Burns;  that  the 
generations  are  very  first-rate? — And  yet  "rank  is  but  the  guinea-stamp;"  that  the 
our  heroic  Men  of  Letters  do  teach,  govern,  celebrity  is  but  the  candle-light,  which  will 
are  kings,  priests,  or  what  you  like  to  call  them;  show  what  man,  not  in  the  least  make  him  a 
intrinsically  there  is  no  preventing  it  by  any  35 better  or  other  man!  Alas,  it  may  readily, 
means  whatever.  The  world  has  to  obey  him  unless  he  look  to  it,  make  him  a  worse  man; 
who  thinks  and  sees  in  the  world.  The  world  a  wretched  inflated  wind-bag, — inflated  till 
can  alter  the  manner  of  that;  can  either  have  he  burst,  and  become  a  dead  lion;  for  whom, 
it  as  blessed  continuous  summer  sunshine,  or  as  some  one  has  said,  "  there  is  no  resurrection 
as  unblessed  black  thunder  and  tornado, —  40  of  the  body;"  worse  than  a  living  dog! — Burns 
with  unspeakable  difference  of  profit  for  the      is  admirable  here. 

world!     The  manner  of  it  is  very  alterable;  And  yet,  alas,  as  I  have  observed  elsewhere, 

the  matter  and  fact  of  it  is  not  alterable  by  any  these  Lion-hunters  were  the  ruin  and  death  of 
power  under  the  sky.  Light;  or,  failing  that.  Burns.  It  was  they  that  rendered  it  impossible 
lightning:  the  world  can  take  its  choice.  Not  45  for  him  to  live!  They  gathered  round  him  in  his 
whether  we  call  an  Odin  god,  prophet,  priest.  Farm;  hindered  his  industry;  no  place  was 
or  what  we  call  him;  but  whether  we  believe  remote  enough  from  them.  He  could  not  get 
the  word  he  tells  us:  there  it  all  lies.  If  it  his  Lionism  forgotten,  honestly  as  he  was  dis- 
be  a  true  word,  we  shall  have  to  believe  it;  posed  to  do  so.  He  falls  into  discontents, 
believing  it,  we  shall  have  to  do  it.  What  60  into  miseries,  faults;  the  world  getting  ever 
name  or  welcome  we  give  him  or  it,  is  a  point  more  desolate  for  him;  health,  character, 
that  concerns  ourselves  mainly.  It,  the  new  peace  of  mind,  all  gone; — solitary  enough  now. 
Truth,   new   deeper  revealing   of  the  Secret      It  is  tragical  to  think  of!  These  men  came  but 

of  this  Universe,  is  verily  of  the  nature  of  a  „_,,       .  ^       .  ,_„„  ^  ^               i.  •    tt-j-  u     u 

'                  *^  12  The  winter  of  1786-7,  Burns  spent  m  Edinburgh, 

w  Carlyle  began  his  series  of  lectures  on  Heroes  and  Hero  where  he  became  the  lion  of  the  season  and  was  courted 

PTors/iip,  with  that  on  "The  Hero  as  Divinity,"  in  which  by  the  witty,  the  fashionable,  and  the  learned.     Just 

he  first  considered  the  Norse  god  Odin.  before  this  be  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  country 

"  Rousseau  (1712-78),  was  one  of  the  greatest  French  "to  escape  disgrace,  or  jail,"  and  "of  flying  to  the  West 

writers  of  the  pre-revolutionary  period.    Johnson,  Rous-  Indies."     News  of  the  success  of  his  poems,  however, 

seau,  and  Burns,  are  the  three  illustrations  of  the  "Hero  determined  him  to  go  to  Edinburgh  to  publish  a  second 

as  Man  of  Letters  "  used  by  Carlyle  in  this  lecture.  edition. 


686  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

to  see  him;  it  was  out  of  no  sympathy  with  which  are  far  from  thee.  "Cannot  I  do  what 
him,  nor  no  hatred  to  him.  They  came  to  get  I  hke  with  my  own?"  Gracious  Heaven,  my 
a  little  amusement:  they  got  their  amusement;  brother,  this  that  thou  seest  with  those  sick 
— and  the  Hero's  life  went  for  it!  eyes  is  no  firm  Eldorado,  and  Corn-Law  Para- 

Richter  says,  in  the  Island  of  Sumatra  there  5  dise  of  Donothings,  but  a  dream  of  thy  own 
is  a  kind  of  "Lightchafers,"  large  Fire-flies,      fevered  brain.     It  is  a  glass-window,   I  tell 
which  people  stick  upon  spits,  and  illuminate      thee,  so  many  stories  from  the  street;  where 
the  ways  with  at  night.    Persons  of  condition      are  iron  spikes  and  the  law  of  gravitation! 
can    thus    travel   with    a   pleasant   radiance,  What  is  the  meaning  of  nobleness,  if  this 

which  they  much  admire.  Great  honour  to  lO be  "noble?"  In  a  valiant  suffering  for  others, 
the  Fire-flies!  But — ! —  not  in  a  slothful  making  others  suffer  for  us, 

did  nobleness  ever  lie.    The  chief  of  men  is  he 
THE  GrOSPEL  OF  WORK  ^^^  stands  in  the  van  of  men;  fronting  the 

,_,         _,  -  „  10 -ION  P®^^^  which  frightens  back  all  others;  which,  if 

(From  Past  and  Present,  1843)  ^^^^  be  not  vanquished,  wiU  devour  the  others. 

A  High  Class  without  duties  to  do  is  like  a  Every  noble  crown  is,  and  on  Earth  will  forever 
tree  planted  on  precipices;  from  the  roots  of  be,  a  crown  of  thorns.  The  Pagan  Hercules, 
which  all  the  earth  has  been  crumbUng.  Nature  why  was  he  accounted  a  hero?  Because  he  had 
owns  no  man  who  is  not  a  Martyr  withal.  Is  slain  Nemean  Lions,  cleaned  Augean  Stables, 
there  a  man  who  pretends  to  Uve  luxuriously  20  undergone  Twelve  Labors^  only  not  too  heavy 
housed  up;  screened  from  all  work,  from  want,  for  a  god.  In  modern,  as  in  ancient  and  in  all 
danger,  hardship,  the  victory  over  which  is  societies,  the  Aristocracy,  doing  them  or  not, 
what  we  name  work, — he  himself  to  sit  serene,  have  taken  the  post  of  honor;  which  is  the  post 
amid  down-bolsters  and  apphances,  and  have  of  difficulty,  the  post  of  danger, — of  death,  if 
all  his  work  and  battling  done  by  other  men?  25  the  difficulty  be  not  overcome.  II  faut  -payer 
And  such  man  calls  himself  a  noWe-man?  His  de  sa  irie.^  Why  was  our  hfe  given  us,  if  not 
fathers  worked  for  him,  he  says;  or  success-  that  we  should  manfully  give  it?  Descend, 
fully  gambled  for  him:  here  he  sits;  professes,  O  Donothing  Pomp;  quit  thy  down-cushions; 
not  in  sorrow  but  in  pride,  that  he  and  his  expose  thyself  to  learn  what  wretches  feel, 
have  done  no  work,  time  out  of  mind.  It  is  30  and  how  to  cure  it?  The  czar  of  Russia^  be- 
the  law  of  the  land,  and  is  thought  to  be  the  came  a  dusty  toiling  shipwright;  worked  with 
law  of  the  Universe,  that  he,  alone  of  recorded  his  axe  in  the  docks  of  Saardam;  and  his  aim 
men,  shall  have  no  task  laid  on  him,  except  was  small  to  thine.  Descend  thou:  undertake 
that  of  eating  his  cooked  victuals,  and  not  this  horrid  "living  chaos  of  Ignorance  and 
flinging  himself  out  of  window.  Once  more  1 35 Hunger"  weltering  round  thy  feet;  say,  "I 
will  say,  there  was  no  stranger  spectacle  ever  will  heal  it,  or  behold  I  will  die  foremost  in  it." 
shown  under  this  Sun.  A  veritable  fact  in  Such  is  verily  the  law.  Everywhere  and 
our  England  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.  His  everywhen  a  man  has  to  "pay  with  his  life;" 
victuals  he  does  eat:  but  as  for  keeping  in  the  to  do  his  work,  as  a  soldier  does,  at  the  expense 
inside  of  the  window — have  not  his  friends,  40  of  life.  In  no  Pie-powder^  earthly  court  can 
Uke  me,  enough  to  do?  Truly,  looking  at  you  sue  an  Aristocracy  to  do  its  work,  at  this 
his  Corn-Laws,  Game-Laws,  Chandos-Clauses,  moment:  but  in  the  Higher  Court,  which  even 
Bribery-Elections^  and  much  else,  you  do  it  calls  "Court  of  Honor,"  and  which  is  the 
shudder  over  the  tumbling  and  plunging  he  Court  of  Necessity  withal,  and  the  eternal 
makes,  held  back  by  the  lapels  and  coat-  45  Court  of  the  Universe,  in  which  all  Fact  comes 
skirts;  only  a  thin  fence  of  window-glass  before  to  plead,  and  every  Human  Soul  is  an  appari- 
him, — and  in  the  streets  mere  horrid  iron  spikes!  tor,^ — the  Aristocracy  is  answerable,  and  even  t 
My  sick  brother,  as  in  hospital-maladies  men      now  answering,  there.  .   .  .'  T 

do,  thou  dreamest  of  Paradises  and  Eldorados,  2  The  killing  of  the  Nemean  Lion,  and  the  cleansing 

of  the  Augean  stable  were  two  of  the  twelve  labors  of 

^  The  Corn  laws  were  a  source  of  great  agitation  in  the  Hercules, 
early  19th  century.     They  were  laws  passed  in  the  in-  3  One  must  pay  with  one's  life. 

terests  of  the  land-owners;  they  restricted  the  importa-  *  Peter  the  Great  (1672-1725),  who,  in  his  desire  to 

tion  of    grain   by   imposing   a   heavy   tax   on   the   im-  create  a  Russian  navy,  visited  among  other  countries, 

ports.    They  were  not  repealed  until  1846.    The  Game  Holland,  and  worked  as  a  common  shipwright  at  Amster- 

laws  were  very  strict  and  cruel  and  were  in  the  interests  dam  and  Saardam. 

of  the  landed  gentry.    The  Chandos  Clauses  proposed  by  s  The  Pie  powder  courts  of  the  middle  ages  in  England 

Lord  Chandos  in  1831,  as  an  alteration  of  the  First  Re-  had  jurisdiction  for  the  trial  of  controversies  arising  at  v  j 

form  Bill,  extended  the  county  suffrage  to  all  tenants-at-  fairs,  markets,  etc.    The  phrase  is  an  English  version  of    ^  ^| 

will  of  £50  rental,  and  thus  aimed  to  strengthen  the  the  French  piepoudre  (pied  poudre),  "dusty  foot"  which     y 

aristocracy  and  in  a  measure  to  check  the  cause  of  Re-  probably  referred  to  the  dusty-footed  tradesmen,  pedlars, 

form.      Bribery  Elections  refers  to  the  extensive  practice  etc.,  who  resorted  to  these  courts. 

of  bribing  voters  at  elections,  which  was  partly  corrected  «  An  official  who  serves  the  summons  and  executes  the 

by  the  Corrupt  Practices  Prevention  Act  passed  in  1854.  process  of  an  ecclesiastical  court. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  687 

For  there  is  a  perennial  nobleness,  and  even  and  spin!  Of  an  idle  unrevolving  man  the 
sacredness,  in  Work.  Were  he  never  so  be-  kindest  Destiny,  like  the  most  assiduous  Potter 
nighted,  forgetful  of  his  high  calling,  there  is  without  wheel,  can  bake  and  knead  nothing 
always  hope  in  a  man  that  actually  and  earn-  other  than  a  botch;  let  her  spend  on  him  what 
estly  works:  in  Idleness  alone  is  there  perpetual  5  expensive  coloring,  what  gilding  and  enameUing 
despair.  Work,  never  so  mammonish,  mean,  she  will,  he  is  but  a  botch.  Not  a  dish;  no,  a 
is  in  communion  with  Nature:  the  real  desire  bulging,  kneaded,  crooked,  shambhng,  squint- 
to  get  work  done  will  itself  lead  one  more  and  cornered,  amorphous  botch, —  a  mere  enamelled 
more  to  truth,  to  Nature's  appointments  and  vessel  of  dishonor!  Let  the  idle  think  of  this, 
regulations,   which  are  truth.  10     Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work;  let 

The  latest  Gospel  in  this  world  is,  Know  thy  him  ask  no  other  blessedness.  He  has  a  work, 
work  and  do  it.  "Know  thyself:"  long  enough  a  Ufe-purpose;  he  has  found  it,  and  will  follow 
has  that  poor  "seK"  of  thine  tormented  thee;  it!  How,  as  a  free-flowing  channel,  dug  and 
thou  wilt  never  get  to  "know"  it,  I  believe!  torn  by  noble  force  through  the  sour  mud- 
Think  it  not  thy  business,  this  of  knowing  15  swamp  of  one's  existence,  hke  an  ever-deepening 
thyself;  thou  art  an  unknowable  individual:  river  there,  it  runs  and  flows; — draining  off 
know  what  thou  canst  work  at;  and  work  at  it,  the  sour  festering  water,  gradually  from  the 
like  a  Hercules!    That  will  be  thy  better  plan,      root    of    the    remotest    grass-blade;    making, 

It  has  been  written,  "an  endless  signifi-  instead  of  pestilential  swamp,  a  green  fruitful 
cance  hes  in  Work!"  a  man  perfects  himself  20 meadow  itself,  let  the  stream  and  its  value  be 
by  working.  Foul  jungles  are  cleared  away,  great  or  small!  Labor  is  Life:  from  the  inmost 
fair  seed-fields  rise  instead,  and  stately  cities;  heart  of  the  Worker  rises  his  god-given  Force, 
and  withal  the  man  himself  first  ceases  to  be  a  the  sacred  celestial  life-essence  breathed  into 
jungle  and  foul  unwholesome  desert  thereby,  him  by  Almighty  God;  from  his  inmost  heart 
Consider  how,  even  in  the  meanest  sorts  of  25  awakens  him  to  all  nobleness, — to  all  knowl- 
Labor,  the  whole  soul  of  a  man  is  composed  edge,  "self-knowledge"  and  much  else,  so 
into  a  kind  of  real  harmony,  the  instant  he  soon  as  Work  fitly  begins.  Knov/ledge?  The 
sets  himself  to  work!  Doubt,  Desire,  Sorrow,  knowledge  that  will  hold  good  in  working, 
Remorse,  Indignation,  Despair  itself,  all  these  cleave  thou  to  that;  for  Nature  herself  ac- 
hke  hell-dogs  lie  beleaguering  the  soul  of  the  30  credits  that,  says  Yea  to  that.  Properly  thou 
poor  day-worker,  as  of  every  man:  but  he  hast  no  other  knowledge  but  what  thou  hast 
bends  himself  with  free  valor  against  his  task,  got  by  working:  the  rest  is  yet  all  a  hypothe- 
and  aU  these  are  stilled,  all  these  shrink  mur-  sis  of  knowledge;  a  thing  to  be  argued  of  in 
muring  far  off  into  their  caves.  The  man  is  schools,  a  thing  floating  in  the  clouds,  in  endless 
now  a  man.  The  blessed  glow  of  Labor  in  35  logic-vortices,  till  we  try  it  and  fix  it.  "Doubt, 
him,  is  it  not  as  purifying  fire,  wherein  all  of  whatever  kind,  can  be  ended  by  Action 
poison  is  burnt  up,  and  of  sour  smoke  itself  alone." 
there  is  made  bright  blessed  flame! 

Destiny,  on  the  whole,  has  no  other  way 
of  cultivating  us.    A  formless  Chaos,  once  set  40        ®^Ottia0    llBabiUgtOtl    ^aCHUla^ 
it  revolving,  grows  round  and  ever  rounder;  icnn_i«f^Q 

ranges  itself  by  mere  force  of  gravity,  into  1800-1859 

strata,  spherical  courses;  is  no  longer  a  Chaos,  r>r\QTi7-i?T  t 

but  a  round  compacted  World.     What  would  130bW±.LL 

become  of  the  Earth,  did  she  cease  to  revolve?  45  (F^om  Review  of  Croker's  BoswelVs  Johnson, 
In  the  poor  old  Earth,  so  long  as  she  revolves,  1831) 

all  inequalities,  irregularities,  disperse  them- 
selves; all  irregularities  are  incessantly  be-  The  "Life  of  Johnson"  is  assuredly  a  great, 
coming  regular.  Hast  thou  looked  on  the  a  very  great  work.  Homer  is  not  more  decidedly 
Potter's  wheel, — one  of  the  venerablest  ob- 50  the  first  of  dramatists,  Demosthenes  is  not  more 
jects;  old  as  the  Prophet  Ezekiel  and  far  older?  decidedly  the  first  of  orators,  than  Boswell  is 
Rude  lumps  of  clay,  how  they  spin  themselves  the  first  of  biographers.  He  has  no  second, 
up,  by  mere  quick  whirUng,  into  beautiful  He  has  distanced  all  his  competitors  so  de- 
circular  dishes.  And  fancy  the  most  assiduous  cidedly  that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  place 
Potter,  but  without  his  wheel;  reduced  to  55  them.  Eclipse  is  first,  and  the  rest  nowhere, 
making  dishes,  or  rather  amorphous  botches.  We  are  not  sure  that  there  is  in  the  whole 
by  mere  kneading  and  baking!  Even  such  a  history  of  the  human  intellect  so  strange  a 
Potter  were  Destiny,  with  a  human  soul  that  phenomenon  as  this  book.  Many  of  the  great- 
would  rest  and  lie  at  ease;  that  would  not  work      est  men  that  ever  lived  have  written  biography. 


688  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

Boswell  was  one  of  the  smallest  men  that  ever  frightened  out  of  his  wits  at  sea,  and  how  the 
lived,  and  he  has  beaten  them  all.  He  was,  if  sailors  quieted  him  as  they  would  have  quieted 
we  are  to  give  any  credit  to  his  own  account  a  child,  how  tipsy  he  was  at  Lady  Cork's  one 
or  to  the  united  testimony  of  all  who  knew  him,  evening  and  how  much  his  merriment  annoyed 
a  man  of  the  meanest  and  feeblest  intellect.  5  the  ladies,  how  impertinent  he  was  to  the  Duch- 
Johnson  described  him  as  a  fellow  who  had  ess  of  Argle  and  with  what  stately  contempt  she 
missed  his  only  chance  of  immortality  by  not  put  down  his  impertinence,  how  Colonel 
having  been  ahve  when  the  "Dunciad"  was  Macleod  sneered  to  his  face  at  his  impudent 
written.  Beauclerk^  used  his  name  as  a  pro-  obtrusiveness,  how  his  father,  and  the  very 
verbial  expression  for  a  bore.  He  was  the  10  wife  of  his  bosom  laughed  and  fretted  at  his 
laughing-stock  of  the  whole  of  that  brilliant  fooleries — all  these  things  he  proclaimed  to  all 
society  which  has  owed  to  him  the  greater  the  world,  as  if  they  had  been  subjects  for 
part  of  its  fame.  He  was  always  laying  him-  pride  and  ostentatious  rejoicing.  All  caprices 
self  at  the  feet  of  some  eminent  man,  and  beg-  of  his  temper,  all  the  illusions  of  his  vanity, 
ging  to  be  spit  upon  and  trampled  upon.  He  15  all  his  hypochondriac  whimsies,  all  his  castles 
was  always  earning  some  ridiculous  nickname,  in  the  air,  he  displayed  with  a  cool  self- 
and  the  "binding  it  as  a  crown  unto  him,"  complacency,  a  perfect  unconsciousness  that  he 
not  merely  in  metaphor,  but  literally.  He  ex-  was  making  a  fool  of  himself,  to  which  it  is 
hibited  himself,  at  the  Shakespeare  Jubilee,  ,  impossible  to  find  a  parallel  in  the  whole  history 
to  all  the  crowd  which  filled  Stratford-on-Avon,  20  of  mankind.  He  had  used  many  people  ill; 
with  a  placard  round  his  hat  bearing  the  in-  but  assuredly  he  has  used  nobody  so  ill  as 
scrip tion  of  Corsica  Boswell. ^    In  his  Tour,  he      himself. 

proclaimed  to  all  the  world  that  at  Edinburgh  That  such  a  man  should  have  written  one  of 

he  was  known  by  the  appellation  of  Paoli  the  best  books  in  the  world  is  strange  enough. 
Boswell.3  Servile  and  impertinent,  shallow  25  But  this  is  not  all.  Many  persons  who  have 
and  pedantic,  a  bigot  and  a  sot,  bloated  with  conducted  themselves  foolishly  in  active  life, 
family  pride,  and  eternally  blustering  about  and  whose  conversation  has  indicated  no  su- 
the  dignity  of  a  born  gentleman,  yet  stooping  perior  powers  of  mind,  have  left  us  valuable 
to  be  a  talebearer,  and  eavesdropper,  a  common  works.  Goldsmith  was  very  justly  described 
butt  in  the  taverns  of  London,  so  curious  to  30  by  one  of  his  contemporaries  as  an  inspired 
know  everybody  that  was  talked  about,  that,  idiot,^  and  by  another  as  a  being. 
Tory  and  High  Churchman  as  he  was,  he  "  Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  and  talked  like  poor 
manoeuvered,  we  have  been  told,  for  an  in-  Poll."^ 

troduction  to  Tom  Paine;*  so  vain  of  the  most  La  Fontaine"  was  in  society  a  mere  simpleton, 
childish  distinctions,  that  when  he  had  been  35  His  blunders  would  not  come  in  amiss  among 
to  Court,  he  drove  to  the  office  where  his  book  the  stories  of  Hierocles.^  But  these  men  at- 
was  printing  without  changing  his  clothes,  and  tained  hterary  eminence  in  spite  of  their  weak- 
summoned  all  the  printer's  devils  to  admire  nesses.  Boswell  attained  it  by  reason  of  his 
his  new  ruffles  and  sword;  such  was  this  man,  weaknesses.  If  he  had  not  been  a  great  fool, 
and  such  he  was  content  and  proud  to  be.  40  he  would  never  have  been  a  great  writer. 
Everything  which,  another  man  would  have  Without  all  the  qualities  which  made  him 
hidden,  everything  the  publication  of  which  the  jest  and  the  torment  of  those  among  whom 
would  have  made  another  man  hang  himself,  he  lived,  without  the  officiousness,  the  inquisi- 
was  matter  of  gay  and  clamorous  exultation  tiveness,  the  effrontery,  the  toad-eating,  the 
to  his  weak  and  diseased  mind.  What  silly  45  insensibihty  to  all  reproof,  he  never  could  have 
things  he  said,  what  bitter  retorts  he  provoked,  produced  so  excellent  a  book.  He  was  a  slave 
how  at  one  place  he  was  troubled  with  evil  proud  of  his  servitude,  a  Paul  Pry,^  con  • 
presentiments  which  came  to  nothing,  how  at  vinced  that  his  own  curiosity  and  garrulity 
another  place,  on  waking  from  a  drunken  were  virtues,  an  unsafe  companion  who  never 
doze,  he  read  the  prayer-book  and  took  a  hair  50  scrupled  to  repay  the  most  liberal  hospitahty 

of  the  dog  that  had  bitten  him,  how  he  went  b  a  remark  of  Horace  Walpole's.    Cf .  Johnson's  remark 

to  «PP  TYiPn   hano-pH    and    Pimp  awav  maudlin        on  Goldsmith,  as  reported  by  Boswell,   " No  man  was 

to  see  men  nangea  ana  came  away  mauuun,      ^^^^  ^^^^.^^^  ^^^^  ^^  ^^  ^^^  ^  ^^^  .^^  j^^^  j^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^ 

how  he  added  five  hundred  pounds  to  the  tor-      wise  when  he  had." 

tune  of  one  of  his  babies  because  she  was  not         ;  Gamcg  hnprom^tu__epjtap^^^^  ^^^^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^ 

scared    at    Johnson's    ugly    face,    how    he    was  55      who  wrote  like  an  angel,  and  talked  like  poor  Poll."      ,  , 

'Jean  de   La   Fontaine   (1621-95),   a  famous   French  \, 

1  Topham  Beauclerk,  a  young  aristocrat  who  was  the       poet,  noted  for  his  tales  and  fables. 

intimate  friend  of  Johnson.  ^  A  very  old  collection  of  jokes  and  amusmg  stories 

2  V.  p.  676,  and  n.  2.  '  V.  p.  677,  and  n.  4.  in  Greek,  told  under  the  name  of  Hierodes. 

*  The  Anglo-American  patriot  and  political  philosopher,  »  An  inquisitive  character  in  a  comedy,  Paul  Pry,  by 

author  of  Common  Sense  and  The  Rights  of  Man.  John  Poole,  1825. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  689 

by  the  basest  violation  of  confidence,  a  man  passions  than  proclaim  all  his  little  vanities 
without  delicacy,  without  shame,  without  sense  and  wild  fancies.  It  would  be  easier  to  find 
enough  to  know  when  he  was  hurting  the  feel-  a  person  who  would  avow  actions  like  those 
ings  of  others  or  when  he  was  exposing  himself  of  Csesar  Borgia^^  or  Danton,i3  than  one  who 
to  derision;  and  because  he  was  all  this,  he  has,  5  would  publish  a  day-dream  like  those  of  Al- 
in  an  important  department  of  literature,  im-  naschar^^  and  Malvolio.i^  Those  weaknesses 
measurably  surpassed  such  writers  as  Tacitus,  which  most  men  keep  covered  up  in  the  most 
Clarendon,  Alfieri,  and  his  own  idoP"  Johnson,  secret  places  of  the  mind,  not  to  be  disclosed 
Of  the  talents  which  ordinarily  raise  men  to  the  eye  of  friendship  or  of  love,  were  pre- 
to  eminence  as  writers,  Boswell  had  absolutely  10  cisely  the  weaknesses  which  Boswell  paraded 
none.  There  is  not  in  all  his  books  a  single  before  all  the  world.  He  was  perfectly  frank, 
remark  of  his  own  on  literature,  politics,  re-  because  the  weakness  of  his  understanding 
ligion,  or  society,  which  is  not  either  common-  and  the  tumult  of  his  spirits  prevented  him 
place  or  absurd.  His  dissertations  on  heredi-  from  knowing  when  he  made  himseK  ridiculous, 
tary  gentility,  on  the  slave-trade,  and  on  the  15  His  book  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  the  con- 
entailing  of  landed  estates,  may  serve  as  ex-  versation  of  the  inmates  of  the  Palace  of  Truth, 
amples.  To  say  that  these  passages  are  His  fame  is  great;  and  it  will,  we  have  no 
sophistical  would  be  to  pay  them  an  extrava-  doubt,  be  lasting;  but  it  is  fame  of  a  peculiar 
gant  compliment.  They  have  no  pretense  to  kind,  and  indeed  marvellously  resembles 
argument,  or  even  to  meaning.  He  has  re-  20  infamy.  We  remember  no  other  case  in  which 
ported  innumerable  observations  made  by  the  world  has  made  so  great  a  distinction  be- 
himself  in  the  course  of  conversation.  Of  those  tween  a  book  and  its  author.  The  case  of 
observations  we  do  not  remember  one  which  is  Boswell  is  an  exception,  we  think  the  only 
above  the  intellectual  capacity  of  a  boy  of  exception,  to  this  rule.  His  work  is  universally 
fifteen.  He  has  printed  many  of  his  own  letters,  25  allowed  to  be  interesting,  instructive,  eminently 
and  in  these  letters  he  is  always  ranting  or  original;  yet  it  has  brought  him  nothing  but 
twaddling.  Logic,  eloquence,  wit,  taste,  all  contempt.  All  the  world  reads  it;  yet  we  do 
those  things  which  are  generally  considered  not  remember  ever  to  have  read  or  ever  to  have 
as  making  a  book  valuable  were  utterly  wanting  heard  any  expression  of  respect  and  admiration 
to  him.  He  had,  indeed,  a  quick  observation  30  for  the  man  to  whom  we  owe  so  much  instruc- 
and  a  retentive  memory.  These  qualities,  tion  and  amusement.  While  edition  after 
if  he  had  been  a  man  of  sense  and  virtue  would  edition  of  his  book  was  coming  forth,  his  son, 
scarcely  of  themselves  have  suflficed  to  make  as  Mr.  Croker^^  tells  us,  was  ashamed  of  it,  and 
him  conspicuous;  but  because  he  was  a  dunce,  hated  to  hear  it  mentioned.  This  feeling  was 
a  parasite,  and  a  coxcomb,  they  have  made  35  natural  and  reasonable.  Sir  Alexander  saw 
him  immortal.  that,  in  proportion  to  the  celebrity  of  the  work, 

Those  parts  of  his  book  which,  considered  was  the  degradation  of  the  author.  The  very 
abstractedly,  are  most  utterly  worthless,  are  editors  of  this  unfortunate  gentleman's  books 
delightful  when  we  read  them  as  illustrations  have  forgotten  their  allegiance,  and  like  those 
of  the  character  of  the  writer.  Bad  in  them-  40  Puritan  casuists  who  took  arms  by  the  author- 
selves,  they  are  good  dramatically,  like  the  ity  of  the  king  against  his  person,  have  attacked 
nonsense  of  Justice  Shallow,  the  cUpped  the  writer  while  doing  homage  to  his  writings. 
Enghsh  of  Dr.  Caius,  or  the  misplaced  conso-  Mr.  Croker,  for  example,  has  published  two 
nants  of  Fluellen."  Of  all  confessors,  Boswell  thousand  five  hundred  notes  on  the  life  of 
is  the  most  candid.  Other  mep.  who  have  45  Johnson,  and  yet  scarcely  ever  mentions  the 
pretended  to  lay  open  their  own  hearts,  Rous-  biographer  whose  performance  he  has  taken 
seau,  for  example,  and  Lord  Byron,  have  evi-  such  pains  to  illustrate  without  some  expres- 
dently  written  with  a  constant  view  to  effect,      sion  of  contempt. 

and  are  to  be  then  most  distrusted  when  they  An  ill-natured  man  Boswell  certainly  was 
seem  to  be  most  sincere.  There  is  scarcely  50  not;  yet  the  maUgnity  of  the  most  malignant 
any  man  who  would  not  rather  accuse  himself  satirist  could  scarcely  cut  deeper  than  his 
of  great  crimes  and  of  dark  and  tempestuous      thoughtless    loquacity.      Having    himself    no 

1°  Tacitus'  Agricola,  one  of  his  most  famous  works,  is  12  One  of  the   most   cruel   and   unscrupulous   Italian 

a   masterpiece   of   biography.      The   earl   of   Clarendon  dukes  of  the  15th  century,  was  guilty  of  treachery  and 

(1609-74)  wrote  among  other  things  a  famous  biography.  murder  in  the  furthering  of  his  ambition. 

Vittorio,  Count  Alfieri  (1749-1803),  an  Italian  dramatic  "  One  of  the  leaders  of  the  French  Revolution, 

poet,    wrote    an    Autobiography   of    absorbing    interest.  1*  A  character  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  proverbial  as  a 

Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets,  is  well  known.  dreamer. 

"  Justice  Shallow  is  the  weak-minded  country  justice  of  "  The  steward  in  Shakespeare's  Twelfth  Night,  who  as- 

Shakespeare's  Merry  Wives  and  II  Henry  IV.;  Dr.  Caius  pires  to  the  hand  of  his  mistress. 

is  a  physician  in  Merry  Wives,  and  Fluellen  is  a  Welsh  is  The  editor  of  the  edition  of  Boswell's  Johnson  which 

Captain  in  Henry  V.  Macaulay  is  reviewing. 


090  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

sensibility  to  derision  and  contempt,  he  took  teenth  of  February,  1788,  the  sittings  of  the 
it  for  granted  that  all  others  were  equally  cal-  Court  commenced.  There  have  been  spec- 
ious. He  was  not  ashamed  to  exhibit  to  the  tacles  more  dazzling  to  the  eye,  more  gorgeous 
whole  world  as  a  common  spy,   a  common      with  jewellery  and  cloth  of  gold,  more  attrac- 

tattler,  a  humble  companion  without  the  ex-  5  tive  to  grown-up  children,  than  that  which  was 
cuse  of  poverty,  and  to  tell  a  hundred  stories  then  exhibited  at  Westminster;  but,  perhaps, 
of  his  own  pertness  and  folly,  and  of  the  insults  there  never  was  a  spectacle  so  well  calculated 
which  his  pertness  and  folly  brought  upon  him.  to  strike  a  highly  cultivated,  a  reflecting, 
It  was  natural  that  he  should  show  little  dis-  an  imaginative  mind.  All  the  various  kinds  of 
cretion  in  cases  in  which  the  feeUngs  or  the  10  interest  which  belong  to  the  near  and  to  the 
honor  of  others  might  be  concerned.  No  man,  distant,  to  the  present  and  to  the  past,  were 
surely,  ever  published  such  stories  respecting  collected  on  one  spot  and  in  one  hour.  All  the 
persons  whom  he  professed  to  love  and  revere,  talents  and  all  the  accomplishments  which  are 
He  would  infallibly  have  made  his  hero  as  con-  developed  by  Hberty  and  civilization  were 
temptible  as  he  has  made  himself,  had  not  his  15  now  displayed,  with  every  advantage  which 
hero  really  possessed  some  moral  and  intel-  could  be  derived  both  from  co-operation  and 
lectual  qualities  of  a  very  high  order.  The  from  contrast.  Every  step  in  the  proceedings 
best  proof  that  Johnson  was  really  an  extraor-  carried  the  mind  either  backward,  through 
dinary  man  is  that  his  character,  instead  of  many  troubled  centuries,  to  the  days  when 
being  degraded,  has,  on  the  whole,  been  de-20the  foundations  of  our  constitution  were  laid; 
cidedly  raised  by  a  work  in  which  all  his  vices  or  far  away,  over  boundless  seas  and  deserts, 
and  weaknesses  are  exposed  more  unsparingly  to  dusky  nations  Uving  under  strange  stars, 
than  they  ever  were  exposed  by  Churchill  or  worshipping  strange  gods,  and  writing  strange 
by  Kenrick."  characters  from  right  to  left.    The  High  Court 

Johnson  grown  old,  Johnson  in  the  fulness  25  of  Parhament  was  to  sit,  according  to  forms 
of  his  fame  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  competent  handed  down  from  the  days  of  the  Plantagenets, 
fortune,  is  better  known  to  us  than  any  other  on  an  Englishman  accused  of  exercising  tyranny 
man  in  history.  Everything  about  him,  his  over  the  lord  of  the  holy  city  of  Benares,  and 
coat,  his  wig,  his  figure,  his  face,  his  scrofula,  over  the  ladies  of  the  princely  house  of  Oude. 
his  St.  Vitus's  dance,  his  rolUng  walk,  his  30  The  place  was  worthy  of  such  a  trial.  It 
blinking  eye,  the  outward  signs  which  too  was  the  great  hall  of  William  Rufus,  the  hall 
clearly  marked  his  approbation  of  his  dinner,  which  had  resounded  with  acclamations  at 
his  insatiable  appetite  for  fish  sauce  and  veal  the  inauguration  of  thirty  kings,  the  hall 
pie  with  plums,  his  inextinguishable  thirst  for  which  had  witnessed  the  just  sentence  of  Bacon^ 
tea,  his  trick  of  touching  the  posts  as  he  walked,  35  and  the  just  absolution  of  Somers,  the  hall 
his  mysterious  practice  of  treasuring  up  scraps  where  the  eloquence  of  Strafford  had  for  a 
of  orange  peel,  his  morning  slumbers,  his  mid-  moment  awed  and  melted  a  victorious  party 
night  disputations,  his  contortions,  his  mutter-  inflamed  with  just  resentment,  the  hall 
ings,  his  gruntings,  his  puffings,  his  vigorous,  where  Charles  had  confronted  the  High  Court 
acute,  and  ready  eloquence,  his  sarcastic  wit,  40  of  Justice  with  the  placid  courage  which  has 
his  vehemence,  his  insolence,  his  fits  of  tem-  half  redeemed  his  fame.  Neither  military  nor 
pestuous  rage,  his  queer  inmates,  old  Mr.  civil  pomp  was  wanting.  The  avenues  were 
Levett^s  and  bUnd  Mrs.  Williams, ^^  the  cat  lined  with  grenadiers.  The  streets  were  kept 
Hodge^o  and  the  negro  Frank,  all  are  as  f amihar  clear  by  cavalry.  The  peers,  robed  in  gold 
to  us  as  the  objects  by  which  we  have  been  45  and  ermine,  were  marshalled  by  the  heralds 
surrounded  from  childhood.  under  Garter  King-at-arms.^     The  judges  in 

TVn?    T^T?TAT     ni?    WA-RP17\r    TTAQTTMPQl       General  of  India  in  1774.    He  made  a  capable  ruler,  though 

IMili     iKiAlj    Ur      WArvrtJiiN     UAolliMjrO^       hia  methods  were  sometimes  open  to  question.     On  re- 

,^Q.-.\  turning  to  England  in  1785,  he  was  impeached  for  various 

(1041;  alleged  acts  of  tyranny.     He  was  tried  before  the  bar  at 

^       ,,  ,.  ,,  ..  i?        .1  the    House  of    Lords   in  Westminster  Hall.     The  trial 

In   the  meantime   the   preparations   tor   the       opened  February   13,    1788,  and  closed  with  Hasting's 

trial  had  proceeded  rapidly;  and  on  the  thir-       acquittal  seven  years  later,  1795.     v.  p.  403,  supra,  and 

„  ^,        ,  Mt     X.     1    J   T-.      T  t-  J   1--       •    1     •  *  Lord  Bacon  was  tried  on  the  charge  of  bribery  and 

"Churchill  attacked  Dr.  Johnson  and  his  circle  m       foun^  g^ij^  j^  i62i.     John,  Lord  Somers,  Chancellor 

The  Ghost;  Kenrick  attacked  Johnson  s  edition  of  Shake-       under  William  and  Mary,   was  tried  and  absolved  in 

speare.  ,.     ,.      ,    ,,      t^  u    ^  t       i.^  1700.    Thomas  Wentworth,  Earl  of  Strafford,  one  of  the  , 

18 Johnsons     humble  friend,   Mr.   Robert  Levett.  an       trusted  advisers  of  Charles  I,  was  tried  and  condemned  \, 

obscure  practiser  in  physic  amongst  the  lower  people.  q^  ^  charge  of  treason  in  1641.     Charles  I  himself  was     , 

»  V.  p.  678,  n.  13.  _  tried  and  condemned  in  January,  1649.  '^ 

a>  For  a  description  of  these  pensioners  of  Johnson  see  j  ^^  officer  of  the  Order  of  the  Gartsr.  and  the  Chief 

Macaulay's  Essay  on  Johnson.  Herald  of  England,  one  of  whose  duties  it  is  to 

1  Warren  Hastings  (1732-1818),  was  created  Governor       lords  their  seats  in  Parliament. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  691 

their  vestments  of  state  attended  to  give  advice  Cecilia,  whose  delicate  features,  lighted  up  by 
on  points  of  law.  Near  a  hundred  and  seventy  love  and  music,  art  has  rescued  from  the  corn- 
lords,  three  fourths  of  the  Upper  House  as  the  mon  decay.  There  were  the  members  of  that 
Upper  House  then  was,  walked  in  solemn  order  briUiant  society,  which  quoted,  criticized, 
from  their  usual  place  of  assembling  to  the  sand  exchanged  repartees,  under  the  rich 
tribunal.  The  junior  Baron  present  led  the  peacock-hangings  of  Mrs.  Montague.  1°  And 
way,  George  Elliot,  Lord  Heathfield,  recently  there  the  ladies  whose  lips,  more  persuasive 
ennobled  for  his  memorable  defence  of  Gibral-  than  those  of  Fox  himself,  had  carried  the 
tar  against  the  fleets  and  armies  of  France  and  Westminster  election  against  palace  and 
Spain.  The  long  procession  was  closed  by  the  lo  treasury,  shone  around  Georgiana  Duchess  of 
Duke  of  Norfolk,  Earl  Marshall  of  the  reahn,      Devonshire. 

by  the  great  dignitaries  and  by  the  brothers  and  The  Serjeants  made  proclamation.     Hast- 

sons  of  the  King.  Last  of  all  came  the  Prince  ings  advanced  to  the  bar,  and  bent  his  knee, 
of  Wales,  conspicuous  by  his  fine  person  and  The  culprit  was  indeed  not  unworthy  of  that 
noble  bearing.  The  grey  old  walls  were  hung  15  great  presence.  He  had  ruled  an  extensive 
with  scarlet.  The  long  galleries  were  crowded  and  populous  country,  had  made  laws  and 
by  an  audience  such  as  has  rarely  excited  the  treaties,  had  sent  forth  armies,  had  set  up 
fears  or  the  emulations  of  an  orator.  There  and  pulled  down  princes.  And  in  his  high 
were  gathered  together  from  all  parts  of  a  places  had  so  borne  himself,  that  all  had  feared 
great,  free,  enlightened,  and  prosperous  em-  20  him,  that  most  had  loved  him,  and  that  hatred 
pire,  grace  and  female  lovehness,  wit  and  learn-  itself  could  deny  him  no  title  to  glory,  except 
ing,  the  representatives  of  every  science  and  of  virtue.  He  looked  Hke  a  great  man,  and  not 
every  art.  There  were  seated  round  the  Queen  like  a  bad  man.  A  person  small  and  emaciated, 
the  fair-haired  young  daughters  of  the  House  of  yet  deriving  dignity  from  a  carriage  which, 
Brunswick.  There  the  Ambassadors  of  great  25  while  it  indicated  deference  to  the  Court, 
Kings  and  Commonwealths  gazed  with  ad-  indicated  also  habitual  self-possession  and 
miration  on  a  spectacle  which  no  other  country  self-respect,  a  high  and  intellectual  forehead, 
in  the  world  could  present.  There  Siddons,^  a  brow  pensive,  but  not  gloomy,  a  mouth  of 
in  the  prime  of  her  majestic  beauty,  looked  inflexible  decision,  a  face  pale  and  worn,  but 
with  emotion  on  a  scene  surpassing  all  the  imi-  30  serene,  on  which  was  written,  as  legibly  as 
tations  of  the  stage.  There  the  historian  of  under  the  picture  in  the  council-chamber 
the  Roman  Empire^  thought  of  the  days  when  at  Calcutta,  Mens  cequa  in  arduis;^^  such  was 
Cicero  pleaded  the  cause  of  Sicily  against  Verres,  the  aspect  with  which  the  great  Proconsul 
and  when,  before  a  senate  which  still  retained  presented  himself  to  his  judges, 
some  show  of  freedom,  Tacitus  thundered  35  His  counsel  accompanied  him,  men  all  of 
against  the  oppressor  of  Africa.^  There  were  whom  were  afterwards  raised  by  their  talents 
seen  side  by  side  the  greatest  painter^  and  the  and  learning  to  the  highest  post  in  their  pro- 
greatest  scholar  of  the  age.^  The  spectacle  fession,  the  bold  and  strong-minded  Law, 
had  allured  Reynolds  from  that  easel  which  afterwards  Chief  Justice  of  the  King's  Bench; 
preserved  to  us  the  thoughtful  foreheads  of  40  the  more  humane  and  eloquent  Dallas,  after- 
so  many  writers  and  statesmen,  and  the  sweet  wards  Chief  Justice  of  the  Common  Pleas; 
smiles  of  so  many  noble  matrons.  It  had  in-  and  Plomer  who,  near  twenty  years  later, 
duced  Parr  to  suspend  his  labours  in  that  successfully  conducted  in  the  same  high  court 
dark  and  profound  mine  from  which  he  had  the  defence  of  Lord  Melville, ^2  and  subse- 
extracted  a  vast  treasure  of  erudition,  a  treasure  45  quently  became  Vice-chancellor  and  Master 
too  often  buried  in  the  earth,  too  often  paraded      of  the  Rolls. 

with    injudicious    and    inelegant    ostentation.  But  neither  the  culprit  nor  his  advocates 

but  still,  precious,  massive,  and  splendid,  attracted  so  much  notice  as  the  accusers.  In 
There  appeared  the  voluptuous  charms  of  her  the  midst  of  the  blaze  of  red  drapery,  a  space 
to  whom  the  heir  of  the  throne  had  in  secret  50  had  been  fitted  up  with  green  benches  and 
plighted  his  faith.'  There  too  was  she,  the  tables  for  the  Commons.  The  managers, 
beautiful  mother  of  a  beautiful  race,  the  Saint      with  Burke  at  their  head,   appeared  in  full 

*Saiah  Siddons,  a  great  English  actress  (1755-1831).  w Elizabeth  Montague  (1720-1800),  a  writer  of  some 

'  Edward  Gibbon  (1737-94),  author  of  The  Decline  and  note  in  her  day,  and  a  leader  of  London  society,  who 

Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.  numbered  among  her  visitors  Walpole,  Johnson,  Burke, 

«  Marius  Priscus,   pro-consul  of  Africa,  was  charged  Garrick,  and  Reynolds. 

with  extortion,  and  successfully  prosecuted  by  Tacitus  n  A  calm  mind  in  the  midst  of  troubles. 

and  Pliny  the  Younger.  i^  Melville,  who  had  been  largely  responsible  for  the 

'  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  (1723-92).  investigation  of  Indian  afifairs  which  led  to  the  impeach- 

8  Dr.  Samuel  Parr  (1747-1825),  a  man  of  vast  learning,  ment  of  Hastings,  was  tried  in  1806  for  "gross  malversa- 

'The  Prince  of  Wales   (afterward  George   III),  had  tion  and  breach  of  duty,"  while  acting  as  treasurer  of  the 

married  Mrs.  Fitzherbert  in  1785.  Navy. 


692  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

dress.  The  collectors  of  gossip  did  not  fail  and  animated  eloquence  of  Charles,  Earl  Grey," 
to  remark  that  even  Fox,  generally  so  re-  are  able  to  form  some  estimate  of  the  powers 
gardless  of  his  appearance,  had  paid  to  the  of  a  race  of  men  among  whom  he  was  not  the 
illustrious  tribunal  the  compHment  of  wear-     foremost. 

ing  a  bag  and  sword.  Pitt^^  had  refused  5  The  charges  and  the  answers  of  Hastings 
to  be  one  of  the  conductors  of  the  impeach-  were  first  read.  The  ceremony  occupied  two 
ment;  and  his  commanding,  copious,  and  whole  days,  and  was  rendered  less  tedious  than 
sonorous  eloquence  was  wanting  to  that  great  it  otherwise  would  have  been  by  the  silver 
muster  of  various  talents.  Age  and  bhndness  voice  and  just  emphasis  of  Cowper,  the  clerk 
had  unfitted  Lord  North^^  for  the  duties  of  a  10  of  the  court,  a  near  relation  of  the  amiable 
pubhc  prosecutor;  and  his  friends  were  left  poet.  On  the  third  day  Burke  rose.  Four 
without  the  help  of  his  excellent  sense,  his  tact,  sittings  were  occupied  by  his  opening  speech, 
and  his  urbanity.  But,  in  spite  of  the  absence  which  was  intended  to  be  a  general  introduction 
of  these  two  distinguished  members  of  the  to  all  the  charges.  With  an  exuberance  of 
Lower  House,  the  box  in  which  the  managers  15  thought  and  a  splendor  of  diction  which  more 
stood  contained  an  array  of  speakers  such  as  than  satisfied  the  highly  raised  expectation  of 
perhaps  had  not  appeared  together  since  the  the  audience,  he  described  the  character  and 
great  age  of  Athenian  eloquence.  There  were  institutions  of  the  natives  of  India,  recounted 
Fox  and  Sheridan,  the  English  Demosthenes  the  circumstances  in  which  the  Asiatic  em- 
and  the  EngUsh  Hyperides.^^  There  was20pire  of  Britain  had  originated,  and  set  forth 
Burke,  ignorant  indeed,  or  neghgent  of  the  art  the  constitution  of  the  Company" and  of  the 
of  adapting  his  reasonings  and  his  style  to  the  EngUsh  presidencies.  Having  thus  attempted 
capacity  and  taste  of  his  hearers,  but  in  am-  to  communicate  to  his  hearers  an  idea  of 
plitude  of  comprehension  and  richness  of  imagi-  Eastern  society,  as  vivid  as  that  which  ex- 
nation  superior  to  every  orator,  ancient  or  25  isted  in  his  own  mind,  he  proceeded  to  arraign 
modern.  There,  with  eyes  reverentially  fixed  the  administration  of  Hastings  as  systematic- 
on  Burke,  appeared  the  finest  gentleman  of  the  ally  conducted  in  defiance  of  morahty  and 
age,  his  form  developed  by  every  manly  exer-  public  law.  The  energy  and  pathos  of  the 
cise,  his  face  beaming  with  intelUgence  and  great  orator  extorted  expressions  of  unwonted 
spirit,  the  ingenious,  the  chivalrous,  the  high-  30  admiration  from  the  stern  and  hostile  Chan- 
souled  Windham. 1^  Nor,  though  surrounded  cellor,  and,  for  a  moment  seemed  to  pierce 
by  such  men,  did  the  youngest  manager  pass  even  the  resolute  heart  of  the  defendant.  The 
unnoticed.  At  an  age  when  most  of  those  who  ladies  in  the  galleries,  unaccustomed  to  such 
distinguish  themselves  in  life  are  still  con-  displays  of  eloquence,  excited  by  the  solemnity 
tending  for  prizes  and  fellowships  at  coUege,  35  of  the  occasion,  and  perhaps  not  unwilhng  to 
he  had  won  for  himself  a  conspicuous  place  in  display  their  taste  and  sensibihty,  were  in  a 
parliament.  No  advantage  of  fortune  or  con-  state  of  uncontrollable  emotion.  Handker- 
nection  was  wanting  that  could  set  off  to  the  chiefs  were  pulled  out;  smelling  bottles  were 
height  his  splendid  talents,  and  his  unblemished  handed  round;  hysterical  sobs  and  screams 
honor.  At  twenty-three  he  had  been  thought  40  were  heard;  and  Mrs.  Sheridan^^  was  carried 
worthy  to  be  ranked  with  the  veteran  states-  out  in  a  fit.  At  length  the  orator  concluded, 
men  who  appeared  as  the  Delegates  of  the  Raising  his  voice  till  the  old  arches  of  Irish 
British  Commons,  at  the  bar  of  the  British  oak  resounded,  "Therefore,"  said  he,  "hath 
nobility.  All  who  stood  at  that  bar,  save  him  it  with  all  confidence  been  ordered,  by  the 
alone,  are  gone,  culprit,  advocates,  accusers.  45  Commons  of  Great  Britain,  that  I  impeach 
To  the  generation  which  is  now  in  the  vigor  Warren  Hastings  of  high  crimes  and  misde- 
of  life,  he  is  the  sole  representative  of  a  great  meanors.  I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the 
age  which  has  passed  away.  But  those  who.  Commons'  House  of  Parliament,  whose  trust 
within  the  last  ten  years,  have  listened  with  he  has  betrayed.  I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of 
delight,  till  the  morning  sun  shone  on  the  50  the  English  nation,  whose  ancient  honor  he  has 
[tapestries  of  the  House  of  Lords,  to  the  lofty     sullied.     I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the 

,2wir      ■nz...x.  V           /^^cn  iort«N  "D  •      Tv/f  •  people  of  India,  whose  rights  he  has  trodden 

» Wilham  Pitt  the  Younger  (1759-1806),  Pnme  Minis-  j^j.         ju                   j-uux          j 

ter  of  England.  Under  foot,  and  whose  country  he  has  turned 

"Prime  Minister  from  1770-82,  he  may  be  remembered  jnto  a  desert.    Lastly,  in  the  name  of  human 

by  his  obstinate  adherence  to  the  pohcy  of  oppression  ,  •.      ii?    •      j.u  r  u    xu  •      i.i 

with  respect  t9  America.  55  nature  itself,  m  the  name  of  both  sexes,  m  th 

1*  An  Athenian  orator  of  the  fourth  century  B.  C,  who 
although  a  friend  of  Demosthenes  was  chosen  to  prosecute  "  Grey  later  became  Prime  Minister,  and  did  mucii 

him  on  a  charge  of  bribery.  toward  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill  in  1832. 

'6  William  Windham,  a  member  of  Pariiament,   and  is  The  East  India  Company, 

afterwardsamomberof  the  Ministry  of  the  Pitt  and  Gren-  "The  wife  of  the  dramatist  and  statesman  RicharJ 

ville  administration.  Brinsley  Sheridan. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  693 

name  of  every  age,  in  the  name  of  every  rank,  came,  and  through  life  continued  to  be,  a  pas- 
I  impeach  the  common  enemy  and  oppressor  sionate  admirer  of  the  Irish  music,  and  especi- 
of  all!"2o  ally  of  the  compositions  of  Carolan,i  some  of  the 

last  notes  of  whose  harp  he  heard.    It  ought  to 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  ^^®  added  that  OHver,  though  by  birth  one  of 

.^j,>^v  the    Englishry,    and    though    connected    by 

^         ^  numerous  ties  with  the  Established  Church, 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  one  of  the  most  pleas-  never  showed  the  least  sign  of  that  contemp- 
ing  English  writers  of  the  eighteenth  century,  tuous  antipathy  with  which,  in  his  days,  the 
He  was  of  a  Protestant  and  Saxon  family  which  10  ruling  minority  in  Ireland  too  generally  re- 
had  been  long  settled  in  Ireland,  and  which  had,  garded  the  subject  majority.  So  far,  indeed, 
like  most  other  Protestant  and  Saxon  famihes,  was  he  from  sharing  in  the  opinions  and  feelings 
been,  in  troubled  times,  harassed  and  put  in  fear  of  the  caste  to  which  he  belonged,  that  he 
by  the  native  population.  His  father,  Charles  conceived  an  aversion  to  the  Glorious  and 
Goldsmith,  studied,  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  15  Immortal  Memory,  and,  even  when  George 
at  the  diocesan  school  of  Elphin,  became  at-  the  Third  was  on  the  throne,  maintained  that 
tached  to  the  daughter  of  the  school-master,  nothing  but  the  restoration  of  the  banished 
married  her,  took  orders,  and  settled  at  a  place  dynasty  could  save  the  country, 
called  Pallas,  in  the  county  of  Longford.  There  From  the  humble  academy  kept  by  the  old 
he  with  difficulty  supported  his  wife  and  20  soldier  Goldsmith  was  removed  in  his  ninth 
children  on  what  he  could  earn,  partly  as  a  year.  He  went  to  several  grammar-schools, 
curate  and  partly  as  a  farmer.  and  acquired  some  knowledge  of  the  ancient 

At  Pallas,  Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  in  No-  languages.  His  life  at  this  time  seems  to  have 
vember,  1728.  That  spot  was  then,  for  all  prac-  been  far  from  happy.  He  had,  as  appears  from 
tical  purposes,  almost  as  remote  from  the  busy  25  the  admirable  portrait  of  him  at  Knowle, 
and  spendid  capital  in  which  his  later  years  were  features  harsh  even  to  ughness.  The  small-pox 
passed,  as  any  clearing  in  Upper  Canada  or  had  set  its  mark  on  him  with  more  than  usual 
any  sheep-walk  in  Australasia  now  is.  Even  at  severity.  His  stature  was  small,  and  his  limbs 
this  day  those  enthusiasts  who  venture  to  make  ill  put  together.  Among  boys  little  tenderness 
a  pilgrimage  to  the  birthplace  of  the  poet  are  30  is  shown  to  personal  defects;  and  the  ridicule 
forced  to  perform  the  latter  part  of  their  journey  excited  by  poor  Ohver's  appearance  was  height- 
en foot.  The  hamlet  hes  far  from  any  high-  ened  by  a  peculiar  simplicity  and  a  disposition 
road,  on  a  dreary  plain  which,  in  wet  weather,  to  blunder  which  he  retained  to  the  last.  He 
is  often  a  lake.  The  lanes  would  break  any  became  the  common  butt  of  boys  and  masters, 
jaunting-car  to  pieces;  and  there  are  ruts  and  35  was  pointed  at  as  a  fright  in  the  play-ground, 
sloughs  through  which  the  most  strongly  built  and  flogged  as  a  dunce  in  the  school-room, 
wheels  cannot  be  dragged.  When  he  had  risen  to  eminence,  those  who  once 

When  Ohver  was  still  a  child,  his  father  was  derided  him  ransacked  their  memory  for  the 
presented  to  a  living,  worth  about  two  hundred  events  of  his  early  years,  and  recited  repartees 
pounds  a  year,  in  the  county  of  Westmeath.  40  and  couplets  which  had  dropped  from  him,  and 
The  family  accordingly  quitted  their  cottage  which,  though  httle  noticed  at  the  time,  were 
in  the  wilderness  for  a  spacious  house  on  a  fre-  supposed,  a  quarter  of  a  century  later,  to  in- 
quented  road,  near  the  village  of  Lissoy.  Here  dicate  the  powers  which  produced  the  "Vicar  of 
the  boy  was  taught  his  letters  by  a  maid-servant,  Wakefield"  and  the  "Deserted  Village." 
and  was  sent,  in  his  seventh  year,  to  a  village  45  In  his  seventeenth  year  Oliver  went  up  to 
school  kept  by  an  old  quarter-master  on  half  Trinity  College,  Dubhn,  as  a  sizar.  The 
pay,  who  professed  to  teach  nothing  but  read-  sizars^  paid  nothing  for  food  and  tuition,  and 
ing,  writing  and  arithmetic,  but  who  had  an  very  little  for  lodging;  but  they  had  to  perform 
inexhaustible  fund  of  stories  about  ghosts,  some  menial  services  from  which  they  have 
banshees,  and  fairies,  about  the  great  Rapparee  50  long  been  relieved.  They  swept  the  court; 
chiefs,  BaldeargO'Donnell  and  galloping  Hogan  they  carried  up  the  dinner  to  the  fellows' 
and  about  the  exploits  of  Peterborough  and  table,  and  changed  the  plates  and  poured  out 
Stanhope,  the  surprise  of  Monjuich,  and  the  the  ale  of  the  rulers  of  the  society.  Goldsmith 
glorious  disaster  of  Brihuega.  This  man  must  was  quartered,  not  alone,  in  a  garret,  on  the 
have  been  of  the  Protestant  religion,  but  he  55 
was  of  the  aboriginal  race,  and  not  only  spoke      ,^''^"TI°4  O'Carolan  (1670-1738).    One  of  the  last  of 

,,,•1-1  LiU  e     i.1-  tne  Irish   bards,   who  spent  his  days  wandering  about 

the   Irish   language,    but   could   pour  forth   Un-        Ireland,  singing,  and  playing  on  his  harp, 
premeditated    Irish    verses.      Oliver    early    be-  ^  ^t  Cambridge,  and  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  a  sizar 

was  a  student  allowed  free  commons,  and  other  gratui- 
20  V.  p.  406,  supra.  ties,  in  return  for  services  rendered. 


694  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

window  of  which  his  name,  scrawled  by  him-  versity  at  which  he  had  resided — in  his  twenty- 
self,  is  still  read  with  interest.  From  such  seventh  year,  without  a  degree,  with  the 
garrets  many  men  of  less  parts  than  his  have  merest  smattering  of  medical  knowledge,  and 
made  their  way  to  the  wool-sack'  or  to  the  with  no  property  but  his  clothes  and  his 
episcopal  bench.  But  Goldsmith,  while  he  5  flute.  His  flute,  however,  proved  a  useful 
suffered  aU  the  humiliations,  threw  away  all  friend.  He  rambled  on  foot  through  Flanders, 
the  advantages  of  his  situation.  He  neglected  France,  and  Switzerland,  playing  tunes  which 
the  studies  of  the  place,  stood  low  at  the  ex-  everywhere  set  the  peasantry  dancing,  and 
aminations,  was  turned  down  to  the  bottom  of  which  often  procured  for  him  a  supper  and  a 
his  class  for  playing  the  buffoon  in  the  lecture-  10  bed.  He  wandered  as  far  as  Italy.  His  musi- 
room,  was  severely  reprimanded  for  pumping  cal  performances,  indeed,  were  not  to  the  taste 
on  a  constable,  and  was  caned  by  a  brutal  of  the  Italians;  but  he  contrived  to  live  on  the 
tutor  for  giving  a  ball  in  the  attic  story  of  the  alms  which  he  obtained  at  the  gates  of  con- 
college  to  some  gay  youths  and  damsels  from  vents.  It  should,  however,  be  observed,  that 
the  city.  15  the  stories  which  he  told  about  this  part  of  his 

While  Ohver  was  leading  at  DubUn  a  Hfe  life  ought  to  be  received  with  great  caution; 
divided  between  squahd  distress  and  squaUd  for  strict  veracity  was  never  one  of  his  virtues, 
dissipation,  his  father  died,  leaving  a  mere  and  a  man  who  is  ordinarily  inaccurate  in 
pittance.  The  youth  obtained  his  bachelor's  narration  is  likely  to  be  more  than  ordinarily 
degree,  and  left  the  university.  During  some  20  inaccurate  when  he  talks  about  his  own  travels. 
time  the  humble  dwelling  to  which  his  widowed  Goldsmith,  indeed,  was  so  regardless  of  truth 
mother  had  retired  was  his  home.  He  was  now  as  to  assert  in  print  that  he  was  present  at  a 
in  his  twenty-first  year;  it  was  necessary  that  most  interesting  conversation  between  Voltaire 
he  should  do  something;  and  his  education  and  Fontenelle,  and  that  this  conversation  took 
seemed  to  have  fitted  him  to  do  nothing  but  25  place  at  Paris.  Now,  it  is  certain  that  Voltaire 
to  dress  himself  in  gaudy  colors,  of  which  he  never  was  within  a  hundred  leagues  of  Paris 
was  as  fond  as  a  magpie,  to  take  a  hand  at  during  the  whole  time  which  Goldsmith  passed 
cards,   to  sing  Irish  airs,  to  play  the  flute,      on  the  continent. 

to  angle  in  summer,  and  to  tell  ghost  stories  In  1756  the  wanderer  landed  at  Dover,  with- 
by  the  fire  in  winter.  He  tried  five  or  six  pro-  30  out  a  shilhng,  without  a  friend,  and  without 
fessions  in  turn  without  success.  He  applied  a  caUing.  He  had,  indeed,  if  his  own  unsup- 
for  ordination;  but,  as  he  applied  in  scarlet  ported  evidence  may  be  trusted,  obtained  from 
clothes,  he  was  speedily  turned  out  of  the  the  University  of  Padua  a  doctor's  degree;  but 
episcopal  palace.  He  then  became  tutor  in  an  this  dignity  proved  utterly  useless  to  him.  In 
opulent  family,  but  soon  quitted  his  situation  in  35  England  his  flute  was  not  in  request:  there  were 
consequence  of  a  dispute  about  play.  Then  no  convents;  and  he  was  forced  to  have  recourse 
he  determined  to  emigrate  to  America.  His  rela-  to  a  series  of  desperate  expedients.  He  turned 
tions,  with  much  satisfaction,  saw  him  set  out  strolling  player;  but  his  face  and  figure  were  ill 
for  Cork  on  a  good  horse,  with  thirty  pounds  suited  to  the  boards  even  of  the  humblest 
in  his  pocket.  But  in  six  weeks  he  came  back  40  theatre.  He  pounded  drugs  and  ran  about 
on  a  miserable  hack,  without  a  penny,  and  in-  London  with  phials  for  charitable  chemists, 
formed  his  mother  that  the  ship  in  which  he  He  joined  a  swarm  of  beggars,  which  made  its 
had  taken  his  passage,  having  got  a  fair  wind  nest  in  Axe  Yard.*  He  was  for  a  time  usher  of  a 
while  he  was  at  a  party  of  pleasure,  had  sailed  school,  and  felt  the  miseries  and  humiliations 
without  him.  Then  he  resolved  to  study  the  45  of  this  situation  so  keenly,  that  he  thought  it  a 
law.  A  generous  kinsman  advanced  fifty  promotion  to  be  permitted  to  earn  his  bread 
pounds.  With  this  sum  Goldsmith  went  to  as  a  bookseller's  hack;  but  he  soon  found  the 
Dublin,  was  enticed  into  a  gaming-house,  and  new  yoke  more  galling  than  the  old  one,  and 
lost  every  shilling.  He  then  thought  of  medi-  was  glad  to  become  an  usher  again.  He  ob- 
cine.  A  small  purse  was  made  up;  and  in  his  50  tained  a  medical  appointment  in  the  service 
twenty-fourth  year  he  was  sent  to  Edinburgh,  of  the  East  India  Company;  but  the  appoint- 
At  Edinburgh  he  passed  eighteen  months  in  ment  was  speedily  revoked.  Why  it  was 
nominal  attendance  on  lectures,  and  picked  up  revoked  we  are  not  told.  The  subject  was  one 
some  superficial  information  about  chemistry  on  which  he  never  liked  to  talk.  It  is  probable 
and  natural  history.  Thence  he  went  to  Leyden  55  that  he  was  incompetent  to  perform  the  duties 
still  pretending  to  study  physic.  He  left  of  the  place.  Then  he  presented  himseK  at 
that    celebrated    university — the    third    uni-      Surgeons'  Hall  for  examination,  as  mate  to  a 

»i.  e.  the  oflSce  of  Lord  High  Chancellor,  who  sat  *  Probably  Axe  and  Bottle  Yard  (now  King  Street),  an 

upon  a  cushion  of  wool.  open  space  near  the  old  Marahalsea  Prison  in  Southward 


THOMA»  BABINGTON   MACAULAY  695 

naval  hospital.  Even  to  so  humble  a  post  he  certain  natural  grace  and  decorum,  hardly 
was  found  unequal.  By  this  time  the  school-  to  be  expected  from  a  man  a  great  part  of 
master  whom  he  had  served  for  a  morsel  of  whose  life  had  been  passed  among  thieves  and 
food  and  the  third  part  of  a  bed  was  no  more,  beggars,  street-walkers,  and  merry-andrews. 
Nothing  remained  but  to  return  to  the  lowest  5  in  those  squalid  dens  which  are  the  reproach  of 
drudgery   of   literature.      Goldsmith    took   a     great  capitals. 

garret  in  a  miserable  court,  to  which  he  had  As  his  name  gradually  became  known,  the 
to  climb  from  the  brink  of  Fleet  Ditch  by  a  circle  of  his  acquaintance  widened.  He  was 
dizzy  ladder  of  fiag-stones  called  Breakneck  introduced  to  Johnson,  who  was  then  considered 
St(^ps.  The  court  and  the  ascent  have  long  lo  as  the  first  of  living  English  writers;  to  Rey- 
disappeared;  but  old  Londoners  well  remember  nolds,  the  first  of  English  painters;  and  to 
both.  Here,  at  thirty,  the  unlucky  adventurer  Burke,  who  had  not  yet  entered  Parliament, 
sat  down  to  toil  like  a  galley-slave.  but  had  distinguished  himself  greatly  by  his 

In  the  succeeding  six  years  he  sent  to  the  writings  and  by  the  eloquence  of  his  conver- 
press  some  things  which  have  survived,  andissation.  With  these  eminent  men  Goldsmith 
many  which  have  perished.  He  produced  became  intimate.  In  1763  he  was  one  of  the 
articles  for  reviews,  magazines,  and  news-  nine  original  members  of  that  celebrated 
papers;  children's  books,  which,  bound  in  fraternity  which  has  sometimes  been  called  the 
gilt  paper  and  adorned  with  hideous  wood-  Literary  Club,  but  which  has  always  disclaimed 
cuts,  appeared  in  the  window  of  the  once  far-  20  that  epithet,  and  still  glories  in  the  simple 
famed  shop  at  the  corner  of  St.  Paul's  Church-     name  of  The  Club. 

yard;  "An  Inquiry  into  the"  State  of  Polite  By  this  time  Goldsmith  had  quitted  his 
Learning  in  Europe,"  which,  though  of  little  miserable  dwelling  at  the  top  of  Breakneck 
or  no  value,  is  still  reprinted  among  his  works;  Steps,  and  had  taken  chambers  in  the  more 
a  "Life  of  Beau  Nash,"  which  is  not  reprinted, 25  civihzed  region  of  the  Inns  of  Court.  But  he 
though  it  well  deserves  to  be  so;  a  superficial  was  still  often  reduced  to  pitiable  shifts.  To- 
and  incorrect,  but  very  readable,  "History  of  ward  the  close  of  1764  his  rent  was  so  long  in 
England,'^  in  a  series  of  letters  purporting  to  arrear  that  his  landlady  one  morning  called  in 
be  addressed  by  a  nobleman  to  his  son;  and  the  help  of  a  sheriff's  officer.  The  debtor,  in 
some  very  lively  and  amusing  "Sketches  of 30 great  perplexity,  despatched  a  messenger  to 
London  Society,"  in  a  series  of  letters  pur-  Johnson;  and  Johnson,  always  friendly,  though 
porting  to  be  addressed  by  a  Chinese  traveller  often  surly,  sent  back  the  messenger  with  a 
to  his  friends.^  All  these  works  were  anony-  guinea,  and  promised  to  follow  speedily.^  He 
mous;  but  some  of  them  were  well  known  to  be  came,  and  found  that  Goldsmith  had  changed 
Goldsmith's;  and  he  gradually  rose  in  the  es-35  the  guinea,  and  was  railing  at  the  landlady  over 
timation  of  the  booksellers  for  whom  he  a  bottle  of  Madeira.  Johnson  put  the  cork  into 
drudged.  He  was,  indeed,  emphatically  a  the  bottle,  and  entreated  his  friend  to  consider 
popular  writer.  For  accurate  research  or  calmly  how  money  was  to  be  procured.  Gold- 
grave  disquisition  he  was  not  well  qualified  smith  said  that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the 
by  nature  or  by  education.  He  knew  nothing4o  press.  Johnson  glanced  at  the  manuscript, 
accurately:  his  reading  had  been  desultory;  nor  saw  that  there  were  good  things  in  it,  took  it  to 
had  he  meditated  aeeply  on  what  he  had  read,  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds,  and  soon 
He  had  seen  much  of  the  world;  but  he  had  no-  returned  with  the  money.  The  rent  was  paid, 
ticed  and  retained  little  more  of  what  he  had  and  the  sheriff's  officer  withdrew.  According 
seen  than  some  grotesque  incidents  and  char- 45  to  one  story.  Goldsmith  gave  his  landlady  a 
acters  which  had  happened  to  strike  his  fancy,  sharp  reprimand  for  her  treatment  of  him ; 
But,  though  his  mind  was  very  scantily  stored  according  to  another,  he  insisted  on  her  joining 
with  materials,  he  used  what  materials  he  had  him  in  a  bowl  of  punch.  Both  stories  are  prob- 
in  such  a  way  as  to  produce  a  wonderful  ably  true.  The  novel  which  was  thus  ushered 
effect.  There  have  been  many  greater  writers;  50  into  the  world  was  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield." 
but  perhaps  no  writer  was  ever  more  uniformly  But  before  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  ap- 
agreeable.  His  style  was  always  pure  and  peared  in  print  came  the  great  crisis  of  Gold- 
pasy,  and,  on  proper  occasions,  pointed  and  smith's  literary  life.  In  Christmas  week,  1764, 
energetic.  His  narratives  were  always  amusing,  he  published  a  poem,  entitled  the  "Traveller." 
his  descriptions  always  picturesque,  his  humor  55  It  was  the  first  work  to  which  he  had  put  his 
rich  and  joyous,  yet  not  without  an  occasional  name;  and  it  at  once  raised  him  to  the  rank  of  a 
tinge  of  amiable  sadness.  About  everything  legitimate  English  classic.  The  opinion  of  the 
that  he  wrote,  serious  or  sportive,  there  was  a  most  skilful  critics  was  that  nothing  finer  had 
*  V.  p.  397,  supra.  •  For  an  account  of  this  incident,  v.  p.  427,  supro. 


696  THE  YICTORIAK  AGE 

appeared  in  verse  since  the  fourth  book  of  the  made  by  the  "Traveller"  and  the  "Vicar  of 
"Dunciad."  In  one  respect,  the  "Traveller"  Wakefield"  together.  The  plot  of  the  "Good- 
differs  from  all  Goldsmith's  other  writings.  In  natured  Man"  is,  like  almost  all  Goldsmith's 
general,  his  designs  were  bad,  and  his  execution  plots,  very  ill  constructed.  But  some  passages 
good.  In  the  "Traveller,"  the  execution,  5  are  exquisitely  ludicrous;  much  more  ludicrous, 
though  deserving  of  much  praise,  is  far  inferior  indeed,  than  suited  the  taste  of  the  town  at 
to  the  design.  No  philosophical  poem,  ancient  that  time.  A  canting,  mawkish  play,  entitled 
or  modern,  has  a  plan  so  noble,  and  at  the  same  "False  DeHcacy,"  had  just  had  an  immense 
time  so  simple.  An  English  wanderer,  seated  run.  Sentimentality  was  all  the  mode.  During 
on  a  crag  among  the  Alps,  near  the  point  10  some  years,  more  tears  were  shed  at  comedies 
where  three  great  countries  meet,  looks  down  than  at  tragedies;  and  a  pleasantry  which 
on  the  boundless  prospect,  reviews  his  long  moved  the  audience  to  anything  more  than  a 
pilgrimage,  recalls  the  varieties  of  scenery,  of  grave  smile  was  reprobated  as  low.  It  is  not 
chmate,  of  government,  of  religion,  of  national  strange,  therefore,  that  the  very  best  scene  in 
character,  which  he  has  observed,  and  comes  15  the  "Good-natured  Man" — that  in  which  Miss 
to  the  conclusion,  just  or  unjust,  that  our  hap-  Richland  finds  her  lover  attended  by  the 
piness  depends  httle  on  pohtical  institutions,  baihff  and  the  baliff's  follower  in  full  court- 
and  much  on  the  temper  and  regulation  of  our  dresses — should  have  been  mercilessly  hissed, 
own  minds.  and  should  have  been  omitted  after  the  first 

While  the  fourth  edition  of  the  "Traveller"  20  night, 
was  on  the  counters  of  the  booksellers,  the  In  1770  appeared  the  "Deserted  Village."   In 

"Vicar  of  Wakefield"  appeared,  and  rapidly  mere  diction  and  versification,  this  celebrated 
obtained  a  popularity  which  has  lasted  down  poem  is  fully  equal,  perhaps  superior,  to  the 
to  our  own  time,  and  which  is  hkely  to  last  as  "Traveller;"  and  it  is  generally  preferred  to 
long  as  our  language.  The  fable  is  indeed  one 25  the  "Traveller"  by  that  large  class  of  readers 
of  the  worst  that  ever  was  constructed.  It  who  think,  with  Bayes  in  the  "Rehearsal,"Hhat 
wants  not  merely  that  probability  which  the  only  use  of  a  plan  is  to  bring  in  fine  things, 
ought  to  be  found  in  a  tale  of  common  English  More  discerning  judges,  however,  while  they 
fife,  but  that  consistency  which  ought  to  be  admire  the  beauty  of  the  details,  are  shocked 
found  even  in  the  wildest  fiction  about  witches,  30  by  one  unpardonable  fault  which  pervades 
giants,  and  fairies.  But  the  earher  chapters  the  whole.  The  fault  we  mean  is  not  that 
have  all  the  sweetness  of  pastoral  poetry,  theory  about  wealth  and  luxury  which  has  so 
together  with  all  the  vivacity  of  comedy,  often  been  censured  by  political  economists. 
Moses  and  his  spectacles,  the  Vicar  and  his  The  theory  is  indeed  false;  but  the  poem,  con- 
monogamy,  the  Sharper  and  his  cosmogony,  35  sidered  merely  as  a  poem,  is  not  necessarily 
the  Squire  proving  from  Aristotle  that  relatives  the  worse  on  that  account.  The  finest  poem 
are  related,  OHvia  preparing  herself  for  the  ar-  in  the  Latin  language,^  indeed  the  finest 
duous  task  of  converting  a  rakish  lover  by  didactic  poem  in  any  language,  was  written 
studying  the  controversy  between  Robinson  in  defense  of  the  silliest  and  meanest  of  all 
Crusoe  and  Friday,  the  great  ladies  with  their  40  systems  of  natural  and  moral  philosophy.  A 
scandal  about  Sir  Tomkyn's  amours  and  Dr.  poet  may  easily  be  pardoned  for  reasoning 
Burdock's  verses,  and  Mr.  Burchell  with  his  ill;  but  he  cannot  be  pardoned  for  describing 
Fudge!  have  caused  as  much  harmless  mirth  ill — for  observing  the  world  in  which  he  Lives 
as  has  ever  been  caused  by  matter  packed  into  so  carelessly  that  his  portraits  bear  no  re- 
so  small  a  number  of  pages.  The  latter  part  45  semblance  to  the  originals — for  exhibiting  as 
of  the  tale  is  unworthy  of  the  beginning.  As  we  copies  from  real  life  monstrous  combinations  of 
approach  the  catastrophe,  the  absurdities  things  which  never  were,  and  never  could  be, 
lie  thicker  and  thicker,  and  the  gleams  of  pleas-  found  together.  What  would  be  thought  of  a 
antry  become  rarer  and  rarer.  painter  who  should  mix  August  and  January  in 

The  success  which  had  attended  Goldsmith  50  one  landscape?  Who  should  introduce  a  frozen 
as  a  novelist  emboldened  him  to  try  his  fortune  river  into  a  harvest  scene?  Would  it  be  a 
as  a  dramatist.  He  wrote  the  "Good-natured  sufficient  defense  of  such  a  picture  to  say  that 
Man,"  a  piece  which  had  a  worse  fate  than  it  every  part  was  exquisitely  colored,  that  the 
deserved.     Garrick  refused  to  produce  it  at         ,  *    i,       *     •    /ri,    r>  »,        r       i     u    *u    t^  i      * 

T^           -.              _,                 ,i,/-«i/^i-  ^A  character  in  The  Rehearsal,  a  play  by  the  Duke  of 

Drury  Lane.     It  was  acted  at  Covent  Garden  m  55  Buckingham,  meant  to  satirize  Dryden. 

1768,    but   was   coldly   received.      The    author,  /J^^/  ^^1""*  iVaiura  of  Lucretius,  a  Roman  poet 

,          '              ,           1  1       1  •     I          n,      •    ^  1            J  1  of  the  nrst  century  B.  C     In  this  poem  {On  the  Nature 

however,  cleared  by  his  benefat  nights,  and  by  of  Things)    Lucretius  aspired   to    explain   the   origin  of 

the    sale   of   the    copyright,    not   less   than   five  the    universe    by    philosophical    theories,     and    to    ,at- 

,         ,      ,              ,        r>        ,  •                         1         111  tack  and  denounce  all  rehgion  and  the  behef  xn  im- 

hundred  pounds — five  times  as  much  as  he  had      mortality. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  697 

green  hedges,  the  apple-trees  loaded  with  covenanted  to  pay  him  eight  hundred  guineas, 
fruit,  the  wagons  reeling  under  the  yellow  These  works  he  produced  without  any  elaborate 
sheaves,  and  the  sunburnt  reapers  wiping  their  research,  by  merely  selecting,  abridging,  and 
foreheads  were  very  fine,  and  that  the  ice  and  translating  into  his  own  clear,  pure,  and  flowing 
the  boys  sliding  were  also  very  fine?  To  such  a  5  language,  what  he  found  in  books  well  known 
picture  the  "Deserted  Village"  bears  a  great  to  the  world,  but  too  bulky  or  too  dry  for  boys 
resemblance.  It  is  made  up  of  incongruoua  and  girls.  He  committed  some  strange  blunders, 
parts.  The  village  in  its  happy  days  is  a  true  for  he  knew  nothing  with  accuracy.  Thus,  in 
English  village.  The  village  in  its  decay  is  an  his  "History  of  England"  he  tells  us  that 
Irish  village.  The  felicity  and  the  misery  lo  Naseby^o  is  in  Yorkshire;  nor  did  he  correct 
which  Goldsmith  has  brought  close  together  this  mistake  when  the  book  was  reprinted, 
belong  to  two  different  countries,  and  to  two  He  was  very  nearly  hoaxed  into  putting  into  the 
different  stages  in  the  progress  of  society.  He  "History  of  Greece"  an  account  of  a  battle 
had  assuredly  never  seen  in  his  native  island  between  Alexander  the  Great  and  Montezuma, 
such  a  rural  paradise,  such  a  seat  of  plenty,  15  In  his  "Animated  Nature"  he  relates,  with 
content,  and  tranquillity,  as  his  Auburn.  He  faith  and  with  perfect  gravity,  all  the  most 
had  assuredly  never  seen  in  England  all  the  in-  absurd  hes  which  he  could  find  in  books  of 
habitants  of  such  a  paradise  turned  out  of  travels  about  gigantic  Patagonians,  monkeys 
their  homes  in  one  day,  and  forced  to  emigrate  that  preach  sermons,  nightingales  that  repeat 
in  a  body  to  America.  The  hamlet  he  had 20 long  conversations.  "If  he  can  tell  a  horse 
probably  seen  in  Kent;  the  ejectment  he  had  from  a  cow,"  said  Johnson,  "that  is  the  extent 
probably  seen  in  Munster;  but  by  joining  the  of  his  knowledge  of  zoology."  How  Uttle  Gold- 
two,  he  has  produced  something  which  never  smith  was  qualified  to  write  about  the  physical 
was  and  never  will  be  seen  in  any  part  of  the  sciences  is  sufficiently  proved  by  two  anecdotes, 
world.  25  He  on  one  occasion  denied  that  the  sun  is 

In  1773  Goldsmith  tried  his  chance  at  longer  in  the  northern  than  in  the  southern 
Covent  Garden  with  a  second  play — "She  signs.  It  was  vain  to  cite  the  authority  of 
Stoops  to  Conquer."  The  manager  was  not  Maupertuis.  "Maupertuis!"  he  cried;  "I 
without  great  difficulty  induced  to  bring  this  understand  those  matters  better  than  Mau- 
piece  out.  The  sentimental  comedy  still  30  pertuis."  On  another  occasion  he,  in  defiance 
reigned,  and  Goldsmith's  comedies  were  not  of  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses,  maintained 
sentimental.  The  "Good-natured  Man"  had  obstinately,  and  even  angrily,  that  he  chewed 
been  too  funny  to  succeed;  yet  the  mirth  of  the  his  dinner  by  moving  his  upper  jaw. 
"Good-natured  Man"  was  sober  when  com-  Yet,  ignorant  as  Goldsmith  was,  few  writers 

pared  with  the  rich  drollery  of  "She  Stoops  to  35' have  done  more  to  make  the  first  steps  in  the 
Conquer,"  which  is,  in  truth,  an  incomparable  laborious  road  to  knowledge  easy  and  pleasant. 
farce  in  five  acts.  On  this  occasion,  however.  His  compilations  are  widely  distinguished 
genius  triumphed.  Pit,  boxes,  and  galleries  from  the  compilations  of  ordinary  book- 
were  in  a  constant  roar  of  laughter.  If  any  makers.  He  was  a  great,  perhaps  an  unequalled 
bigoted  admirer  of  Kelly  and  Cumberland' 40  master  of  the  arts  of  selection  and  condensa- 
ventured  to  hiss  or  groan,  he  was  speedily  tion.  In  these  respects  his  histories  of  Rome 
silenced  by  a  general  cry  of,  "Turn  him  out!"  and  of  England,  and  still  more  his  own  abridg- 
or  "Throw  him  over!"  Two  generations  have  ments  of  these  histories,  well  deserve  to  be 
since  confirmed  the  verdict  which  was  pro-  studied.  In  general  nothing  is  less  attractive 
nounced   on   that   night.  45  than  an  epitome:  but  the  epitomes  of  Gold- 

While  Goldsmith  was  writing  the  "Deserted  smith,  even  when  most  concise,  are  always 
Village"  and  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  he  was  amusing;  and  to  read  them  is  considered  by 
employed  on  works  of  a  very  different  kind —  intelligent  children  not  as  a  task,  but  as  a 
works  from  which  he  derived  little  reputation,      pleasure. 

but  much  profit.  He  compiled  for  the  use  of  50  Goldsmith  might  now  be  considered  as  a 
schools  a  "History  of  Rome,"  by  which  he  prosperous  man.  He  had  the  means  of  living 
made  three  hundred  pounds;  a  "History  of  in  comfort,  and  even  in  what  to  one  who  had 
England,"  by  which  he  made  six  hundred  so  often  slept  in  barns  and  on  bulks  must  have 
pounds;  a  "History  of  Greece,"  for  which  he  been  luxury.  His  fame  was  great,  and  was  con- 
received  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds;  a  55  stantly  rising.  He  lived  in  what  was  intel- 
" Natural  History,"  for  which  the  booksellers  lectually  far  the  best  society  of  the  kingdom, 
» Hugh  Kelly  was  the  author  of  False  Delicacy,  the      in  a  society  in  which  no  talent  or  accomplish- 

" canting,   mawkish   play"   mentioned   above.      Richard 

Cumberland  was  a  novelist  and  dramatist,  whose  best  i"  ATase&y,  where  the  battle  was  fought  between  Charles  I 

play  is  The  West  Indian.  and  Cromwell's  army  is  in  Northamptonshire. 


698  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

ment  was  wanting,  and  in  which  the  art  of  con-  heart  was  soft,  even  to  weakness;  he  was  so 
versation  was  cultivated  with  splendid  success,  generous,  that  he  quite  forgot  to  be  just;  he 
There  probably  were  never  four  talkers  more  forgave  injuries  so  readily,  that  he  might  be 
admirable  in  four  different  ways  than  Johnson,  said  to  invite  them,  and  was  so  liberal  to  beg- 
Burke,  Beauclerk,  and  Garrick;  and  Goldsmith  5  gars  that  he  had  nothing  left  for  his  tailor  and 
was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  all  the  four,  his  butcher.  He  was  vain,  sensual,  frivolous, 
He  aspired  to  share  in  their  colloquial  renown;  profuse,  improvident.  One  vice  of  a  darker 
but  never  was  ambition  more  unfortunate,  shade  was  imputed  to  him — envy.  But  there 
It  may  seem  strange  that  a  man  who  wrote  is  not  the  least  reason  to  believe  that  this  bad 
with  so  much  perspicuity,  vivacity,  and  grace,  lo  passion,  though  it  sometimes  made  him  wince 
should  have  been,  whenever  he  took  a  part  in  and  utter  fretful  exclamations,  ever  impelled 
conversation,  an  empty,  noisy,  blundering  rat-  him  to  injure  by  wicked  arts  the  reputation  of 
tie.  But  on  this  point  the  evidence  is  over-  any  of  his  rivals.  The  truth  probably  is,  that 
whelming.  So  extifaordinary  was  the  contrast  he  was  not  more  envious,  but  merely  less 
between  Goldsmith's  published  works  and  the  15  prudent,  than  his  neighbors.  His  heart  was  on 
silly  things  which  he  said,  that  Horace  Walpole  his  lips.  All  those  small  jealousies,  which  are 
described  him  as  an  inspired  idiot.  "Noll,"  but  too  common  among  men  of  letters,  but 
said  Garrick,  "wrote  like  an  angel,  and  talked  which  a  man  of  letters  who  is  also  a  man  of  the 
like  poor  Poll."  Chamier^i  declared  that  it  world  does  his  best  to  conceal.  Goldsmith 
was  a  hard  exercise  of  faith  to  believe  that  so  20  avowed  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child.  When 
fooUsh  a  chatterer  could  have  really  written  he  was  envious,  instead  of  affecting  indiffer- 
the  "Traveller."  Even  Boswell  could  say,  ence,  instead  of  damning  with  faint  praise, 
with  contemptuous  compassion,  that  he  liked  instead  of  doing  injuries  slyly  and  in  the  dark, 
very  well  to  hear  honest  Goldsmith  run  on.  he  told  everybody  that  he  was  envious.  "Do 
"Yes,  sir,"  said  Johnson,  "but  he  should  25  not,  pray  do  not,  talk  of  Johnson  in  such  terms," 
not  like  to  hear  himself."  Minds  differ  as  he  said  to  Boswell;  "you  harrow  up  my  very 
rivers  differ.  There  are  transparent  and  soul."  George  Steevens^ 2  ^ikJ  Cumberland  were 
sparkling  rivers  from  which  it  is  dehghtful  men  far  too  cunning  to  say  such  a  thing.  Thoy 
to  drink  as  they  flow;  to  such  rivers  the  minds  would  have  echoed  the  praises  of  the  man  whom 
of  such  men  as  Burke  and  Johnson  may  be  30  they  envied,  and  then  have  sent  to  the  news- 
compared.  But  there  are  rivers  of  which  the  papers  anonymous  libels  upon  him.  Both 
water  when  first  drawn  is  turbid  and  noisome,  what  was  good  and  what  was  bad  in  Goldsmith's 
but  becomes  pellucid  as  crystal  and  dehcious  character  was  to  his  associates  a  perfect  se- 
to  the  taste  if  it  be  suffered  to  stand  till  it  has  curity  that  he  would  never  commit  such  villany. 
deposited  a  sediment;  and  such  a  river  is  a  35  He  was  neither  ill-natured  enough,  nor  long- 
type  of  the  mind  of  Goldsmith.  His  first  headed  enough,  to  be  guilty  of  any  malicious 
thoughts  on  every  subject  were  confused  even  act  which  required  contrivance  and  disguise. 
to  absurdity,  but  they  required  only  a  little  Goldsmith  has  sometimes  been  represented 

time  to  work  themselves  clear.  When  he  wrote  as  a  man  of  genius,  cruelly  treated  by  the  world, 
they  had  that  time,  and  therefore  his  readers  40  and  doomed  to  struggle  with  difficulties  which 
pronounced  him  a  man  of  genius;  but  when  at  last  broke  his  heart.  But  no  representation 
he  talked,  he  talked  nonsense,  and  made  him-  can  be  more  remote  from  the  truth.  He  did, 
seK  the  laughing-stock  of  his  hearers.  He  was  indeed,  go  through  much  sharp  misery  before 
painfully  sensible  of  his  inferiority  in  conver-  he  had  done  anything  considerable  in  hterature. 
sation;  he  felt  every  failure  keenly;  yet  he  had  45  But  after  his  name  had  appeared  on  the  title- 
not  sufficient  judgment  and  self-command  to  page  of  the  "Traveller,"  he  had  none  but 
hold  his  tongue.  His  animal  spirits  and  vanity  himseK  to  blame  for  his  distresses.  His  average 
were  always  impelling  him  to  try  to  do  the  one  income  during  the  last  seven  years  of  his  fife 
thing  which  he  could  not  do.  After  every  certainly  exceeded  four  hundred  pounds  a 
attempt,  he  felt  that  he  had  exposed  himself,  50  year,  and  four  hundred  pounds  a  year  ranked, 
and  writhed  with  shame  and  vexation;  yet  among  the  incomes  of  that  day,  at  least  as 
the  next  moment  he  began  again.  high  as  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year  would 

His  associates  seem  to  have  regarded  him  rank  at  present.  A  single  man  Hving  in  the 
with  kindness,  which,  in  spite  of  their  admira-  Temple  with  four  hundred  pounds  a  year 
tion  of  his  writings,  was  not  unmixed  with  55  might  then  be  called  opulent.  Not  one  in  ten 
contempt.  In  truth,  there  was  in  his  character  of  the  young  gentlemen  of  good  families  who 
much  to  love,  but  very  little  to  respect.    His 

12  A  Shakespearean  commentator.    He  was  a  friend  of 
11  Anthony  Chamier,  was  one  of  the  original  members       Johnson,  and  he  made  some  valuable  additiona  to  Dr. 
of  the  Literary  Club  founded  by  Reynolds  and  Johnson.         Johnson's  work  on  Shakespeare. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  699 

were  studying  the  law  there  had  so  much,  our  language  lasts,  associate  the  names  of  his 
But  all  the  wealth  which  Lord  Clive  had  two  illustrious  friends  with  his  own.  It  has 
brought  from  Bengal,  and  Sir  Lawrence  Dundas  already  been  mentioned  that  he  sometimes  felt 
from  Germany,  joined  together,  would  not  have  keenly  the  sarcasm  which  his  wild,  blundering 
sufficed  for  Goldsmith.  He  spent  twice  as  stalk  brought  upon  him.  He  was,  not  long 
much  as  he  had.  He  wore  fine  clothes,  gave  before  his  last  illness,  provoked  into  retaliating, 
dinners  of  several  courses,  paid  court  to  venal  He  wisely  betook  himself  to  his  pen,  and  at 
beauties.  He  had  also,  it  should  be  remembered  that  weapon  he  proved  himself  a  match  for  all 
to  the  honor  of  his  heart,  though  not  of  his  his  assailants  together.  Within  a  small  com- 
head,  a  guinea,  or  five,  or  ten,  according  to  the  10  pass  he  drew  with  a  singularly  easy  and  vigor- 
state  of  his  purse,  ready  for  any  tale  of  distress,  ous  pencil  the  characters  of  nine  or  ten  of  his 
true  or  false.  But  it  was  not  in  dress  or  feasting,  intimate  associates.  Though  this  little  work 
in  promiscuous  amours  or  promiscuous  chari-  did  not  receive  his  last  touches,  it  must  always 
ties,  that  his  chief  expense  lay.  He  had  been  be  regarded  as  a  master-piece.  It  is  impossible, 
from  boyhood  a  gambler,  and  at  once  the  most  15  however,  not  to  wish  that  four  or  five  Hkenesses 
sanguine  and  the  most  unskilful  of  gamblers,  which  have  no  interest  for  posterity  were 
For  a  time  he  put  off  the  day  of  inevitable  wanting  to  that  noble  gallery,  and  that  their 
ruin  by  temporary  expedients.  He  obtained  places  were  supplied  by  sketches  of  Johnson 
advances  from  booksellers  by  promising  to  and  Gibbon,  as  happy  and  vivid  as  the  sketches 
execute  works  which  he  never  began.    But  at  20  of  Burke  and  Garrick. 

length  this  source  of  supply  failed.  He  owed  Some  of  Goldsmith's  friends  and  admirers 
more  than  two  thousand  pounds,  and  he  saw  honored  him  with  a  cenotaph  in  Westminster 
no  hope  of  extrication  from  his  embarrassments.  Abbey.  NoUekens^*  was  the  sculptor,  and 
His  spirits  and  health  gave  way.  He  was  at-  Johnson  wrote  the  inscription.  It  is  much 
tacked  by  a  nervous  fever,  which  he  thought  25  to  be  lamented  that  Johnson  did  not  leave 
himself  competent  to  treat.  It  would  have  to  posterity  a  more  durable  and  a  more 
been  happy  for  him  if  his  medical  skill  had  been  valuable  memorial  of  his  friend.  A  hfe  of 
appreciated  as  justly  by  himseK  as  by  others.  Goldsmith  would  have  been  an  inestimable 
Notwithstanding  the  degree  which  he  pre-  addition  to  the  "Lives  of  the  Poets."  No  man 
tended  to  have  received  at  Padua,  he  could  30  appreciated  Goldsmith's  writings  more  justly 
procure  no  patients.  "I  do  not  practise,"  he  than  Johnson;  no  man  was  better  acquainted 
once  said;  "I  make  it  a  rule  to  prescribe  only  with  Goldsmith's  character  and  habits;  and 
for  mf  friends."  "Pray,  dear  Doctor,"  said  no  man  was  more  competent  to  dehneate  with 
Beauclerk,  "alter  your  rule,  and  prescribe  truth  and  spirit  the  peculiarities  of  a  mind  in 
only  for  your  enemies."  Goldsmith  now,  in  35  which  great  powers  were  found  in  company 
spite  of  this  excellent  advice,  prescribed  for  with  great  weaknesses.  But  the  list  of  poets 
himself.  The  remedy  aggravated  the  malady,  to  whose  works  Johnson  was  requested  by  the 
The  sick  man  was  induced  to  call  in  real  phy-  booksellers  to  furnish  prefaces  ended  with 
sicians,  and  they  at  one  time  imagined  that  Lyttleton,  who  died  in  1773.  The  Une  seems 
they  had  cured  the  disease.  Still  his  weakness  40  to  have  been  drawn  expressly  for  the  purpose 
and  restlessness  continued.  He  could  get  no  of  excluding  the  person  whose  portrait  would 
sleep;  he  could  take  no  food.  "You  are  worse,"  have  most  fitly  closed  the  series.  Goldsmith, 
said  one  of  his  medical  attendants,  "than  you  however,  has  been  fortunate  in  his  biog- 
should  be  from  the  degree  of  fever  which  you  raphers.  Within  a  few  years  his  life  has  been 
have.  Is  your  mind  at  ease? "  "No,  it  is  not,"  45  written  by  Mr.  Prior,  by  Mr.  Washington 
were  the  last  recorded  words  of  Oliver  Gold-  Irving,  and  by  Mr.  Forster.  The  dihgence  of 
smith.  He  died  on  the  3d  of  April,  1774,  in  his  Mr.  Prior  deserves  great  praise;  the  style  of 
forty-sixth  year.  He  was  laid  in  the  churchyard  Mr.  Washington  Irving  is  always  pleasing; 
of  the  Temple;  but  the  spot  was  not  marked  by  but  the  highest  place  must  in  justice  be  as- 
any  inscription,  and  is  now  forgotten.  The  cof-  50  signed  to  the  eminently  interesting  work  of 
fin  was  followed  by  Burke  and  Reynolds.  Both  Mr.  Forster. 
these  great  men  were  sincere  mourners.    Burke, 

when  he  heard  of  Goldsmith's  death,  had  burst  THE  STATE  OF  ENGLAND  IN  1685 

into  a  flood  of  tears.     Reynolds  had  been  so  /  p     /     j  ,0^0  -.onr^x 

much  moved  by  the  news,  that  he  had  flung  55        (From  History  of  England,^  1848-1860) 
aside  his  brush  and  palette  for  the  day.  I  intend,  in  this  chapter  to  give  a  description 

A   short  time  after  Goldsmith's  death,   a      of  the  state  in  which  England  was  at  the  time 
Uttle  poemi3  appeared,  which  will,  as  long  as  ^^^^^^^^  Nollekens  (1737-1823),  a  sculptor  who  exe- 

IS  Goldsmith's  Retaliatunu  cuted  busts  of  Garrick,  Sterne,  Goldsmith,  etc. 


700  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

when  the  crown  passed  from  Charles  the  wars,  no  hostile  standard  has  been  seen  here 
Second  to  his  brother.  Such  a  description,  but  as  a  trophy.  While  revolutions  have 
composed  from  scanty  and  dispersed  materials,  taken  place  all  around  us,  our  government  has 
must  necessarily  be  very  imperfect.  Yet  it  never  once  been  subverted  by  violence.  During 
may  perhaps  correct  some  false  notions  which  5  more  than  a  hundred  years  there  has  been  in 
would  make  the  subsequent  narrative  unin-  our  island  no  tumult  of  sufficient  importance 
telligible  or  uninstructive.  to  be  called  an  insurrection;  nor  has  the  law 

If  we  would  study  with  profit  the  history  of  been  once  borne  down  either  by  popular 
our  ancestors,  we  must  be  constantly  on  our  fury  or  by  regal  tyranny:  public  credit  has  been 
guard  against  the  delusions  which  the  well  10  held  sacred:  the  administration  of  justice  has 
known  names  of  families,  places,  and  offices  been  pure:  even  in  times  which  by  English- 
naturally  produce,  and  must  never  forget  men  might  be  justly  called  evil  times,  we  have 
that  the  country  of  which  we  read  was  a  very  enjoyed  what  almost  every  other  nation  in  the 
different  country  from  that  in  which  we  live,  world  would  have  considered  as  an  ample  meas- 
In  every  experimental  science  there  is  a  tend-  I5ure  of  civil  and  religious  freedom.  Every  man 
ency  towards  perfection.  In  every  human  has  felt  entire  confidence  that  the  state  would 
being  there  is  a  wish  to  amehorate  his  own  protect  him  in  the  possession  of  what  had  been 
condition.  These  two  principles  have  often  earned  by  his  diligence  and  hoarded  by  his 
sufficed,  even  when  counteracted  by  great  self-denial.  Under  the  benignant  influence  of 
public  calamities  and  by  bad  institutions,  20  peace  and  liberty,  science  has  flourished,  and 
to  carry  civilisation  rapidly  forward.  No  has  been  applied  to  practical  purposes  on  a 
ordinary  misfortune,  no  ordinary  misgov-  scale  never  before  known.  The  consequence 
ernment,  will  do  so  much  to  make  a  nation  is  that  a  change  to  which  the  history  of  the  old 
wretched,  as  the  constant  progress  of  physical  world  furnishes  no  parallel  has  taken  place 
knowledge  and  the  constant  effort  of  every  25  in  our  country.  Could  the  England  of  1685 
man  to  better  himself  will  do  to  make  a  nation  be,  by  some  magical  process,  set  before  our 
prosperous.  It  has  often  been  found  that  eyes,  we  should  not  know  one  landscape  in  a 
profuse  expenditure,  heavy  taxation,  absurd  hundred  or  one  building  in  ten  thousand.  The 
commercial  restrictions,  corrupt  tribunals,  country  gentleman  would  not  recognize  his 
disastrous  wars,  seditions,  persecutions,  con-  30  own  fields.  The  inhabitant  of  the  town  would 
flagrations,  inundations,  have  not  been  able  not  recognise  his  own  street.  Everything  has 
to  destroy  capital  so  fast  as  the  exertions  of  been  changed,  but  the  great  features  of  nature, 
private  citizens  have  been  able  to  create  it.  It  and  a  few  massive  and  durable  works  of  human 
can  easily  be  proved  that,  in  our  own  land,  the  art.  We  might  find  out  Snowdon  and  Winder- 
national  wealth  has,  during  at  least  six  centur-  35  mere,  the  Cheddar  Chffs  and  Beachy  Head, 
ies,  been  almost  uninterruptedly  increasing;  We  might  find  out  here  and  there  a  Norman 
that  it  was  greater  under  the  Tudors  than  minster,  or  a  castle  which  witnessed  the  wars 
under  the  Plantagenets;  that  it  was  greater  of  the  Roses.  But  with  such  rare  exceptions, 
under  the  Stuarts  than  under  the  Tudors;  everything  would  be  strange  to  us.  Many 
that,  in  spite  of  battles,  sieges  and  confisca- 40  thousands  of  square  miles  which  are  now 
tions,  it  v/as  greater  on  the  day  of  the  Restora-  rich  corn  land  and  meadow,  intersected  by 
tion  than  on  the  day  when  the  Long  Parlia-  green  hedgerows,  and  dotted  with  villages 
ment  met;  that,  in  spite  of  maladministration,  and  pleasant  country  seats,  would  appear  as 
of  extravagance,  of  public  bankruptcy,  of  two  moors  overgrown  with  furze,  or  fens  abandoned 
costly  and  unsuccessful  wars,  of  the  pestilence  45  to  wild  ducks.  We  should  see  straggling  huts 
and  of  the  fire,  it  was  greater  on  the  day  of  the  built  of  wood  and  covered  with  thatch,  where 
death  of  Charles  the  Second  than  on  the  day  we  now  see  manufacturing  towns  and  seaports 
of  his  Restoration.  This  progress,  having  renowned  to  the  farthest  ends  of  the  world, 
continued  during  many  ages  became  at  length  The  capital  itself  would  shrink  to  dimensions 
about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  50  not  much  exceeding  those  of  its  present  suburb 
portentously  rapid,  and  has  proceeded,  during  on  the  south  of  the  Thames.  Not  less  strange 
the  nineteenth,  with  accelerated  velocity,  to  us  would  be  the  garb  and  manners  of  the 
In  consequence  partly  of  our  geographical  and  people,  the  furniture  and  the  equipages,  the 
partly  of  our  moral  position,  we  have,  during  interior  of  the  shops  and  dwellings.  Such  a 
several  generations,  been  exempt  from  evils  55  change  in  the  state  of  a  nation  seems  to  be  at 
which  have  elsewhere  impeded  the  efforts  and  least  as  well  entitled  to  the  notice  of  a  his- 
destroyed  the  fruits  of  industry.  While  every  torian  as  any  change  of  the  dynasty  or  of  the 
part  of  the  Continent,  from  Moscow  to  Lisbon,  ministry, 
has  been  the  theatre  of  bloody  and  devastating 


THOMAS   BABINGTON   MACAULAY  701 

THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SQUIRE      tankard  with  drovers  and  hop  merchants.    His 
(From  the  s        )  chief  pleasures  were  commonly  derived  from 

^  field  sports  and  from  an  unrefined  sensuality. 

We  should  be  much  mistaken  if  we  pictured  His  language  and  pronunciation  were  such  as 
to  ourselves  the  squires  of  the  seventeenth  5  we  should  now  expect  to  hear  only  from  the 
century  as  men  bearing  a  close  resemblance  most  ignorant  clowns.  His  oaths,  coarse  jests, 
to  their  descendants,  the  county  members  scurrilous  terms  of  abuse,  were  uttered  with  the 
and  chairmen  of  quarter  sessions  with  whom  broadest  accent  of  his  province.  It  was  easy 
we  are  familiar.  The  modern  country  gentle-  to  discern  from  the  first  words  which  he  spoke, 
man  generally  receives  a  liberal  education,  lo  whether  he  came  from  Somersetshire  or  York- 
passes  from  a  distinguished  school  to  a  distin-  shire.  He  troubled  himself  little  about  decorat- 
guishcd  college,  and  has  ample  opportunity  ing  his  abode,  and,  if  he  attempted  decoration, 
to  become  an  excellent  scholar.  He  has  gener-  seldom  produced  anything  but  deformity, 
ally  seen  something  of  foreign  countries.  A  The  htter  of  a  farmyard  gathered  under  the 
considerable  part  of  his  life  has  generally  been  15  windows  of  his  bedchamber,  and  the  cabbages 
passed  in  the  capital;  and  the  refinements  of  and  gooseberry  bushes  grew  close  to  his  hall 
the  capital  follow  him  into  the  country.  There  door.  His  table  was  loaded  v/ith  coarse  plenty; 
is  perhaps  no  class  of  dwellings  so  pleasing  as  and  guests  were  cordially  welcomed  to  it. 
the  rural  seats  of  the  English  gentry.  In  the  But  as  the  habit  of  drinking  to  excess  was 
parks  and  pleasure  grounds,  nature,  dressed  20  general  in  the  class  to  which  he  belonged,  and 
yet  not  disguised  by  art,  wears  her  most  as  his  fortune  did  not  enable  him  to  intoxicate 
alluring  form.  In  the  buildings,  good  sense  large  assembhes  daily  with  claret  or  canary, 
and  good  taste  combine  to  produce  a  happy  strong  beer  was  the  ordinary  beverage.  The 
union  of  the  comfortable  and  the  graceful,  quantity  of  beer  consumed  in  those  days  was 
The  pictures,  the  musical  instruments,  the  25  indeed  enormous.  For  beer  then  was  to  the 
library,  in  any  other  country  would  be  con-  lower  and  middle  classes,  not  only  all  that 
sidered  as  proving  the  owner  to  be  an  eminently  beer  is,  but  all  that  wine,  tea,  and  ardent  spirits 
polished  and  accomplished  man.  A  country  now  are.  It  was  only  at  great  houses,  or  on 
gentleman  who  witnessed  the  Revolution  was  great  occasions,  that  foreign  drink  was  placed 
probably  in  receipt  of  about  a  fourth  part  of  30  upon  the  board.  The  ladies  of  the  house,  whose 
the  rent  which  his  acres  now  yield  to  his  pos-  business  it  had  commonly  been  to  cook  the 
terity.  He  was,  therefore,  as  compared  with  repast,  retired  as  soon  as  the  dishes  had  been 
his  posterity,  a  poor  man,  and  was  generally  devoured,  and  left  the  gentlemen  to  their  ale 
under  the  necessity  of  residing,  with  little  in-  and  tobacco.  The  coarse  jollity  of  the  after- 
terruption,  on  his  estate.  To  travel  on  the  35  noon  was  often  prolonged  till  the  revellers  were 
Continent,   to  maintain  an  establishment  in      laid  under  the  table. 

London,  or  even  to  visit  London  frequently,  It  was  very  seldom  that  the  country  gentle- 

were  pleasures  in  which  only  the  great  pro-  man  caught  glimpses  of  the  great  world;  and 
prietors  could  indulge.  It  may  be  confidently  what  he  saw  of  it  tended  rather  to  confuse  than 
affirmed  that  of  the  squires  whose  names  were  40  to  enlighten  his  understanding.  His  opinions 
then  in  the  Commissions  of  Peace  and  Lieu-  respecting  religion,  government,  foreign  coun- 
tenancy  not  one  in  twenty  went  to  town  once  tries  and  former  times,  having  been  derived, 
in  five  years,  or  had  ever  in  his  life  wandered  so  not  from  study,  from  observation,  or  from  con- 
far  as  Paris.  Many  lords  of  manors  had  re-  versation  with  enlightened  companions,  but 
ceived  an  education  difi"ering  little  from  that  45  from  such  traditions  as  were  current  in  his  own 
df  their  menial  servants.  The  heir  of  an  estate  small  circle,  were  the  opinions  of  a  child.  He 
often  passed  his  boyhood  and  youth  at  the  adhered  to  them,  however,  with  the  obstinacy 
scat  of  his  family  with  no  better  tutors  than  which  is  generally  found  in  ignorant  men  ac- 
grooms  and  gamekeepers,  and  scarce  attained  customed  to  be  fed  with  flattery.  His  ani- 
learning  enough  to  sign  his  name  to  a  Mitti-  50  mosities  were  numerous  and  bitter.  He 
mus.  If  he  went  to  school  and  to  college,  hated  Frenchmen  and  Italians,  Scotchmen  and 
he  generally  returned  before  he  was  twenty  to  Irishmen,  Papists  and  Presbyterians,  In- 
the  seclusion  of  the  old  hall,  and  there,  unless  dependents  and  Baptists,  Quakers  and .  Jews, 
his  mind  were  very  happily  constituted  by  Towards  London  and  Londoners  he  felt  an 
nature,  soon  forgot  his  academical  pursuits  in  55  aversion  which  more  than  once  produced  im- 
rural  business  and  pleasures.  His  chief  serious  portant  political  effects.  His  wife  and  daughter 
employment  was  the  care  of  his  property,  were  in  tastes  and  acquirements  below  a  house- 
He  examined  samples  of  grain,  handled  pigs,  keeper  or  a  stillroom  maid  of  the  present  day. 
and,  on  market  days,  made  bargains  over  a     They  stitched  and  spun,  brewed  gooseberry 


702  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

wine,  cured  marigolds,  and  made  the  crust  for  essentially  a  partisan,  and  had,  in  large  meas- 
the  venison  pasty.  ure,   both   the  virtues   and   the  vices  which 

From  this  description  it  might  be  supposed  flourish  among  men  set  from  their  birth  in 
that  the  English  esquire  of  the  seventeenth  cen-  high  place,  and  used  to  respect  themselves 
tury  did  not  materially  differ  from  a  rustic  5  and  to  be  respected  by  others.  It  is  not  easy 
miller  or  alehouse  keeper  of  the  present  time,  for  a  generation  accustomed  to  find  chivalrous 
There  are,  however,  some  important  parts  of  sentiments  only  in  company  with  hberal 
his  character  still  to  be  noted,  which  will  studies  and  polished  manners,  to  image  to 
greatly  modify  this  estimate.  Unlettered  as  himself  a  man  with  the  deportment,  the 
he  was  and  unpolished,  he  was  still  in  some  10  vocabulary,  and  the  accent  of  a  carter,  yet 
most  important  points  a  gentleman.  He  was  punctilious  on  matters  of  genealogy  and  pre- 
a  member  of  a  proud  and  powerful  aristocracy,  cedence,  and  ready  to  risk  his  life  rather  than 
and  was  distinguished  by  many  both  of  the  see  a  stain  cast  on  the  honor  of  his  house.  It 
good  and  of  the  bad  qualities  which  belong  to  is,  however,  only  by  thus  joining  together 
aristocrats.  His  family  pride  was  beyond  that  15  things  seldom  or  never  found  together  in  our 
of  a  Talbot  or  a  Howard.  He  knew  the  geneal-  own  experience,  that  we  can  form  a  just  idea 
ogies  and  coats  of  arms  of  all  his  neighbors,  of  that  rustic  aristocracy  which  constituted 
and  could  tell  which  of  them  had  assumed  the  main  strength  of  the  armies  of  Charles 
supporters  without  any  right,  and  which  of  the  First,  and  which  long  supported,  with 
them  were  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  grandsons  20  strange  fidelity,  the  interest  of  his  descendants, 
of  aldermen.     He  was  a  magistrate,  and,  as 

such,  administered  gratuitously  to  those  who  nmrTTTTT?   TrmTQi? 

dwelt  around  him  a  rude  patriarchal  justice,  ^^^  ^Vbtihih   MUUfeJ^i 

which,  in  spite  of  innumerable  blunders,  and  of  (From  the  same) 

occasional   acts   of   tyranny,   was   yet   better  25 

than  no  justice  at  all.  He  was  an  officer  of  The  coffee  house  must  not  be  dismissed 
the  trainband;^  and  his  military  dignity,  though  with  a  cursory  mention.  It  might  indeed  at 
it  might  move  the  mirth  of  gallants  who  had  that  time  have  been  not  improperly  called  a 
served  a  campaign  in  Flanders,  raised  his  most  important  poHtical  institution.  No  Par- 
character  in  his  own  eyes  and  in  the  eyes  of  30  liament  had  sat  for  years.  The  municipal 
his  neighbors.  Nor  indeed  was  his  soldiership  council  of  the  City  had  ceased  to  speak  the 
justly  a  subject  of  derision.  In  every  county  sense  of  the  citizens.  Public  meetings,  ha- 
there  were  elderly  gentlemen  who  had  seen  rangues,  resolutions,  and  the  rest  of  the  modern 
service  which  was  no  child's  play.  One  had  machinery  of  agitation  had  not  yet  come  into 
been  knighted  by  Charles  the  First,  after  the  35  fashion.  Nothing  resembhng  the  modern 
battle  of  Edgehill.  Another  still  wore  a  patch  newspaper  existed.  In  such  circumstances 
over  the  scar  which  he  had  received  at  Naseby.  the  coffee  houses  were  the  chief  organs  through 
A  third  had  defended  his  old  house  till  Fairfax  which  the  public  opinion  of  the  metropohs 
had  blown  in  the  door  with  a  petard.     The      vented  itself. 

presence  of  these  old  Cavaliers,  with  their  40  The  first  of  these  establishments  had  been 
old  swords  and  holsters,  and  with  their  old  set  up  by  a  Turkey  merchant,  who  had  acquired 
stories  about  Goring  and  Lunsford, 2  gave  to  the  among  the  Mahometans  a  taste  for  their 
musters  of  the  militia  an  earnest  and  warlike  favorite  beverage."  The  convenience  of  being 
aspect  which  would  otherwise  have  been  want-  able  to  make  appointments  in  any  part  of  the 
ing.  Even  those  country  gentlemen  who  were  45  town,  and  of  being  able  to  pass  evenings 
too  young  to  have  themselves  exchanged  blows  socially  at  a  very  small  charge,  was  so  great 
with  the  cuirassiers  of  the  ParHament  had,  that  the  fashion  spread  fast.  Every  man  of 
from  childhood,  been  surrounded  by  the  traces  the  upper  or  middle  class  went  daily  to  his 
of  recent  war,  and  fed  with  stories  of  the  mai>  coffee  house  to  learn  the  news  and  to  discuss  it. 
tial  exploits  of  their  fathers  and  their  uncles.  50  Every  coffee  house  had  one  or  more  orators 
Thus  the  character  of  the  English  esquire  to  whose  eloquence  the  crowd  listened  with 
of  the  seventeenth  century  was  compounded  admiration,  and  who  soon  became,  what  the 
of  two  elements  which  we  seldom  or  never  find  journalists  of  our  time  have  been  called,  a 
united.  His  ignorance  and  uncouthness,  his  fourth  Estate  of  the  realm. ^  The  Court  had 
low  tastes  and  gross  phrases,  would,  in  our  55  long  seen  with  uneasiness  the  growth  of  this\ 
time,  be  considered  as  indicating  a  nature  and  new  power  in  the  state.  An  attempt  had  been  V 
a  breeding  thoroughly  plebeian.     Yet  he  was 

1  Edmund  Burke  on  one  occasion  referring  to  the  Re- 
iThe  militia.  porters'  Gallery,  said  "Yonder  sits  the  Fourth  Estate, 

*  Two  unprincipled  Royalist  leaders.  more  important  than  them  all." 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  703 

made,  during  Danby's  administration,  to  whether  Paradise  Lost  ought  not  to  have  been 
close  the  coffee  houses.  But  men  of  all  parties  in  rhyme.  To  another  an  envious  poetaster 
missed  their  usual  places  of  resort  so  much  demonstrated  that  Venice  Preserved*  ought 
that  there  was  an  universal  outcry.  The  to  have  been  hooted  from  the  stage.  Under 
government  did  not  venture,  in  opposition  to  5  no  roof  was  a  greater  variety  of  figures  to  be 
a  feeling  so  strong  and  general,  to  enforce  a  seen.  There  were  Earls  in  stars  and  garters, 
regulation  of  which  the  legahty  might  well  be  clergymen  in  cassocks  and  bands,  pert  Tem- 
questioned.  Since  that  time  ten  years  had  plars,  sheepish  lads  from  the  Universities, 
elapsed,  and  during  those  years  the  number  and  translators  and  index  mak'^rs  in  ragged  coats 
influence  of  the  coffee  houses  had  been  con-  lo  of  frieze.  The  great  press  was  to  get  near  the 
stantly  increasing.  Foreigners  remarked  that  chair  where  John  Dryden  sate.  In  winter 
the  coffee  house  was  that  which  especially  that  chair  was  always  in  the  warmest  nook 
distinguished  London  from  all  other  cities;  by  the  fire;  in  summer  it  stood  in  the  balcony, 
that  the  coffee  house  was  the  Londoner's  home,  To  bow  to  the  Laureate,  and  to  hear  his  opinion 
and  that  those  who  wished  to  find  a  gentle-  15  of  Racine's  last  tragedy  or  of  Bossu's  treatise 
man  commonly  asked,  not  whether  he  lived  on  epic  poetry,^  was  thought  a  privilege.  A 
in  Fleet  Street  or  Chancery  Lane,  but  whether  pinch  from  his  snuff  box  was  an  honour 
he  frequented  the  Grecian  or  the  Rainbow,  sufficient  to  turn  the  head  of  a  young  en- 
Nobody  was  excluded  from  these  places  who  thusiast.  There  were  coffee  houses  where  the 
laid  down  his  penny  at  the  bar.  Yet  every  20  first  medical  men  might  be  consulted.  Doctor 
rank  and  profession,  and  every  shade  of  re-  John  Radchffe,  who,  in  the  year  1685,  rose  to 
ligious  and  pohtical  opinion,  had  its  own  head-  the  largest  practice  in  London,  came  daily, 
quarters.  There  were  houses  near  St.  James's  at  the  hour  when  the  Exchange  was  full,  from 
Park  where  fops  congregated,  their  heads  and  his  house  in  Bow  Street,  then  a  fashionable 
shoulders  covered  with  black  or  flaxen  wigs,  25  part  of  the  capital,  to  Garraway's,  and  was  to 
not  less  ample  than  those  which  are  now  worn  be  found,  surrounded  by  surgeons  and  apothe- 
by  the  Chancellor  and  by  the  Speaker  of  the  caries,  at  a  particular  table.  There  were  Puri- 
House  of  Commons.  The  wig  came  from  Paris  tan  coffee  houses  where  no  oath  was  heard 
and  so  did  the  rest  of  the  fine  gentleman's  and  where  lankhaired  men  discussed  election, 
ornaments,  his  embroidered  coat,  his  fringed  30  and  reprobation  through  their  noses;  Jew 
gloves,  and  the  tassel  which  upheld  his  pan-  coffee  houses  where  dark  eyed  money  changers 
taloons.  The  conversation  was  in  that  dialect  from  Venice  and  Amsterdam  greeted  each 
which,  long  after  it  had  ceased  to  be  spoken  other;  and  Popish  coffee  houses  where,  as  good 
in  fashionable  circles,  continued  in  the  mouth  Protestants  believed,  Jesuits  planned,  over 
of  Lord  Foppington,2  to  excite  the  mirth  of  35  their  cups,  another  great  fire,  and  cast  silver 
theatres.  The  atmosphere  was  like  that  of  a  bullets  to  shoot  the  King.  These  gregarious 
perfumer's  shop.  Tobacco  in  any  other  form  habits  had  no  small  share  in  forming  the  char- 
than  that  of  richly  scented  snuff  was  held  in  acter  of  the  Londoner  of  that  age.  He  was, 
abomination.  If  any  clown,  ignorant  of  the  indeed,  a  different  being  from  the  rustic  Eng- 
usages  of  the  house,  called  for  a  pipe,  the  sneers  40  lishman.  There  was  not  then  the  intercourse 
of  the  whole  assembly  and  the  short  answers  which  now  exists  between  the  two  classes, 
of  the  waiters  soon  convinced  him  that  he  had  Only  very  great  men  were  in  the  habit  of  divid- 
better  go  somewhere  else.  Nor,  indeed,  would  ing  the  year  between  town  and  country, 
he  have  had  far  to  go.  For,  in  general  the  Few  esquires  came  to  the  capital  thrice  m  their 
coffee  rooms  reeked  with  tobacco  Uke  a  guard  45  lives.  Nor  was  it  yet  the  practice  of  all  citi- 
room:  and  strangers  sometimes  expressed  their  zens  in  easy  circumstances  to  breathe  the  fresh 
surprise  that  so  many  people  should  leave  their  air  of  the  fields  and  woods  durmg  some  weeks 
own  firesides  to  sit  in  the  midst  of  eternal  fog  of  every  summer.  A  cockney,  m  a  rural 
and  stench.  Nowhere  was  the  smoking  more  village,  was  stared  at  as  much  as  if  he  had  in- 
constant than  at  WiU's.  That  celebrated  50  truded  into  a  Kraal  of  Hottentots.  On  the 
house,  situated  between  Covent  Garden  and  other  hand,  when  the  lord  of  a  Lincolnshire  or 
Bow  Street,  was  sacred  to  polite  letters.  There  Shropshire  manor  appeared  in  Fleet  Street,  he 
the  talk  was  about  poetical  justice  and  the  was  as  easily  distinguished  from  the^resident 
unities  of  place  and  time.  There  was  a  faction  population  as  a  Turk  or  a  Lascar.  His  dress, 
for  Perrault'  and  the  moderns,  a  faction  for  55  his  gait,  his  accent,  the  manner  in  which  he 
Boileau  and  the  ancients.     One  group  debated       (i636-1711)    defended   the   indents   against   Perrault's 

,        :  ^htteT^Si°u?:'(lf2tT7a  !°dtS.fu>,h,d  French      ^f -^f  f  I  MT^  a^y  ^Cp"ubUTiiB  TraiU 
critic,  precipitated  the  long  dispute  on  the  relative  merits  "  RenS  Le  Bossu  (1631-1680).  who  pubhshed  his  TraH6 

I     of  the  ancient  and  modern  writers.     Nicholas  Boileau       du  poirne  epique  m  1075. 


704  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

gazed  at  the  shops,  stumbled  into  the  gutters,  will  feel  the  moral  dignity  of  his  nature  exalted." 
ran  against  the  porters,  and  stood  under  the  He  speaks  also  of  physical  knowledge  as  "being 
waterspouts,  marked  him  out  as  an  excellent  the  means  of  useful  occupation  and  rational 
subject  for  the  operations  of  swindlers  and  recreation;"  of  "the  pleasures  of  knowledge" 
banterers.  Bullies  jostled  him  into  the  kennel.^  5  superseding  "the  indulgence  of  sensual  ap- 
Hackney  coachmen  splashed  him  from  head  petite,"  and  of  its  "contributing  to  the  intel- 
to  foot.  Thieves  explored  with  perfect  security  lectual  and  moral  improvement  of  the  com- 
the  huge  pockets  of  his  horseman's  coat,  while  munity."  Accordingly,  he  very  consistently 
he  stood  entranced  by  the  splendour  of  the  wishes  it  to  be  set  before  "  the  female  as  well  as 
Lord  Mayor's  show.  Moneydroppers,^  sore  10  the  male  portion  of  the  population;"  otherwise, 
from  the  cart's  tail,  introduced  themselves  to  as  he  truly  observes,  "great  injustice  would 
him,  and  appeared  to  him  the  most  honest  be  done  to  the  well-educated  and  virtuous" 
friendly  gentlemen  he  had  ever  seen.  Painted  women  of  the  place.  They  are  to  "have 
women,  the  refuse  of  Lewkner  Lane  and  Whet-  equal  power  and  equal  influence  with  others." 
stone  Park,  passed  themselves  on  him  for  15  It  will  be  difficult  to  exhaust  the  reflections 
countesses  and  maids  of  honour.  If  he  asked  which  rise  in  the  mind  on  reading  avowals 
his  way  to  St.  James's,  his  informants  sent      of  this  nature. 

him  to  Mile  End.    If  he  went  into  a  shop.  The  first  question  which  obviously  suggests 

he  was  instantly  discerned  to  be  a  fit  pur-  itself  is  how  these  wonderful  moral  effects 
chaser  of  everything  that  nobody  else  would  20  are  to  be  wrought  under  the  instrumentality 
buy,  of  second-hand  embroidery,  copper  rings,  of  the  physical  sciences.  Can  the  process  be 
and  watches  that  would  not  go.  If  he  rambled  analj-^zed  and  drawn  out,  or  does  it  act  like  a 
into  any  fashionable  coffee  house,  he  became  dose  or  a  charm  which  comes  into  general 
a  mark  for  the  insolent  derision  of  fops  and  the  use  empirically?  Does  Sir  Robert  Peel  mean 
grave  waggery  of  Templars.  Enraged  and  25  to  say,  that  whatever  be  the  occult  reasons 
mortified,  he  soon  returned  to  his  mansion,  for  the  result,  so  it  is;  you  have  but  to  drench 
and  there,  in  the  homage  of  his  tenants  and  the  popular  mind  with  physics,  and  moral 
the  conversation  of  his  boon  companions,  and  rehgious  advancement  follows  on  the 
found  consolation  for  the  vexations  and  humil-  whole,  in  spite  of  individual  failures?  Yet 
iations  which  he  had  undergone.  There  he  was  30  where  has  the  experiment  been  tried  on  so 
once  more  a  great  man,  and  saw  nothing  above  large  a  scale  as  to  justify  such  anticipations? 
himself  except  when  at  the  assizes  he  took  Or  rather,  does  he  mean,  that,  from  the  nature 
his  seat  on  the  bench  near  the  Judge,  or  when  of  the  case,  he  who  is  imbued  with  science  and 
at  the  muster  of  the  militia  he  saluted  the  hterature,  unless  adverse  influences  interfere, 
Lord  Lieutenant.  35  cannot  but  be  a  better  man?     It  is  natural 

and  becoming  to  seek  for  some  clear  idea  of 

the  meaning  of  so  dark  an  oracle.    To  know 

3l0l)n    l^^nt^    0t\X)XtXdXt  is  one  thing,  to  do  is  another;  the  two  things 

are  altogether  distinct.    A  man  knows  he  should 

1801-1890  4Q  gg^  yp  jjj  ^{jg  morning, — he  hes  a-bed;  he  knows 

^.,^^^.^^^^    ....T^  ^^.^  .^r^-r.^  he  should  not  lose  his  temper,  yet  he  cannot 

KNOWLEDGE  AND  CHARACTER  keep  it.    A  labouring  man  knows  he  should 

(From  Discussions  and  Arguments,  1841)  ««*  f  *«  the  ale-house  and  his  wife  knows 

^^  she  should  not  filch  when  she  goes  out  charmg, 

A  distinguished  Conservative  statesman  telfe  45  but,  nevertheless,  in  these  cases,  the  conscious- 
us  from  a  town-hall  of  Tamworth  that  "in  ness  of  a  duty  is  not  all  one  with  the  perform- 
becoming  wiser  a  man  will  become  better;"  ance  of  it.  There  are  then,  large  families  of 
meaning  by  wiser  more  conversant  with  the  instances,  to  say  the  least,  in  which  men  may 
facts  and  theories  of  physical  science;  and  that  become  wiser,  without  becoming  better;  what, 
such  a  man  will  "rise  at  once  in  the  scale  of  50  then,  is  the  meaning  of  this  great  maxim  in 
intellectual  and  moral  existence."  "That,"  the  mouth  of  its  promulgators? 
he  adds,  "is  my  belief."    He  avows,  also,  that  Mr.  Bentham  would  answer,  that  the  knowl- 

the  fortunate  individual  whom  he  is  describing,  edge  which  carries  virtue  along  with  it,  is  the 
by  being  "accustomed  to  such  contemplations,      knowledge  how  to  take  care  of  number  one 

6  The  drainage  gutter,  which  ran  through  the  middle  55  — a  clear  appreciation  of  what  is  pleasurable, 
of  the  street.  ,  •  .   xu         what  painful,  and  what  promotes  the  one  and. 

7  Sharpers  who  pretended  to  find  a  com,  which  they  -      xu         i.u  a  a  ,^^4^^^    ^r.»^    ;a\i 

themselves  had  dropped,  and  return  it  to  the  owner  in      prevents  the  Other.     An  uneducated  man  IS  ^ 

order  to  win  his  confidence.  They  were  frequently  pun-  gygj.  mistaking  his  OWn  interest,  and  standing 
ished  ^by  being  tied  to  a  cart  and  whipped  through  the       .^  ^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^  enjoyments.     UsC- 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  '705 

i"«^5.'''''^^^''f^1  !'  *^^*  r^'"^  *^°^'  *^  ^^^^  ^^'    by    such    skilful    management,    they   get 

us  more  useful  to  ourselves;-a  most  definite  through  the  day  without  an  outbreak.    When 

and  mtelhgible  account  of  the  matter,   and  a  child  cries,  the  nurserymaid  dances  it  about, 

needmg  no  explanation      But  it  would  be  a  or  points  to  the  pretty  black  horses  out  of 

great  injustice,  both  to  Lord  Brougham  and  to  5  window,  or  shows  how  ashamed  poll-parrot  or 

R'L  i"^""  'k  •  '".^??'^'  Yu^""  *^^y  *^^^  ^^  P°«^  P"««  ^"st  be  of  its  tantrums.  Such  is 
Knowledge  being  Virtue,  that  they  are  Ben-  the  sort  of  prescription  which  Sir  Robert  Peel 
thamizing.  Bentham  had  not  a  spark  of  poetry  ofifers  to  the  good  people  of  Tamworth  He 
m  him;  on  the  contrary,  there  is  much  of  high  makes  no  pretence  of  subduing  the  giant  nature, 
aspiration  generous  sentiment,  and  impas-ioin  which  we  were  born,  of  smiting  the  lions 
sioned  feeling  m  the  tone  of  Lord  Brougham  of  the  domestic  enemies  of  our  peace,  of  over- 
andbirRobertlhey  speak  of  knowledge  as  throwing  passion  and  fortifying  reason:  he 
something  pulchrum,"  fair  and  glorious,  ex-  does  but  offer  to  bribe  the  foe  for  the  nonce 
alted  above  the  range  of  ordinary  humanity,  with  gifts  which  will  avail  for  that  purpose 
and  so  little  connected  with  the  personal  in-  15  just  so  long  as  they  will  avail,  and  no  longer 
terest  of  its  votaries,  that,  though  Sir  Robert  This  was  mainly  the  philosophy  of  the  great 
does  obiterHalk  of  improved  methods  of  drain-      Tully,  except  when  it  pleased  him  to  speak 


as  a 


mg,  and  the  chemical  properties  of  manure,  disciple  of  the  Porch.  Cicero  handed  the  recipe 
yet  he  must  not  be  supposed  to  come  short  of  to  Brougham,  a'nd  Brougham  has  passed  it  on  to 
the  lofty  enthusiasm  of  Lord  Brougham,  who  20  Peel.  If  we  examine  the  old  Roman's  meaning 
expressly  panegyrizes  certain  ancient  philoso-  in  "0  philosophia,  vitce  dux,"^  it  was  neither 
phers  who  gave  up  riches,  retired  into  solitude,  more  nor  less  than  this;— that,  whUe  we  were 
or  embraced  a  life  of  travel,  smit  with  a  sacred  thinking  of  philosophy,  we  were  not  thinking  of 
curiosity  about  physical  or  mathematical  truth,  anything  else;  we  did  not  feel  grief,  or  anxiety. 
Here  Mr.  Bentham,  did  it  fall  to  him  to  offer  25  or  passion,  or  ambition,  or  hatred  all  that 
a  criticism,  doubtless  would  take  leave  to  in-      time,  and  the  only  point  was  to  keep  thinking 


smell  sweet,  and  die.  But  it  is  impossible  to  30  rage,  to  be  soothed;  if  in  love,  to  be  roused  to 
suspect  so  grave  and  practical  a  man  as  Sir  the  pursuit  of  glory.  No  inward  change  was 
Robert  Peel  of  using  words  hterally  without  contemplated,  but  a  change  of  external  objects; 
any  meaning  at  all;  and  though  I  think  at  as  if  we  were  all  White  Ladies  or  Undines,^  our 
best  they  have  not  a  very  profound  meaning,  moral  life  being  one  of  impulse  and  emotion, 
yet,  such  as  it  is,  we  ought  to  attempt  to  draw  35  not  subjected  to  laws,  not  consisting  in  habits, 
^^  ^"*-       .  nor  capable  of  growth.    When  Cicero  was  out- 

Now,  without  using  exact  theological  Ian-  witted  by  Csesar,  he  solaced  himself  with 
guage,  we  may  surely  take  it  for  granted,  from  Plato ;*  when  he  lost  his  daughter,  he  wrote 
the  experience  of  facts,  that  the  human  mind  a  treatise  on  consolation.  Such,  too,  was  the 
is  at  best  in  a  very  unformed  or  disordered  40  philosophy  of  that  Lydian  city,  mentioned  by 
state;  passions  and  conscience,  likings  and  the  historian,^  who  in  a  famine  played  at  dice 
reason,  conflicting,— might  rising  against  right,      to  stay  their  stomachs. 

with   the   prospect   of   things   getting  worse.  And  such  is  the  rule  of  life  advocated  by 

Under  these  circumstances,  what  is  it  that  the  Lord  Brougham;  and  though,  of  course,  he 
School  of  philosophy  in  which  Sir  Robert  has 45  protests  that  knowledge  ''must  invigorate 
enrolled  himself  proposes  to  accomplish?  Not  the  mind  as  well  as  entertain  it,  and  refine 
a  victory  of  the  mind  over  itself— not  the  su-  and  elevate  the  character,  while  it  gives  list- 
premacy  of  the  law— not  the  reduction  of  the  lessness  and  weariness  their  most  agreeable 
rebels— not  the  unity  of  our  complex  nature—  excitement  and  relaxation,"  yet  his  notions 
not  an  harmonizing  of  the  chaos— but  the  mere  50  of  vigour  and  elevation,  when  analyzed,  will 
lulling  of  the  passions  to  rest  by  turning  the  be  found  to  resolve  themselves  into  a  mere 
course  of  thought;  not  a  change  of  character,  preternatural  excitement  under  the  mfluence 
but   a   mere   removal   of   temptation.      This 

should  be  carefully  observed.    When  a  husband         ^  "^  philosophy,  guide  of  life." 
is  gloomy,  or  an  old  woman  peevish  and  fretful,  55  borrTwitho'ut^a  s^ful!^""'  ^^"''"^  ^''  ^  ^^*"'  "^"^^^ 

those  who  are  about  them  do  all  they  can  to  *  ^^^^^  the  overthrow  of  Pompey's  cause  at  the  Battle 

keen  daneerous  tonips  nnH  pnimps  nf  nff^nno  ?■  ^^^^^f^^^  (48  B.  C.)  Cicero  who,  after  much  vacilla- 
KtJep   ud-iigerous   topics   ana    causes   01    onence       tion,  had  supported  Pompey,  found  his  political  career 

out  of  the  way,  and  think  themselves  lucky,       ^"'^  '^^^  ^^"^^  '^^  ^^  ^^^-     ^^  his  enforced  inactivity  he 
,,.,,,,  •"       turned  to  philosophy  for  consolation. 

1  Incidentally.  6  Heroditus,  Bk.  I.  94. 


706'  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

of  some  stimulating  object,  or  the  peace  which  stop  drinking,  they  gamble;  stop  gambling, 
is  attained  by  there  being  nothing  to  quarrel  and  a  worse  license  follows.  You  do  not  get 
with.  ...  rid  of  vice  by  human  expedients;  you  can  but 

In  morals,  as  in  physics,  the  stream  cannot  use  them  according  to  circumstances,  and  in 
rise  higher  than  its  source.  Christianity  raises  5  their  place,  as  making  the  best  of  a  bad  matter, 
men  from  earth,  for  it  comes  from  heaven;  You  must  go  to  a  higher  source  for  renovation 
but  human  morality  creeps,  struts,  or  frets  of  the  heart  and  of  the  will.  You  do  but  play 
upon  the  earth's  level,  without  wings  to  rise,  a  sort  of  "hunt  the  slipper"  with  the  fault  of 
The  Knowledge  School  does  not  contemplate  our  nature,  till  you  go  to  Christianity, 
raising  man  above  himself;  it  merely  aims  at  10  I  say,  you  must  use  human  methods  in  their 
disposing  of  his  existing  powers  and  tastes,  place,  and  there  they  are  useful;  but  they  are 
as  is  most  convenient,  or  is  practicable  under  worse  than  useless  out  of  their  place.  I  have 
circumstances.  It  finds  him,  like  the  victims  of  no  fanatical  wish  to  deny  to  any  whatever 
the  French  Tyrant,^  doubled  up  in  a  cage  in  subject  of  thought  or  method  of  reason  a  place 
which  he  can  neither  lie,  stand,  sit,  nor  kneel,  15  altogether,  if  it  chooses  to  claim  it,  in  the  cul- 
and  its  highest  desire  is  to  find  an  attitude  in  tivation  of  the  mind.  Mr.  Bentham  may  de- 
which  his  unrest  may  be  least.  Or  it  finds  spise  verse-making,  or  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart 
him  like  some  musical  instrument,  of  great  logic,  but  the  great  and  true  maxim  is  to  sacri- 
power  and  compass,  but  imperfect;  from  its  fice  none — to  combine,  and  therefore  to  adjust, 
very  structure  some  keys  must  ever  be  out  of  20  all.  All  cannot  be  first,  and  therefore  each  has 
tune,  and  its  object,  when  ambition  is  highest,  its  place,  and  the  problem  is  to  find  it.  It  is 
is  to  throw  the  fault  of  its  nature  where  least  at  least  not  a  lighter  mistake  to  make  what  is 
it  will  be  observed.  It  leaves  a  man  where  it  secondary  first,  than  to  leave  it  out  altogether, 
found  him — man,  and  not  an  Angel — a  sinner.  Here  then  it  is  that  the  Knowledge  Society, 
not  a  Saint;  but  it  tries  to  make  him  look  as25Gower  Street  College,  Tamworth  Reading 
much  like  what  he  is  not  as  ever  it  can.  The  Room,  Lord  Brougham  and  Sir  Robert  Peel, 
poor  indulge  in  low  pleasures;  they  use  bad  are  all  so  deplorably  mistaken.  Christianity, 
language,  swear  loudly  and  recklessly,  laugh  and  nothing  short  of  it,  must  be  made  the  cle- 
at coarse  jests,  and  are  rude  and  boorish,  ment  and  principle  of  all  education.  Where 
Sir  Robert  would  open  on  them  a  wider  range  30  it  has  been  laid  as  the  first  stone,  and  acknowl- 
of  thought  and  more  intellectual  objects,  by  edged  as  the  governing  spirit,  it  will  take  up 
teaching  them  science;  but  what  warrant  will  into  itself,  assimilate,  and  give  a  character  to 
he  give  us  that,  if  his  object  could  be  achieved,  literature  and  science.  Where  Revealed 
what  they  would  gain  in  decency  they  would  Truth  has  given  the  aim  and  direction  to 
not  lose  in  natural  humility  and  faith?  If  so,  35  Knowledge,  Knowledge  of  all  kinds  will 
he  has  exchanged  a  gross  fault  for  a  more  minister  to  Revealed  Truth.  The  evidences 
subtle  one.  "Temperance  topics"  stop  drink-  of  Religion,  natural  theology,  metaphysics, — 
ing;  let  us  suppose  it;  but  will  much  be  gained,  or,  again,  poetry,  history,  and  the  classics, — 
if  those  who  give  up  spirits  take  to  opium?  or  physics  and  mathematics,  may  all  be 
Naturam  expellas  furcd,  tamen  usque  recurrel,''  40  grafted  into  the  mind  of  a  Christian,  and  give 
is  at  least  a  heathen  truth,  and  universities  and  take  by  the  grafting.  But  if  in  education 
and  libraries  which  recur  to  heathenism  may  we  begin  with  nature  before  grace,  with  evi- 
reclaim  it  from  the  heathen  for  their  motto,  dences  before  faith,  with  science  before  con- 
Nay,  everywhere,  so  far  as  human  nature  re-  science,  with  poetry  before  practice,  we  shall 
mains  hardly  or  partially  Christianized,  the  45  be  doing  much  the  same  as  if  we  were  to  indulge 
heathen  law  remains  in  force;  as  is  felt  in  a  the  appetites  and  passions,  and  turn  a  deaf 
measure  even  in  the  most  religious  places  and  ear  to  the  reason.  In  each  case  we  misplace 
societies.  Even  there,  where  Christianity  has  what  in  its  place  is  a  divine  gift.  If  we  attempt 
power,  the  venom  of  the  old  Adam  is  not  sub-  to  effect  a  moral  improvement  by  means  of 
dued.  Those  who  have  to  do  with  our  Colleges  50  poetry,  we  shall  but  mature  into  a  mawkish, 
give  us  their  experience,  that  in  the  case  of  the  frivolous,  and  fastidious  sentimentalism ; — if 
young  committed  to  their  care,  external  dis-  by  means  of  argument,  into  a  dry,  unamiable 
cipline  may  change  the  fashionable  excess,  but  longheadedness; — if  by  good  society,  into  a 
cannot  allay  the  principle  of  sinning.  Stop  polished  outside,  with  hojlowness  within,  in 
cigars,    they    will    take   to    drinking    parties;  55  which  vice  has  lost  its  grossness,  and  perhaps 

^     .   ,,  ^         ,      -L     xu  •        increased  its  malignity; — if  by  experimentalx 

•Louis  XI  (1461-83).    Scott  describes  these  cages  m  .  .    ,  •  u  -r  ^ 

QuentinDurward,l.xv.      "  In  point  of  fact  these  cages       SCienCC,    mtO    an    Uppish,    SUpcrClllOUS    temper  l'^ 

were  eight  feet  long  and  about  seven  feet  high."  much  inclined  to  scepticism.    But  reverse  the  i 

wuVa^waysTeUa!''  '"'  "'^''  "''^  '  "^  '        ''     Older  of  things:  put  Faith  first  and  Knowl- 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  707 

edge  second;  let  the  University  minister  to  and  their  civilization.    The  arts  and  philosophy 

the  Church,  and  then  classical  poetry  becomes  of  the  Asiatic  coast  were  easily  carried  across 

the  type  of  Gospel  truth,  and  physical  science  the  sea,  and  there  was  Cimon,  as  I  have  said, 

a  comment  on  Genesis  or  Job,  and  Aristotle  with  his  ample  fortune,  ready  to  receive  them 

changes  into  Butler,  and  Arcesilaus  into  Berk-  5  with  due  honours.    Not  content  with  patroniz- 

eley.*  ing  their  professors,  he  built  the  first  of  those 

SITE  OF  A  UNIVERSITY  noble  porticos,  of  which  we  hear  so  much  in 

/T^        mi.   rMT-          7rTT    7    -XT    .       .  .      Hr^^.^  Athens,  and  he  formed  the  groves,  which  in 

(From  The  Office  and  Work  of  Universities,  1854)  p.^^^^^  ^f  ^i^^  became  the  celebrated  Academy. 

If  we  would  know  what  a  University  is,  con-  lo  Planting  is  one  of  the  most  graceful,  as  in 
sidered  in  its  elementary  idea,  we  must  betake  Athens  it  was  once  the  most  beneficent,  of 
ourselves  to  the  first  and  most  celebrated  employments.  Cimon  took  in  hand  the  wild 
home  of  European  literature  and  source  of  wood,  pruned  and  dressed  it,  and  laid  it  out 
European  civilization,  to  the  bright  and  beau-  with  handsome  walks  and  welcome  fountains, 
tiful  Athens, — Athens,  whose  schools  drew  to  15  Nor,  while  hospitable  to  the  authors  of  the 
her  bosom,  and  then  sent  back  again  to  the  city's  civilization,  was  he  ungrateful  to  the 
business  of  life,  the  youth  of  the  western  world  instruments  of  her  prosperity.  His  trees  ex- 
for  a  long  thousand  years.  Seated  on  the  tended  their  cool,  umbrageous  branches  over 
verge  of  the  continent,  the  city  seemed  hardly  the  merchants,  who  assembled  in  the  Agora,* 
suited  for  the  duties  of  a  central  metropolis  20  for  many  generations. 

of  knowledge;  yet,  what  it  lost  in  convenience  Those    merchants    certainly    had    deserved 

of  approach,  it  gained  in  its  neighbourhood  to  that  act  of  bounty;  for  all  the  while  their  ships 
the  traditions  of  the  mysterious  East,  and  of  had  been  carrying  forth  the  intellectual  fame 
the  loveliness  of  the  regions  in  which  it  lay.  of  Athens  to  the  western  world.  Then  com- 
Hither,  then,  as  to  a  sort  of  ideal  land,  where  25  menced  what  may  be  called  her  University 
all  archetypes  of  the  great  and  the  fair  were  existence.  Pericles,  who  succeeded  Cimon  both 
found  in  substantial  being,  and  all  departments  in  the  government  and  in  the  patronage  of  art, 
of  truth  explored,  and  all  diversities  of  intel-  is  said  by  Plutarch  to  have  entertained  the 
lectual  power  exhibited,  where  taste  and  idea  of  making  Athens  the  capital  of  federated 
philosophy  were  majestically  enthroned  as  30  Greece;  in  this  he  failed,  but  his  encourage- 
in  a  royal  court,  where  there  was  no  sover-  ment  of  such  men  as  Phidias  and  Anaxagoras 
eignty  but  that  of  mind,  and  no  nobility  but  led  the  way  to  her  acquiring  a  far  more  lasting 
that  of  genius,  where  professors  were  rulers,  sovereignty  over  a  far  wider  empire.  Little 
and  princes  did  homage,  hither  flocked  con-  understanding  the  sources  of  her  own  great- 
tinually  from  the  very  corners  of  the  or6is  35  ness,  Athens  would  go  to  ^ war:  peace  is  the 
terrarum,^  the  many-tongued  generation,  just  interest  of  a  seat  of  commerce  and  the  arts; 
rising,  or  just  risen  into  manhood,  in  order  but  to  war  she  went;  yet  to  her,  whether  peace 
to  gain  wisdom.  or  war,  it  mattered  not.    The  political  power 

Pisistratus  ^  had  in  an  early  age  discovered  of  Athens  waned  and  disappeared;  kingdoma 
and  nursed  the  infant  genius  of  his  people,  and  40  rose  and  fell;  centuries  rolled  away, — they  did 
Cimon,'  after  the  Persian  war,  had  given  it  a  but  bring  fresh  triumphs  to  the  city  of  the 
home.  That  war  had  established  the  naval  poet  and  the  sage.  There  at  length  the  swarthy 
supremacy  of  Athens;  she  had  become  an  im-  Moor  and  Spaniard  were  seen  to  meet  the  blue- 
perial  state;  and  the  lonians,  bound  to  her  by  eyed  Gaul;  and  the  Cappadocian,  late  subject 
the  double  chain  of  kindred  and  of  subjection,  45  of  Mithridates,  gazed  without  alarm  at  the 
were  importing  into  her  both  their  merchandise      haughty  conquering  Roman.    Revolution  after 

revolution  passed  over  the  face  of  Europe,  as 

8  The  two  ancient  Greek  philosophers,  Aristotle,  the  ii  e   n^^^/.^     K„+   o+ill    aV,^  T,roc   fV.QT.o 

profound  thinker  and  logician,  and  ArcmZaus.  a  sceptical  Well  as  of  Greece,  but  still  she  was  there,— 
teacher  of  the  fourth  century,  who  declared  that  certain       Athens,  the  city  of  mind, — as  radiant,  aS  splen- 

'   "we's'of  ZseThrjSSowLdge  U"  S;  whfi?  «>  did,  as  delicate,  as  young,  as  ever  slie  had  been. 

Bishop  Butler,  who  held  in  his  Analogy  that  the  revela-  Many  a  more  fruitful  COast  Or  isle  is  washed 

tion  of  God  in  nature  confirmed  the  revelation  of  Him  in  .  ,,  ,1  ^^o-oon  manv  a  Qnnf  ia  iht^vp^  mnrc^ 
the  Bible,  and  Bishop  Berkeley,  who,  denying  the  existence       ^y  tne  Dlue  ^gean,  many  a  spOt  IS  tnere  more 

of  matter,  found  in  ideas,  or  spirit,  the  one  reahty, —  beautiful  or  sublime  to  see,  many  a  territory 
to^fafth.'^^^  '°  represent  those  who  give  the  first  place       ^^^^  ^^pj^.  y^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^  ^^^^^  .^  ^^_ 

» "Of  the  circle  of  lands."  55  tica,  which  in  the  Same  perfection  was  nowhere 

*  Pisistratus'   administration  was  famous  for  its  en-  glgg^     The  deep  pastures  of  Arcadia,  the  plain 

couragement  of  literature  and  the  arts.     He  had  a  new  ^  *^                                         7            r- 
edition  of  the  Homeric  poems  prepared,  and  he  built  the 

Lyceum  and  several  temples.  ,    *  The  market  place,  used  not  only  for  buying  and  sell- 

'  This  commander,  after  defeating  the  Persians,  spent  ing,  but  as  a  place  of  assembly  for  debating,  elections, 

much  of  his  money  on  improving  Athens.  trials,  etc. 


708  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

of  Argos,  the  Thessalian  vale,  these  had  not  would  visit  their  Ionian  cousins,  a  sort  of  via- 
the  gift;  Boeotia,  which  lay  to  its  immediate  duct  thereto  across  the  sea;  but  that  fancy 
north,  was  notorious  for  its  very  want  of  it.  would  not  occur  to  him,  nor  any  admiration 
The  heavy  atmosphere  of  that  Boeotia  might  of  the  dark  violet  billows  with  their  white 
be  good  for  vegetation,  but  it  was  associated  Sedges  down  below;  nor  of  those  graceful,  fan- 
in  popular  belief  with  the  dulness  of  the  Boeo-  like  jets  of  silver  upon  the  rocks,  which  slowly 
tian  intellect:  on  the  contrary,  the  special  rise  aloft  like  water  spirits  from  the  deep,  then 
purity,  elasticity,  clearness,  and  salubrity  of  shiver,  and  break,  and  spread,  and  shroud 
the  air  of  Attica,  fit  concomitant  and  emblem  themselves,  and  disappear,  in  a  soft  mist  of 
of  its  genius,  did  that  for  it  which  earth  did  10  foam;  nor  of  the  gentle,  incessant  heaving 
not; — it  brought  out  every  bright  hue  and  ten-  and  panting  of  the  whole  liquid  plain;  nor  of 
der  shade  of  the  landscape  over  which  it  was  the  long  waves,  keeping  steady  time,  like  a 
spread,  and  would  have  illuminated  the  face  line  of  soldiery,  as  they  resound  upon  the  hol- 
even  of  a  more  bare  and  rugged  country.  low  shore, — he  would  not  deign  to  notice  that 

A  confined  triangle,  perhaps  fifty  miles  its  15  restless  living  element  at  all,  except  to  bless 
greatest  length,  and  thirty  its  greatest  breadth;  his  stars  that  he  was  not  upon  it.  Nor  the 
two  elevated  rocky  barriers,  meeting  at  an  distinct  detail,  nor  the  refined  colouring,  nor 
angle;  three  prominent  mountains,  command-  the  graceful  outline  and  roseate  golden  hue  of 
ing  the  plain, — Parnes,  Pentelicus,  and  Hymet-  the  jutting  crags,  nor  the  bold  shadows  cast 
tus;  an  unsatisfactory  soil;  some  streams,  not  20  from  Otus  or  Laurium^  by  the  declining  sun; — 
always  full; — such  is  about  the  report  which  our  agent  of  a  mercantile  firm  would  not  value 
the  agent  of  a  London  company  would  have  these  matters  even  at  a  low  figure.  Rather 
made  of  Attica.  He  would  report  that  the  we  must  turn  for  the  sympathy  we  seek  to 
climate  was  mild;  the  hills  were  limestone;  yon  pilgrim  student,  come  from  a  semi- 
there  was  plenty  of  good  marble;  more  pasture  25  barbarous  land  to  that  small  corner  of  the  earth, 
land  than  at  first  survey  might  have  been  ex-  as  to  a  shrine,  where  he  might  take  his  fill  of 
pected,  sufficient  certainly  for  sheep  and  goats;  gazing  on  those  emblems  and  coruscations  of 
fisheries  productive;  silver  mines  once,  but  invisible  unoriginate  perfection.  It  was  the 
long  since  worked  out;  figs  fair;  oil  first-rate;  stranger  from  a  remote  province,  from  Britain 
olives  in  profusion.  But  what  he  would  not  30  or  from  Mauritania,  who  in  a  scene  so  different 
think  of  noting  down,  was,  that  the  olive  tree  from  that  of  his  chilly,  woody  swamps,  or  of 
was  so  choice  in  nature  and  so  noble  in  shape,  his  fiery  choking  sands,  learned  at  once  what 
that  it  excited  a  religious  veneration;  and  that  a  real  University  must  be,  by  coming  to  under- 
it  took  so  kindly  to  the  light  soil,  as  to  expand  stand  the  sort  of  country,  which  was  its  suit- 
into  woods  upon  the  open  plain,  and  to  climb  35  able  home. 

up  and  fringe  the  hills.  He  would  not  think  of  Nor  was  this  all  that  a  University  required, 
writing  word  to  his  employers,  how  that  clear  and  found  in  Athens.  No  one,  even  there, 
air,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  brought  out,  yet  could  live  on  poetry.  If  the  students  at  that 
blended  and  subdued,  the  colours  on  the  mar-  famous  place  had  nothing  better  than  bright 
ble,  till  they  had  a  softness  and  harmony,  for  40  hues  and  soothing  sounds,  they  would  not  have 
all  their  richness,  which  in  a  picture  looks  ex-  been  able  or  disposed  to  turn  their  residence 
aggerated,  yet  is  after  all  within  the  truth.  He  there  to  much  account.  Of  course  they  must 
would  not  tell,  how  that  same  delicate  and  have  the  means  of  living,  nay,  in  a  certain 
brilliant  atmosphere  freshened  up  the  pale  sense,  of  enjoyment,  if  Athens  was  to  be  an 
olive,  till  the  olive  forgot  its  monotony,  and  45  Alma  Mater  at  the  time,  or  to  remain  after- 
its  cheek  glowed  like  the  arbutus  or  beech  of  wards  a  pleasant  thought  in  their  memory, 
the  Umbrian  hills.  He  would  say  nothing  of  And  so  they  had:  be  it  recollected  Athens  was 
the  thyme  and  thousand  fragrant  herbs  which  a  port,  and  a  mart  of  trade,  perhaps  the  first 
carpeted  Hymettus;  he  would  hear  nothing  of  in  Greece;  and  this  was  very  much  to  the  point, 
the  hum  of  its  bees;  nor  take  much  account  of  50  when  a  number  of  strangers  were  ever  flocking 
the  rare  fliavour  of  its  honey,  since  Gozo  and  to  it,  whose  combat  was  to  be  with  intellectual, 
Minor'^a  were  sufficient  for  the  English  de-  not  physical  difficulties,  and  who  claimed  to 
mand.  He  would  look  over  the  iEgean  from  have  their  bodily  wants  supplied,  that  they 
the  height  he  had  ascended;  he  would  follow  might  be  at  leisure  to  set  about  furnishing 
with  his  eye  the  chain  of  islands,  which,  start-  55  their  minds.  Now,  barren  as  was  the  soil  of 
ing  from  the  Sunian  ^  headland,  seemed  to  Attica,  and  bare  the  face  of  the  country,  yet^j 
offer  the  fabled  divinities  of  Attica,  when  they     it  had  only  too  many  resources  for  an  elegant,  ^ 

"  A  promontory  forming  the  extreme  southern  point  *  Laurium  was  a  mountain  range  in  Attica.     Otiis  ia 

of  the  province  of  Attica.  apparently  a  misprint  for  Orus,  the  peak  of  Aegina. 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN  709 

nay  luxurious  abode  there.  So  abundant  were  at  the  time;  and  one  point  which  he  was  strong 
the  imports  of  the  place,  that  it  was  a  common  upon,  and  was  evidently  fond  of  urging,  was 
saying,  that  the  productions,  which  were  the  material  pomp  and  circumstance  which 
found  singly  elsewhere,  were  brought  all  to-  should  environ  a  seat  of  learning.  He  con- 
gether  in  Athens.  Corn  and  wine,  the  staple  5  sidered  it  was  worth  the  consideration  of  the 
of  subsistence  in  such  a  climate,  came  from  the  government,  whether  Oxford  should  not  stand 
isles  of  the  ^Egean;  fine  wool  and  carpeting  in  a  domain  of  its  own.  An  ample  range,  say 
from  Asia  Minor;  slaves,  as  now,  from  the  four  miles  in  diameter,  should  be  turned  into 
Euxine,  and  timber  too;  and  iron  and  brass  wood  and  meadow,  and  the  University  should 
from  the  coasts  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  lo  be  approached  on  all  sides  by  a  magnificent 
Athenian  did  not  condescend  to  manufactures  park,  with  fine  trees  in  groups  and  groves  and 
himself,  but  encouraged  them  in  others;  and  avenues,  and  with  glimpses  and  views  of  the 
a  population  of  foreigners  caught  at  the  lucra-  fair  city,  as  the  traveler  drew  near  it.  There 
tive  occupation  both  for  home  consumption  is  nothing  surely  absurd  in  the  idea,  though 
and  for  exportation.  Their  cloth,  and  other  15  it  would  cost  a  round  sum  to  realize  it.  What 
textures  for  dress  and  furniture,  and  their  has  a  better  claim  to  the  purest  and  fairest 
hardware — for  instance,  armour — were  in  great  possessions  of  nature,  than  the  seat  of  wisdom? 
request.  Labour  was  cheap;  stone  and  marble  So  thought  my  coach  companion;  and  he  did 
in  plenty;  and  the  taste  and  skill,  which  at  but  express  the  tradition  of  ages  and  the  in- 
first  were  devoted  to  public  buildings,  as  tem-  20  stinct  of  mankind, 
pies  and  porticos,  were  in  course  of  time  ap- 
plied to  the  mansions  of  public  men.  If  nature  _„„  .^,,  ^^  .  ^,^^^^^^^^_,,  ^^-r^^o.^-. 
did  much  for  Athens,  it  is  undeniable  that  art  THE  AIM  OF  A  UNIVERSITY  COURSE 

did  much  more.  ^  (From  Idea  of  a  University,  1852) 

Here  some  one  will  mterrupt  me  with  the  25 
remark:  "By  the  bye,  where  are  we,  and  To-day  I  have  confined  myself  to  saying 
whither  are  we  going? — what  has  all  this  to  that  that  training  of  the  intellect,  which  is 
do  with  a  University?  at  least  what  has  it  to  best  for  the  individual  himself,  best  enables 
do  with  education?  It  is  instructive  doubtless;  him  to  discharge  his  duties  to  society.  The 
but  still  how  much  has  it  to  do  with  your  sub-30  Philosopher,  indeed,  and  the  man  of  the  world 
ject?"  Now  I  beg  to  assure  the  reader  that  I  differ  in  their  very  notion,  but  the  methods 
am  most  conscientiously  employed  upon  my  by  which  they  are  respectively  formed,  are 
subject;  and  I  should  have  thought  every  one  pretty  much  the  same.  The  Philosopher  has 
would  have  seen  this:  however,  since  the  ob-  the  same  command  of  matters  of  thought, 
jection  is  made,  I  may  be  allowed  to  pause  35  which  the  true  citizen  and  gentleman  has  of 
awhile,  and  show  distinctly  the  drift  of  what  matters  of  business  and  conduct.  If  then  a 
I  have  been  saying,  before  I  go  farther.  What  practical  end  must  be  assigned  to  a  University 
has  this  to  do  with  my  subject!  why,  the  ques-  course;  I  say  that  it  is  that  of  training  good 
tion  of  the  site  is  the  very  first  that  comes  into  members  of  society.  Its  art  is  the  art  of  social 
consideration,  when  a  Studium  Generate^  is  40  life;  and  its  end  is  fitness  for  the  world.  It 
contemplated;  for  that  site  should  be  a  liberal  neither  confines  its  views  to  particular  pro- 
and  a  noble  one;  who  will  deny  it?  Allauthori-  fessions  on  the  one  hand,  nor  creates  heroes 
ties  agree  in  this,  and  very  little  reflection  will  or  inspires  genius  on  the  other.  Works  indeed 
be  sufficient  to  make  it  clear.  I  recollect  a  con-  of  genius  fall  under  no  art;  heroic  minds  come 
versation  I  once  had  on  this  very  subject  with  45  under  no  rule;  a  University  is  not  a  birthplace  of 
a  very  eminent  man.  I  was  a  youth  of  eighteen,  poets  or  of  immortal  authors,  of  founders 
and  was  leaving  my  University  for  the  Long  of  schools,  leaders  of  colonies,  or  conquerors  of 
Vacation,  when  I  found  myself  in  company  nations.  It  does  not  promise  a  generation 
in  a  public  conveyance  with  a  middle-aged  of  Aristotles  or  Newtons,  of  Napoleons  or 
person,  whose  face  was  strange  to  me.  How-  50  Washingtons,  of  Raphaels  or  Shakespeares, 
ever,  it  was  the  great  academical  luminary  of  though  such  miracles  of  nature  it  has  before 
the  day,  whom  afterwards  I  knew  very  well,  now  contained  within  its  precincts.  Nor  is  it 
Luckily  for  me,  I  did  not  suspect  it;  and  luckily  content  on  the  other  hand  with  forming  the 
too,  it  was  a  fancy  of  his,  as  his  friends  knew,  critic  or  the  experimentalist,  the  economist 
to  make  himself  on  easy  terms  especially  with  55  or  the  engineer,  though  such  too  it  includes 
stage-coach  companions.  So,  what  with  my  within  its  scope.  But  a  University  training  is 
flippancy  and  his  condescension,  I  managed  the  great  ordinary  means  to  a  great  but  or- 
to  hear  many  things  which  were  novel  to  me  dinary  end;  it  aims  at  raising  the  intellectual 
» A  university,  or  school  of  universal  learning.  tone  of  society,  at  cultivating  the  public  mind. 


710  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

at  purifying  the  national  taste,  at  supplying  rather  like  those,  which  I  dare  say  most  of  us 
true  principles  to  popular  enthusiasm  and  here  have  had,  at  Pompeii,  looking  at  Sallust's 
fixed  aims  to  popular  aspiration,  at  giving  house^  and  the  relics  of  an  orgy:  a  dried  wine- 
enlargement  and  sobriety  to  the  ideas  of  the  jar  or  two,  a  charred  supper-table,  the  breast 
age,  at  facilitating  the  exercise  of  political  5  of  a  dancing-girl  pressed  against  the  ashes,  the 
power,  and  refining  the  intercourse  of  private  laughing  skull  of  a  jester:  a  perfect  stillness 
life.  It  is  the  education  which  gives  a  man  a  round  about,  as  the  cicerone'  twangs  his  moral, 
clear  conscious  view  of  his  own  opinions  and  and  the  blue  sky  shines  calmly  over  the  ruin, 
judgments,  a  truth  in  developing  them,  an  The  Congreve  Muse  is  dead,  and  her  song 
eloquence  in  expressing  them,  and  a  force  in  10  choked  in  Time's  ashes.  We  gaze  at  the  skele- 
urging  them.  JHe  is  at  home  in  any  society,  ton,  and  wonder  at  the  life  which  once  revelled 
he  has  common  ground  with  every  class;  he  in  its  mad  veins.  We  take  the  skull  up,  and 
knows  when  to  speak  and  when  to  be  silent;  muse  over  the  frolic  and  daring,  the  wit,  scorn, 
he  is  able  to  converse,  he  is  able  to  Hsten;  he  passion,  hope,  desire,  with  which  that  empty 
can  ask  a  question  pertinently,  and  gain  a  15  bowl  once  fermented.  We  think  of  the  glances 
lesson  seasonably,  when  he  has  nothing  to  that  allured,  the  tears  that  melted,  of  the  bright 
impart  himself;  he  is  ever  ready,  yet  never  in  eyes  that  shone  in  those  vacant  sockets;  and 
the  way;  he  is  a  pleasant  companion,  and  a  of  lips  whispering  love,  and  cheeks  dimpling 
comrade  you  can  depend  upon;  he  knows  when  with  smiles,  that  once  covered  yon  ghastly 
to  be  serious  and  when  to  trifle;  and  he  has  a  20  yellow  framework.  They  used  to  call  those 
sure  tact  which  enables  him  to  trifle  with  teeth  pearls  once.  See,  there's  the  cup  she 
gracefulness  and  to  be  serious  with  effect.  He  drank  from,  the  gold-chain  she  wore  on  her 
has  the  repose  of  a  mind  which  lives  in  itself,  neck,  the  vase  which  held  the  rouge  for  her 
while  it  lives  in  the  world,  and  which  has  re-  cheeks,  her  looking-glass,  and  the  harp  she 
sources  for  its  happiness  at  home  when  it  can-  25  used  to  dance  to.  Instead  of  a  feast  we  find 
not  go  abroad.  He  has  a  gift  which  serves  him  a  gravestone,  and  in  place  of  a  mistress,  a 
in   public,   and   supports   him   in  retirement,      few  bones! 

without  which  good  fortune  is  but  vulgar,  and  Reading  in  these  plays  now,  is  like  shutting 

with  which  failure  and  disappointment  have  your  ears  and  looking  at  people  dancing.  What 
a  charm.  The  art  which  tends  to  make  a  man  30  does  it  mean?  the  measures,  the  grimaces,  the 
all  this,  is  in  the  object  which  it  pursues  as  bowing,  shuffling  and  retreating,  the  cavalier 
useful  as  the  art  of  wealth  or  the  art  of  health,  seul^  advancing  upon  those  ladies — those 
though  it  is  less  susceptible  of  method,  and  ladies  and  men  twirling  round  at  the  end  in  a 
less  tangible,  less  certain,  less  complete,  in  its  mad  gallop,  after  which  everybody  bows  and 
result.  *  35  the  quaint  rite  is  celebrated.     Without  the 

music  we  can't  understand  that  comic  dance 

of  the  last  century — its  strange  gravity  and 

William    £pakepeace  QTI^ackera^  gaiety,  its  decorum  or  its  Indecomm.     It  has 

^  jargon  of  its  own  quite  unlike  life;  a  sort  of 
40  moral  of  its  own  quite  unlike  life  too.     I'm 

THF   PF^TORATTOTM   HRAMA  ^^^^^^  ^^'^  ^  Heathen  mystery,  symboHzing  a 

THE   REbTORATlON   DRAMA  p^g^^^  doctrine;  protesting— as  the  Pompeians 

(From  "Congreve  and  Addison,"  in  The  Eng-      very  likely  were,  assembled  at  their  theatre 
lish  Humourists,  written  1851)  ^^^  laughmg  at  their  games;  as  Sallust  and  his 

45  friends,  and  their  mistresses,  protested,  crowned 
There  is  life  and  death  going  on  in  everything:  with  flowers,  with  cups  in  their  hands — against 
truth  and  lies  are  always  at  battle.  Pleasure  the  new,  hard,  ascetic,  pleasure-hating  doctrine 
is  always  warring  against  self-restraint.  Doubt  whose  gaunt  disciples,  lately  passed  over  from 
is  always  crying  Psha!  and  sneering.  A  man  the  Asian  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  were 
in  life,  a  humourist  in  writing  about  life,  sways  50     „  ^       ,   ,     ,  ,  . ,  ,        ,      , 

,                    .      .    ,            ii         .1               J  1         V  2  One  of  the  houses  laid  bare  by  the  excavations  at 

over  to  one  prmciple  or  the  other,  and  laughs  Pompeii  is  commonly  said  to  have  belonged  to  Sallust. 

with   the   reverence   for   right   and    the   love   of  ^  is  tlie  contrast  between  the  levity  and  licentiousness 

,       ,1     .      ,  .     ,          ,           1         L        i    .1           e           j.\.  o*  Pompeii,  jesting  almost  within  the  shadow  of  a  vol- 

trutn  m  his  heart,  or  laughs  at  these  from  the  cano.  and  the  inexorable  and  terrible  doom  that  over- 

Other    side.       Didn't    I    tell    you    that    dancing  <^akes  it,  which  suggests  and  gives  point  to  Thackeray's 

,        .             .TTi         'oiTT-  comparison.     The  witty  and  immoral  comedies  of  Con- 

was  a  senous  business  to  Harlequin.''  ^     1  have  55  greve,  like  the  relics  of  Pompeiian  orgies,  speak  of  a  deadv 

read    two    or    three    of    Congreve's    plays    over  generation  of  triflers,  of  a  gayety  destined  to  be  choked  \ 

before  speaking  of  him;  and  my  feelings  were       ^"a"!^  n^ame  given  to  Italian  guides  for  their  volubility.    ' 

in  humorous  allusion  to  the  fluency  of  the  great  Roman 
1  The  stage  buffoon,  one  of  the  regular  character  types       orator  Cicero, 
in  French  comedy.  *  The  cavalier  who  dances  alone. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  711 

for  breaking  the  fair  images  of  Venus  and  fling-  As  the  boy  tosses  the  cup  and  sings  his  song — 
ing  the  altars  of  Bacchus  down.  hark!  what  is  that  chaunt  coming  nearer  and 

I  fancy  poor  Congreve's  theatre  is  a  temple  nearer?  What  is  that  dirge  which  will  disturb 
of  Pagan  delights,  and  mysteries  not  permitted  us?  The  lights  of  the  festival  burn  dim— the 
except  among  heathens.  I  fear  the  theatre  5  cheeks  turn  pale — the  voice  quavers — and 
carries  down  that  ancient  tradition  and  wor-  the  cup  drops  on  the  floor.  Who's  there? 
ship,  as  masons  have  carried  their  secret  signs  Death  and  Fate  are  at  the  gate,  and  they  vrUl 
and  rites^  from  temple  to  temple.  When  the  come  in. 
libertine  hero  carries  off  the  beauty  in  the 
play,  and  the  dotard  is  laughed  to  scorn  for  10 

having  the  young  wife:  in  the  ballad,  when  NIL  NISI  BONUMi 

the  poet  bids  his  mistress  to  gather  roses  while  ^^^^^  Roundabout  Papers,  1860-1862) 

she  may,  and  warns  her  that  old  Time  is  still 

a-flying:  in  the  ballet,  when  honest  Corydon  Almost  the   last  words  which  Sir  Walter 

courts  Phillis  under  the  treillage  of  the  paste- 15 spoke  to  Lockhart,  his  biographer,  were,  "Be 
board  cottage,  and  leers  at  her  over  the  head  a  good  man,  my  dear!"  and  with  the  last 
of  grandpapa  in  red  stockings,  who  is  oppor-  flicker  of  breath  on  his  dying  lips,  he  sighed 
tunely  asleep;  and  when  seduced  by  the  invi-  a  farewell  to  his  family,  and  passed  away 
tations  of  the  rosy  youth  she  comes  forward  to      blessing  them. 

the  footlights,  and  they  perform  on  each  20  Two  men,^  famous,  admired,  beloved,  have 
other's  tiptoes  that  pas  which  you  all  know,  just  left  us,  the  Goldsmith  and  Gibbon  of  our 
and  which  is  only  interrupted  by  old  grand-  time.  Ere  a  few  weeks  are  over,  the  critic's 
papa  awaking  from  his  doze  at  the  pasteboard  pen  will  be  at  work,  reviewing  their  lives,  and 
chdlet  (whither  he  returns  to  take  another  nap  passing  judgment  on  their  works.  This  is  no 
in  case  the  young  people  get  an  encore) :  when  25  review,  or  history,  or  criticism :  only  a  word  in 
Harlequin,  splendid  in  youth,  strength,  and  testimony  of  respect  and  regard  from  a  man 
agility,  arrayed  in  gold  and  a  thousand  colours,  of  letters,  who  owes  to  his  own  professional 
springs  over  the  heads  of  countless  perils,  labour  the  honour  of  becoming  acquainted 
leaps  down  the  throat  of  bewildered  giants,  with  these  two  eminent  literary  men.  One 
and,  dauntless  and  splendid,  dances  danger  30  was  the  first  ambassador  whom  the  New  World 
down:  when  Mr.  Punch,  that  Godless  old  rebel  of  Letters  sent  to  the  Old.  He  was  born  almost 
breaks  every  law  and  laughs  at  it  with  odious  with  the  republic;  the  pater  patrioe  had  laid  his 
triumph,  outwits  his  lawyer,  bullies  the  beadle,  hand  on  the  child's  head.*  He  bore  Washing- 
knocks  his  wife  about  the  head,  and  hangs  ton's  name:  he  came  amongst  us  bringing  the 
the  hangman — don't  you  see  in  the  comedy,  in  35  kindest  sympathy,  the  most  artless,  smiling 
the  song,  in  the  dance,  in  the  ragged  little  good-will.  His  new  country  (which  some  peo- 
Punch's  puppet-show— the  Pagan  protest?  pie  here  might  be  disposed  to  regard  rather 
Doesn't  it  seem  as  if  Life  puts  in  its  plea  and  superciliously)  could  send  us,  as  he  showed  in 
sings  its  comment?  Look  how  the  lovers  walk  his  own  person,  a  gentleman,  who,  though 
and  hold  each  other's  hands  and  whisper!  40  himself  bom  in  no  very  high  sphere,  was  most 
Sing  the  chorus— ''There  is  nothing  like  love,  finished,  polished,  easy,  witty,  quiet;  and, 
there  is  nothing  like  youth,  there  is  nothing  socially,  the  equal  of  the  most  refined  Euro- 
like  beauty  of  your  springtime.  Look!  how  peans.  If  Irving's  welcome  in  England  was  a 
old  age  tries  to  meddle  with  merry  sport!  Beat  kind  one,  was  it  not  also  gratefully  remem- 
him  with  his  own  crutch,  the  wrinkled  old  45  bered?  If  he  ate  our  salt,  did  he  not  pay  us 
dotard!  There  is  nothing  like  youth,  there  is  with  a  thankful  heart?  Who  can  calculate 
nothing  like  beauty,  there  is  nothing  like  the  amount  of  friendliness  and  good  feelmg 
strength.  Strength  and  valour  win  beauty  for  our  country  which  this  writer's  generous 
and  youth.  Be  brave  and  conquer.  Be  young  and  untiring  regard  for  us  disseminated  in 
and  happy.  Enjoy,  enjoy,  enjoy!  Would  you  50  his  own?  His  books  are  read  by  millions  of  his 
know  the  Segreto  per  esserfeliceP  Here  it  is,  in  countrymen,  whom  he  has  taught  to  love  Eng- 
a  smiling  mistress  and  a  cup  of  Falemian."^      land,  and  why  to  love  her.    It  would  have  been 

^  In  the  middle  ages  when  skilled  masons  moved  from  ^  The.  Latin  Proverb  nins  De  mortuis  nil  nm  bonum. 

place  to  place  to  work  upon  the  great  abbeys  and  cathe-  concerning  the  dead  not  mg  but  go«d.                     Macau- 

drals,  it  was  important  for  them  to  have  some  sign  by  ^  Washington  Irvmg  died  Nov.  28,  1859,  Lord  Macau 

which  they  could  be  known  as  reliable  workmen.    Thus  lay  died  Dec.  ^\}^^'-,..^,       -.jk,  ._   xjew  York  a 

originated  the  secret  organization  of  free  or  enfranchised  \I^"""«.  ?°«„;^1„Y  h^^d  ^reVntod  the  bo^^^^ 

operai^e  nu^sons,  from  which  modern  Freemasonry  de-  f-^f  J-'d  ^  vant  Imd  j^^^^^^^ 

nves  Its  symbols  and  rites.  a  bairn  wis  named  after  you."    The  president  thereupon 

SA'S^of'sTufi'U  celebrated  by  the  Latin  ^a^riSmtis  blessing.    J.  C.  D.  Warner's  L./e  o/ /r.n.. 

p.  23. 


712  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

easy  to  speak  otherwise  than  he  did:  to  inflame  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  and 
national  rancours,  which,  at  the  time  when  he  Washington,  and  remarked  how  in  every  place 
first  became  known  as  a  public  writer,  war  had  he  was  honoured  and  welcomed.  Every  large  j 
just  renewed:  to  cry  down  the  old  civilization  city  has  its  ''Irving  House."  The  country 
at  the  expense  of  the  new:  to  point  out  our  5  takes  pride  in  the  fame  of  its  men  of  letters, 
faults,  arrogance,  short-comings,  and  give  the  The  gate  of  his  own  charming  Uttle  domain  on 
repubUc  to  infer  how  much  she  was  the  parent  the  beautiful  Hudson  River  was  for  ever  swing- 
state's  superior.  There  are  writers  enough  in  ing  before  visitors  who  came  to  him.  He  shut 
the  United  States,  honest  and  otherwise,  who  out  no  one.  I  had  seen  many  pictures  of  his 
preach  that  kind  of  doctrine.  But  the  good  10  house,  and  read  descriptions  of  it,  in  both  of 
Irving,  the  peaceful,  the  friendly,  had  no  place  which  it  was  treated  with  a  not  unusual  Amer- 
for  bitterness  in  his  heart,  and  no  scheme  but  ican  exaggeration.  It  was  but  a  pretty  httle 
kindness.  Received  in  England  with  extraor-  cabin  of  a  place;  the  gentleman  of  the  press 
dinary  tenderness  and  friendship  (Scott,  who  took  notes  of  the  place,  whilst  his  kind  old 
Southey,  Byron,  a  hundred  others  have  borne  15  host  was  sleeping,  might  have  visited  the  whole 
witness  to  their  liking  for  him),  he  was  a  mes-  house  in  a  couple  of  minutes, 
senger  of  good-will  and  peace  between  his  And  how  came  it  that  this  house  was  so 
country  and  ours.  "See,  friends!"  he  seems  small,  when  Mr.  Irving's  books  were  sold  by 
to  say,  "  these  English  are  not  so  wicked,  rapa-  hundreds  of  thousands,  nay,  millions,  when 
cious,  callous,  proud,  as  you  have  been  taught  20  his  profits  were  known  to  be  large,  and  the 
to  believe  them.  I  went  amongst  them  a  habits  of  life  of  the  good  old  bachelor  were 
humble  man;  won  my  way  by  my  pen;  and,  notoriously  modest  and  simple?  He  had  loved 
when  known,  found  every  hand  held  out  to  me  once  in  his  life.  The  lady  he  loved  died;  and 
with  kindliness  and  welcome.  Scott  is  a  great  he,  whom  all  the  world  loved,  never  sought  to 
man  you  acknowledge.  Did  not  Scott's  King  25  replace  her.  I  can't  say  how  much  the  thought 
of  England  give  a  gold  medal  to  him,  and  of  that  fidelity  has  touched  me.  Does  not  the 
another  to  me,  your  countryman,  and  a  very  cheerfulness  of  his  after  life  add  to  the 
stranger?"  pathos  of  that  untold  story?    To  grieve  always 

Tradition  in  the  United  States  still  fondly  was  not  in  his  nature;  or,  when  he  had  his  sor- 
retains  the  history  of  the  feasts  and  rejoicings  30  row,  to  bring  all  the  world  in  to  condole  with 
which  awaited  Irving  on  his  return  to  his  na-  him  and  bemoan  it.  Deep  and  quiet  he  lays 
tive  country  from  Europe.  He  had  a  national  the  love  of  his  heart,  and  buries  it;  and  grass 
welcome;  he  stammered  m  his  speeches,  hid  and  flowers  grow  over  the  scarred  ground  in 
himself  in  confusion,  and  the  people  loved  him      due  time. 

the  better.  He  had  worthily  represented  35  Irving  had  such  a  small  house  and  such  nar- 
America  in  Europe.  In  that  young  community  row  rooms,  because  there  was  a  great  number 
a  man  who  brings  home  with  him  abundant  of  people  to  occupy  them.  He  could  only  af- 
European  testimonials  is  still  treated  with  ford  to  keep  one  old  horse  (which,  lazy  and 
respect  (I  have  found  American  writers,  of  aged  as  it  was,  managed  once  or  twice  to  run 
wide-world  reputation,  strangely  sohcitous  40  away  with  that  careless  old  horseman).  He 
about  the  opinions  of  quite  obscure  British  could  only  afford  to  give  plain  sherry  to  that 
critics,  and  elated  or  depressed  by  their  judg-  amiable  British  paragraph-monger,  who  saw 
ments);  and  Irving  went  home  medalled  by  the  patriarch  asleep  over  his  modest,  blame- 
the  King,  diplomatized  by  the  University,  less  cup,  and  fetched  the  public  into  his  private 
crowned  and  honoured  and  admired.  He  45  chamber  to  look  at  him.  Irving  could  only  live 
had  not  in  any  way  intrigued  for  his  honours,  very  modestly,  because  the  wifeless,  childless 
he  had  fairly  won  them;  and,  in  Irving's  in-  man  had  a  number  of  children  to  whom  he 
stance,  as  in  others,  the  old  country  was  glad  was  as  a  father.  He  had  as  many  as  nine 
and  eager  to  pay  them.  nieces,  I  am  told— I  saw  two  of  these  ladies, 

In  America  the  love  and  regard  for  Irving  50  at  his  house— with  all  of  whom  the  dear  old, 
was  a  national  sentiment.  Party  wars  are  man  had  shared  the  produce  of  his  labour  and 
perpetually  raging  there,  and  are  carried  on      genius.  ^  ; 

by  the  press  with  a  rancour  and  fierceness  "Be  a  good  man,  my  dear."    One  can  t  but 

against  individuals  which  exceed  British,  al-  think  of  these  last  words  of  the  veteran  Chief 
most  Irish,  virulence.  It  seemed  to  me,  during  55  of  Letters,  who  had  tasted  and  tested  the  value 
a  year's  travel  in  the  country,  as  if  no  one  ever  of  worldly  success,  admiration,  prosperity«| 
aimed  a  blow  at  Irving.  All  men  held  their  Was  Irving  not  good,  and,  of  his  works,  wa^^ 
hands  from  that  harmless,  friendly  peace-  not  his  life  the  best  part?  In  his  family,  gentle, 
maker.    I  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  him  at     generous,    good-humoured,    affectionate,   self-W 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  713 

denying;  in  society,  a  delightful  example  of  right.  Years  ago  there  was  a  wretched  outcry 
complete  gentlemanhood;  quite  unspoiled  by  raised  because  Mr.  Macaulay  dated  a  letter 
prosperity;  never  obsequious  to  the  great  (or,  from  Windsor  Castle,«  where  he  was  staying, 
worse  still,  to  the  base  and  mean,  as  some  Immortal  gods!  Was  this  man  not  a  fit  guest 
public  men  are  forced  to  be  in  his  and  other  5  for  any  palace  in  the  world?  or  a  fit  companion 
countries);  eager  to  acknowledge  every  con-  for  any  man  or  woman  in  it?  I  dare  say,  after 
temporary's  merit;  always  kind  and  affable  Austerlitz,  the  old  K.  K.^  court  officials  and 
to  the  young  members  of  his  calling;  in  his  pro-  footmen  sneered  at  Napoleon  for  dating  from 
fessional  bargains  and  mercantile  dealings  deli-  Schonbrunn.s  But  that  miserable  "Windsor 
cately  honest  and  grateful;  one  of  the  most  10  Castle"  outcry  is  an  echo  out  of  fast-retreat- 
charming  masters  of  our  fighter  language;  the  ing  old-world  remembrances.  The  place  of  such 
constant  friend  to  us  and  to  our  nation;  to  men  a  natural  chief  was  amongst  the  first  of  the 
of  letters  doubly  dear,  not  for  his  wit  and  land;  and  that  country  is  best,  according  to 
genius  merely,  but  as  an  exemplar  of  goodness,  our  British  notion  at  least,  where  the  man  of 
probity,  and  pure  fife:— I  don't  know  what  15  eminence  has  the  best  chance  of  investing  his 
sort  of  testimonial  will  be  raised  to  him  in  his      genius  and  intellect. 

own  country,  where  generous  and  enthusiastic  If  a  company  of  giants  were  got  together, 

acknowledgment  of  American  merit  is  never  very  likely  one  or  two  of  the  mere  six-feet-six 
wanting:  but  Irving  was  in  our  service  as  well  people  might  be  angry  in  the  incontestable 
as  theirs;  and  as  they  have  placed  a  stone  at  20  superiority  of  the  very  tallest  of  the  party; 
Greenwich  yonder  in  memory  of  that  gallant  and  so  I  have  heard  some  London  wits,  rather 
young  Bellot,4  who  shared  the  perils  and  fate  peevish  at  Macaulay's  superiority,  complain 
of  some  of  our  Arctic  seamen,  I  would  like  to  that  he  occupied  too  much  of  the  talk,  and  so 
hear  of  some  memorial  raised  by  English  writers  forth.  Now  that  wonderful  tongue  is  to  speak 
and  friends  of  letters  in  affectionate  remem-  25  no  more,  will  not  many  a  man  grieve  that  he 
brance  of  the  dear  and  good  Washington  Irving,  no  longer  has  the  chance  to  listen?  To  remem- 
As  for  the  other  writer,  whose  departure  ber  the  talk  is  to  wonder:  to  think  not  only  of 
many  friends,  some  few  most  dearly-loved,  and  the  treasures  he  had  in  his  memory,  but  of  the 
multitudes  of  admiring  readers  deplore,  our  trifles  he  had  stored  there,  and  could  produce 
republic  has  already  decreed  his  statue,  and  30  with  equal  readiness.  Almost  on  the  last  day 
he  must  have  known  that  he  had  earned  this  I  had  the  fortune  to  see  him,  a  conversation 
posthumous  honour.  He  is  not  a  poet  and  happened  suddenly  to  spring  up  about  senior 
man  of  letters  merely,  but  citizen,  statesman,  wranglers,^  and  what  they  had  done  in  after 
a  great  British  worthy.  Almost  from  the  first  life.  To  the  almost  terror  of  the  persons  pres- 
moment  when  he  appears  amongst  boys,  35  ent,  Macaulay  began  with  the  senior  wrangler 
amongst  college  students,  amongst  men,  he  is  of  1801-2-3-4,  and  so  on,  giving  the  name  of 
marked,  and  takes  rank  as  a  great  Englishman,  each,  and  relating  his  subsequent  career  and 
All  sorts  of  successes  are  easy  to  him:  as  a  lad  rise.  Every  man  who  has  known  him  has  his 
he  goes  down  into  the  arena  with  others,  and  story  regarding  that  astonishing  memory.  It 
wins  all  the  prizes  to  which  he  has  a  mind.  A  40  may  be  that  he  was  not  ill  pleased  that  you 
place  in  the  senate  is  straightway  offered  to  should  recognize  it;  but  to  those  prodigious 
the  young  man.  He  takes  his  seat  there;  he  intellectual  feats,  which  were  so  easy  to  him, 
speaks,  when  so  minded,  without  party  anger  who  would  grudge  his  tribute  of  homage?  His 
or  intrigue,  but  not  without  party  faith  and  a  talk  was,  in  a  word,  admirable,  and  we  ad- 
sort  of  heroic  enthusiasm  for  his  cause.    Still  45  mired  it. 

he  is  poet  and  philosopher  even  more  than  Of  the  notices  which  have  appeared  regard- 

orator.    That  he  may  have  leisure  and  means      ing  Lord  Macaulay,  up  to  the  day  when  the 
to  pursue  his  darling  studies,  he  absents  himself      present  lines  are  written  (the  9th  of  January), 
for  a  while,  and  accepts  a  richly-remunerative      the  reader  should  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure 
post  in  the  East.^    As  learned  a  man  may  50       ^ 
live  in  a  cottage  or  a  college  common-room;     uI^^Stu^^'£''^'i;Slotlf^L!^t^:'\Ze^^^i 

but  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  ample  means  from  Windsor  Castle,  the  Royal  Palace,  as  though  it  were 
and  recoffnizpd  rank  wprp  MflPanlav'M  n^  of  ^'^  residence.  The  London  Times  attacked  him.  and 
aiiu  recoguizea  ranK  were  iViacaUiay  S  as  OI  among  those  who  had  their  laugh  at  his  expense  was 
AT  ».  D  x  D  7;  .  /100C  CON  r?  u  I  ^  Thackeray  himself.  But  Thackeray  made  ample  amends 
*  Joseph  RenS  Bellot  (1826-53),  a  French  naval  officer  for  what  Trevelyan  calls  "a  very  innocent  and  not  ill- 
and  a  volunteer  m  English  Arctic  expeditions,  who  lost  natured  touch  of  satire,"  in  this  passage 
his  life  m  the  search  for  Franklin.  Bellot's  Straits,  in  the  i  K.  K.  in  German  stands  for  Kaiserlich  KUnialich 
North  American  Arctics,  is  named  after  him.  He  is  i.  e.  Imperial  Royal.  ' 
commemorated  by  a  red  granite  obelisk  on  the  river  8  The  Austrian  Imperial  residence,  three  miles  south- 
terrace  at  Greenwich,  seat  of  the  Royal  Naval  College.  west  of  Vienna. 

5  Macaulay  was  a  member  of  the  Supreme  Council  at  »  In  Cambridge    University  the   student    taking  first 

Calcutta,  1834-38.  place  in  the  mathematical  tripos  or  honor  examination. 


711  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

<,f  looking  CHpecially  at  two.  It  is  a  good  sign  straiige  lore  would  he  not  fetch  for  you  at  your 
o  the  times  when  such  articles  as  these  (I  bidding!  A  volume  of  law  or  history  a  book 
mean  the  articles  in  The  Times  and  Saturday  of  poetry  familiar  or  forgotten  (except  by  him- 
Renew)  appear  in  our  public  prints  about  our  self  who  forgot  nothing),  a  novel  ever  so  old, 
public  men.  They  educate  us,  as  it  were,  to  sand  he  had  it  at  hand  I  spoke  to  him  once 
admire  rightly.  An  uninstructed  person  in  a  about  ''Clarissa."  ''  "Not  read  Clanssa  ! 
museum  or  at  a  concert  may  pass  by  without  he  cried  out.  "If  you  have  once  thoroughly 
raoognizing  a  picture  or  a  passage  of  music,  entered  on  'Clanssa  and  are  mfected  by  it, 
which  the  connoisseur  by  his  side  may  show  you  can't  leave  it.  When  I  was  m  India  I 
him  is  a  masterpiece  of  harmony,  or  a  wonder  10  passed  one  hot  season  at  the  hills,  and  there 
of  artistic  skill.  After  reading  these  papers,  were  the  Governor-General,  and  the  Secretary 
you  like  and  respect  more  the  person  you  have  of  Government,  and  the  Commander-in-Chief, 
admired  so  much  already.  And  so  with  regard  and  their  wives.  I  had  ' Clarissa'  with  me:  and, 
to  Macaulay's  style  there  may  be  faults  of  as  soon  as  they  began  to  read,  the  whole  sta- 
couTse— what  critic  can't  point  them  out?  But  15  tion  was  in  a  passion  of  excitement  about  Miss 
for  the  nonce  we  are  not  talking  about  faults:  Harlowe  and  her  misfortunes,  and  her  scoun- 
we  want  to  say  nil  nisi  bonum.  Well— take  drelly  Lovelace!  The  Governor's  wife  seized 
at  hazanl  any  three  pages  of  the  "Essays"  the  book,  and  the  Secretary  waited  for  it,  and 
or  "History;" — and,  glimmering  below  the  the  Chief  Justice  could  not  read  it  for  tears!" 
stream  of  the  narrative,  as  it  were,  you,  an  20  He  acted  the  whole  scene:  he  paced  up  and 
average  reader,  see  one,  two,  three,  a  half-score  down  the  "Athen^um"  library:  I  dare  say 
of  allusions  to  other  historic  facts,  characters,  he  could  have  spoken  pages  of  the  book — of 
literature,  poetry,  with  which  you  are  ac-  that  book,  and  of  what  countless  piles  of  others. 
quainted.  Why  is  this  epithet  used?  Whence  In  this  little  paper  let  us  keep  to  the  text  of 
is  that  simile  drawn?  How  does  he  manage  25  nil  nisi  bonum.  One  paper  I  have  read  regard- 
in  two  or  three  words,  to  paint  an  individual,  ing  Lord  Macaulay  says  "he  had  no  heart." 
or  to  indicate  a  landscape?  Your  neighbour.  Why,  a  man's  books  may  not  always  speak 
who  has  his  reading,  and  his  little  stock  of  the  truth,  but  they  speak  his  mind  in  spite  of 
literature  stowed  away  in  his  mind,  shall  de-  himself:  and  it  seems  to  me  this  man's  heart  is 
tect  more  points,  allusions,  happy  touches,  30  beating  through  every  page  he  penned.  He  is 
indicating  not  only  the  prodigious  memory  always  in  a  storm  of  revolt  and  indignation 
and  vast  learning  of  this  master,  but  the  against  wrong,  craft,  tyranny.  How  he  cheers 
wonderful  industry,  the  honest,  humble  pre-  heroic  resistance;  how  he  backs  and  applauds 
vious  toil  of  this  great  scholar.  He  reads  freedom  struggling  for  its  own;  how  he  hates 
twenty  books  to  write  a  sentence;  he  travels  a  35  scoundrels,  ever  so  victorious  and  successful; 
hundred  miles  to  make  a  line  of  description.  how  he  recognizes  genius,  though  selfish  vil- 

Many  Londoners — not  all — have  seen  the  lains  possess  it!  The  critic  who  says  Macaulay 
British  Museum  Library.  I  speak  d  cceur  had  no  heart,  might  say  that  Johnson  had 
otwert,^'^  and  pray  the  kindly  reader  to  bear  none:  and  two  men  more  generous,  and  more 
with  me.  I  have  seen  all  sorts  of  domes  of  40  loving,  and  more  hating,  and  more  partial, 
Peters  and  Pauls,  Sophia,  Pantheon, — what  and  more  noble,  do  not  hve  in  our  history. 
not?— and  have  been  struck  by  none  of  them  Those  who  knew  Lord  Macaulay  knew  how 
ao  much  as  by  that  CathoUc  dome  in  Blooms-  admirably  tender  and  generous,  and  affec- 
bury,  under  which  our  million  volumes  are  tionate  he  was.  It  was  not  his  business  to 
housed.  What  peace,  what  love,  what  truth,  45  bring  his  family  before  the  theatre  foothghts, 
what  beauty,  what  happiness  for  all,  what  and  call  for  bouquets  from  the  gallery  as  he 
gmerous  kindness  for  you  and  me,  are  here     wept  over  them. 

spread  out!  It  seems  to  me  one  cannot  sit  If  any  young  man  of  letters  reads  this  little 
down  m  that  place  without  a  heart  fuU  of  sermon— and  to  him,  indeed,  it  is  addressed— 
grateful  reverence.  I  own  to  have  said  my 50 1  would  say  to  him,  "Bear  Scott's  words  in 
grace  at  the  table,  and  to  have  thanked  heaven  your  mind,  and  'be  good,  my  dear.'"  Here 
for  this  my  English  birthnght,  freely  to  par-  are  two  Uterary  men,  gone  to  their  account, 
take  of  th^  bountiful  bcK)ks,  and  to  speak  and,  laus  Deo,^^  as  far  as  we  know,  it  is  fair, 
uiA^,  ,  .  t^'  ^""^f  }^^  ^°°'®  ^^'''^  ^^  open,  and  clean.  Here  is  no  need  of  apolo- 
held  Macaulay  8  brain,  and  from  which  his  55  gies  for  shortcomings,  or  explanations  of  vices 
solemn  eyes  looked  out  on  the  worid  but  a     which  would  have  been  virtues  but  for  un-\j 

wnlSl^"^'    1\^^    ^    ''^^'    ^^^'^"i^'    T^       r  i'f^^*«-  '^<'''^^'  Samuel  Richardson's  novel,  pub-   '^1 
wonaenul  store  of  learning  was  ranged!  what       ushed  1748.    Lovelace,  the  principal  male  character  in  the 

«•  From  an  open  heart.  ^»  pS  to  God!'^°"'  •'^''*^'- 


CHARLES  DICKENS  715 

avoidable  &c.  Here  are  two  examples  of  men  From  an  otherwise  unaccountable  association 
most  differently  gifted:  each  pursuing  his  call-  of  him  with  a  fiddle,  we  conclude  that  he  was 
mg;  each  speaking  his  truth  as  God  bade  him;  of  French  extraction,  and  his  name  Fiddle, 
each  honest  in  his  hfe;  just  and  irreproachable  He  belonged  to  some  female,  chiefly  inhabiting 
in  his  dealings;  dear  to  his  friends;  honoured  5  a  back-parlour,  whose  life  appears  to  us  to  have 
by  his  country;  beloved  at  his  fireside.  It  has  been  consumed  in  sniffing,  and  in  wearing  a 
been  the  fortunate  lot  of  each  to  give  incal-  brown  beaver  bonnet.  For  her,  he  would  sit 
culable  happiness  and  delight  to  the  world,  up  and  balance  cake  upon  his  nose,  and  not 
which  thanks  them  in  return  with  an  immense  eat  it  until  twenty  had  been  counted.  To  the 
kindliness,  respect,  affection.  It  may  not  be  lo  best  of  our  belief  we  were  once  called  in  to 
our  chance,  brother  scribe,  to  be  endowed  witness  this  performance;  when,  unable  even 
with  such  merit,  or  rewarded  with  such  fame,  in  his  milder  moments,  to  endure  our  presence, 
But  the  rewards  of  these  men  are  rewards  paid  he  instantly  made  at  us,  cake  and  all. 
to  our  service.  We  may  not  win  the  baton  or  Why  a  something  in  mourning,  called  "Miss 
epaulettes;"  but  God  give  us  strength  to  guard  15  Frost,"  should  still  connect  itself  with  our 
the  honour  of  the  flag!  preparatory  school,  we  are  unable  to  say.    We 

retain  no  impression  of  the  beauty  of  Miss 

Frost — if  she  were  beautiful;  or  of  the  mental 

Cl^Stto   SDictentf  fascinations  of  Miss  Frost— if  she  were  ac- 

1812-1870  20complished;  yet  her  name,  and  her  black  dress 

hold  an  enduring  place  in  our  remembrance. 
HTTP    QPTrnnr  ^^  equally  impersonal  boy,  whose  name  has 

UUK,  Cj^^iiuUL.  j^jjg    gjjj^g    shaped    itself    unalterably    into 

(From  Household  W(yrds,  1852)  "Master  Mawls,"  is  not  to  be  dislodged  from 

25  our  brain.     Retaining  no   vindictive   feeling 

We  went  to  look  at  it,  only  this  last  Mid-  towards  Mawls — no  feehng  whatever,  indeed — 
summer,  and  found  that  the  railway  had  cut  we  infer  that  neither  he  nor  we  can  have  loved 
it  up  root  and  branch.  A  great  trunk-line  Miss  Frost.  Our  first  impression  of  Death  and 
had  swallowed  the  play-ground,  sliced  away  Burial  is  associated  with  this  formless  pair, 
the  schoolroom,  and  pared  off  the  comer  of  30  We  all  three  nestled  awfully  in  a  corner  one 
the  house,  which  thus  curtailed  of  its  propor-  wintry  day,  when  the  wind  was  blowing  shrill, 
tions,  presented  itself,  in  a  green  stage  of  with  Miss  Frost's  pinafore  over  our  heads;  and 
stucco,  profilewise  towards  the  road,  like  a  Miss  Frost  told  us  in  a  whisper  about  some- 
forlorn  flatiron  without  a  handle,  standing  on  body  being  "screwed  down."  It  is  the  only 
end.  35  distinct  recollection  we  preserve  of  these  im- 

It  seems  as  if  our  schools  were  doomed  to  palpable  creatures,  except  a  suspicion  that 
be  the  sport  of  change.  We  have  faint  recol-  the  manners  of  Master  Mawls  were  susceptible 
lections  of  a  Preparatory  Day-School,  which  of  much  improvement.  Generally  speaking, 
we  have  sought  in  vain,  and  which  must  have  we  may  observe  that  whenever  we  see  a  child 
been  pulled  down  to  make  a  new  street,  ages  40  intently  occupied  with  its  nose,  to  the  exclusion 
ago.  We  have  dim  impressions,  scarcely  of  all  other  subjects  of  interest,  our  mind  re- 
amounting  to  a  belief,  that  it  was  over  a  dyer's  verts  in  a  flash  to  Master  Mawls. 
shop.  We  know  that  you  went  up  steps  to  But,  the  School  that  was  our  School  before 
it;  that  you  frequently  grazed  your  knees  in  the  Railroad  came  and  overthrew  it,  was  quite 
doing  so;  that  you  generally  got  your  leg  over 45  another  sort  of  place.  We  were  old  enough 
the  scraper,  in  trying  to  scrape  the  mud  off  a  to  be  put  into  Virgil  when  we  went  there,  and 
very  unsteady  little  shoe.  The  mistress  of  the  to  get  prizes  for  a  variety  of  polishing  on  which 
establishment  holds  no  place  in  our  memory;  the  rust  has  long  accumulated.  It  was  a  School 
but  rampant  on  one  eternal  door-mat,  in  an  of  some  celebrity  in  its  neighbourhood — no- 
eternal  entry  long  and  narrow,  is  a  puffy  pug-  50  body  could  have  said  why— and  we  had  the 
dog,  with  a  personal  animosity  towards  us,  honour  to  attain  and  hold  the  eminent  posi- 
who  triumphs  over  Time.  The  bark  of  that  tion  of  first  boy.  The  master  was  supposed 
baleful  Pug,  a  certain  radiating  way  he  had  of  among  us  to  know  nothing,  and  one  of  the 
snapping  at  our  undefended  legs,  the  ghastly  ushers  was  supposed  to  know  everything.  We 
grinning  of  his  moist  black  muzzle  and  white  55  are  still  inclined  to  think  the  first-named  sup- 
teeth,  and  the  insolence  of  his  crisp  tail  curled  position  perfectly  correct, 
like  a  pastoral  crook,   all  live  and  flourish.  We  have  a  general  idea  that  its  subject  had 

„,,  ^  J.  ,  ,       been  in  the  leather  trade,  and  had  bought  us — 

"  May  not  become  commanding  generals  or  even  of-  .  u      i        r  au  •  x 

ficera.  The  6a<on  is  the  field  marshal's  stafif.  meaning   our  scnool — Of   another  propnetof, 


716  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

who  was  immensely  learned.  Whether  this  him  for  the  Spanish  Main;  but  nothing  cer- 
beUef  had  any  real  foundation,  we  are  not  likely  tain  was  ever  known  about  his  disappearance. 
ever  to  know  now.  The  only  branches  of  At  this  hour  we  cannot  thoroughly  disconnect 
education   with  which   he  showed   the  least     him  from  California. 

acquaintance,  were,  ruling  and  corporally  6  Our  School  was  rather  famous  for  mysterious 
punishing.  He  was  always  ruling  ciphering-  pupils.  There  was  another— a  heavy  young 
books  with  a  bloated  mahogany  ruler,  or  man,  with  a  large  double-cased  silver  watch, 
smiting  the  palms  of  offenders  with  the  same  and  a  fat  knife,  the  handle  of  which  was  a 
diabolical  instrument,  or  viciously  drawing  a  perfect  tool-box— who  unaccountably  appeared 
pair  of  pantaloons  tight  with  one  of  his  large  lo  one  day  at  a  special  desk  of  his  own,  erected 
hands,  and  caning  the  wearer  with  the  other,  close  to  that  of  the  Chief,  with  whom  he  held 
We  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  this  occupa-  familiar  converse.  He  Hved  in  the  parlour, 
tion  was  the  principal  solace  of  his  existence,  and  went  out  for  walks,  and  never  took  the 
A  profound  respect  for  money  pervaded  least  notice  of  us — even  of  us,  the  first  boy — 
Our  School,  which  was  of  course,  derived  from  15  unless  to  give  us  a  depreciatory  kick,  or  grimly 
its  Chief.  We  remember  an  idiotic  goggle-  to  take  our  hat  off  and  throw  it  away,  when  he 
eyed  boy,  with  a  big  head,  and  half-crowns  encountered  us  out  of  doors,  which  unpleasant 
withoi^  end,  who  suddenly  appeared  as  a  ceremony  he  always  performed  as  he  passed — 
parlour-boarder,  and  was  rumoured  to  have  not  even  condescending  to  stop  for  the  purpose. 
come  by  sea  from  some  mysterious  part  of  the  20  Some  of  us  believed  that  the  classical  attain- 
earth  where  his  parents  rolled  in  gold.  He  was  ments  of  this  phenomenon  were  terrific,  but 
usually  called  "Mr."  by  the  Chief,  and  was  that  his  penmanship  and  arithmetic  were  de- 
said  to  feed  in  the  parlour  on  steaks  and  gravy;  fective,  and  he  had  come  there  to  mend  them; 
likewise  to  drink  currant  wine.  And  he  openly  others,  that  he  was  going  to  set  up  a  school, 
stated  that  if  rolls  and  coffee  were  ever  denied  25  and  had  paid  the  Chief  "twenty-five  pound 
him  at  breakfast,  he  would  write  home  to  that  down,"  for  leave  to  see  Our  School  at  work. 
unknown  part  of  the  globe  from  which  he  had  The  gloomier  spirits  even  said  that  he  was 
come,  and  cause  himself  to  be  recalled  to  the  going  to  buy  US,  against  which  contingency 
regions  of  gold.  He  was  put  into  no  form  conspiracies  were  set  on  foot  for  a  general 
or  cla.ss,  but  learnt  alone,  as  little  as  he  liked —  30  defection  and  running  away.  However,  he 
and  he  liked  very  Httle — and  there  was  a  belief  never  did  that.  After  staying  for  a  quarter, 
among  us  that  this  was  because  he  was  too  during  which  period,  though  closely  observed, 
wealthy  to  be  "taken  down."  His  special  treat-  he  was  never  seen  to  do  anything  but  make 
ment,  and  our  vague  association  of  him  with  pens  out  of  quills,  write  small-hand  in  a  secret 
the  sea,  and  with  storms,  and  sharks,  and  35  portfolio,  and  punch  the  point  of  the  sharpest 
Coral  Reefs  occasioned  the  wildest  legends  to  blade  in  his  knife  into  his  desk  all  over  it,  he 
be  circulated  as  his  history.  A  tragedy  in  too  disappeared,  and  his  place  knew  him  no 
blank  verse  was  written  on  the  subject — ^if     more. 

our  memory  does  not  deceive  us,  by  the  hand  There  was  another  boy,  a  fair,  meek  boy, 
that  now  chronicles  these  recollections— in  40  with  a  delicate  complexion,  and  rich  curling 
which  his  father  figured  as  a  Pirate,  and  was  hair,  who,  we  found  out,  or  thought  we  found 
shot  for  a  voluminous  catalogue  of  atrocities:  out  (we  have  no  idea  now,  and  probably  had 
first  imparting  to  his  wife  the  secret  of  the  none  then,  on  what  grounds,  but  it  was  con- 
cave in  which  his  wealth  was  stored,  and  from  fidentially  revealed  from  mouth  to  mouth) 
which  his  only  son's  half-crowns  now  issued.  45  was  the  son  of  a  Viscount  who  had  deserted 
Dumbledon  (the  boy's  name)  was  represented  his  lovely  mother.  It  was  understood  that  if 
as  "yet  unborn"  when  his  brave  father  met  he  had  his  rights,  he  would  be  worth  twenty 
his  fate;  and  the  despair  and  grief  of  Mrs.  thousand  a  year.  And  that  if  his  mother  ever 
Dumbledon  at  that  calamity  was  movingly  met  his  father,  she  would  shoot  him  with  a 
i^JT^  J  ^  having  weakened  the  par-  50  silver  pistol,  which  she  carried,  always  loaded 
lour^oarder's  mind.  This  production  was  re-  to  the  muzzle,  for  that  purpose.  He  was  a 
ceived  with  great  favour,  and  was  twice  per-  very  suggestive  topic.  So  was  a  young  mulatto, 
^rmed  with  closed  doors  m  the  dining-room,  who  was  always  believed  (though  very  amiable) 
"i'  w  «^V7'^?'  ^"^,  ^^^  «^^^e^  ^  libellous,  to  have  a  dagger  about  him  somewhere.  But, 
and  brought  the  unlucky  poet  mto  severe  55  we  think  they  were  both  outshone,  upon  theV  . 
affhction.  Some  two  years  afterwards,  aU  of  whole,  by  another  boy  who  claimed  to  have  \ 
w^  wh?  """"L    .1'  Dumbledon  vanished.     It      been  born  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  February,   ''' 

Xn  h^m'!"!  t     t,  '^n  ^t'"^   ^r'l^-  ^"^      ^"^  ^^  ^^^^  «"^y  «^^  birthday  in  five  yea^!     i 
taken  him  down  to  the  Docks,  and  reshipped     We  suspect  this  to  have  been  a  fiction-but 


CHARLES  DICKENS  717 

he  lived  upon  it  all  the  time  he  was  at  Our  among  us  as  equivalent  to  a  declaration.  We 
School.     ^  were  of  opinion  on  that  occasion,  that  to  the 

The  principal  currency  of  Our  School  was  last  moment  he  expected  Maxby's  father  to 
slate  pencil.  It  had  some  inexplicable  value,  ask  him  to  dinner  at  five  o'clock,  and  there- 
that  was  never  ascertained,  never  reduced  to  5  fore  neglected  his  own  dinner  at  half-past  one, 
a  standard.  To  have  a  great  hoard  of  it,  was  and  finally  got  none.  We  exaggerated  in  our 
somehow  to  be  rich.  We  used  to  bestow  it  in  imaginations  the  extent  to  which  he  punished 
charity,  and  confer  it  as  a  precious  boon  upon  Maxby's  father's  cold  meat  at  supper;  and 
our  chosen  friends.  When  the  holidays  were  we  agreed  to  believe  that  he  was  elevated  with 
coming,  contributions  were  solicited  for  cer-  lo  wine  and  water  when  he  came  home.  But, 
tain  boys  whose  relatives  were  in  India,  and  we  all  liked  him;  for  he  had  a  good  knowledge 
who  were  appealed  for  under  the  generic  names  of  boys,  and  would  have  made  it  a  much  better 
of  "Holiday-stoppers,"  appropriate  marks  of  school  if  he  had  had  more  power.  He  was 
remembrance  that  should  enliven  and  cheer  writing-master,  mathematical  master,  English 
them  in  their  homeless  state.  Personally,  we  15  master,  made  out  the  bills,  mended  the  pens, 
always  contributed  these  tokens  of  sympathy  and  did  all  sorts  of  things.  He  divided  the 
in  the  form  of  slate  pencil,  and  always  felt  little  boys  with  the  Latin  master  (they  were 
that  it  would  be  a  comfort  and  a  treasure  to  smuggled  through  their  rudimentary  books, 
them.  at  odd  times  when  there  was  nothing  else  to 

Our  School  was  remarkable  for  white  mice.  20  do),  and  always  called  at  parents'  houses  to 
Red-polls,  linnets,  and  even  canaries,  were  kept  inquire  after  sick  boys,  because  he  had  gentle- 
in  desks,  drawers,  hat-boxes,  and  other,  strange  manly  manners.  He  was  rather  musical,  and 
refuges  for  birds,  but  white  mice  were  the  on  some  remote  quarter-day  had  bought  an 
favourite  stock.  The  boys  trained  the  mice,  old  trombone;  but  a  bit  of  it  was  lost,  and  it 
much  better  than  the  masters  trained  the  25  made  the  most  extraordinary  sounds  when  he 
boys.  We  recall  one  white  mouse,  who  lived  sometimes  tried  to  play  it  of  an  evening.  His 
in  the  cover  of  a  Latin  dictionary,  who  ran  holidays  never  began  (on  account  of  the  bills) 
up  ladders,  drew  Roman  chariots,  shouldered  until  long  after  ours;  but,  in  the  summer  vaca- 
muskets,  turned  wheels,  and  made  even  a  very  tions  he  used  to  take  pedestrian  excursions 
creditable  appearance  on  the  stage  as  the  Dog  30  with  a  knapsack ;  and  at  Christmas-time  he 
of  Montargis.i  He  might  have  achieved  went  to  see  his  father  at  Chipping  Norton,  who 
greater  things,  but  for  having  the  misfortune  we  all  said  (on  no  authority)  was  a  dairy-fed- 
to  mistake  his  way  in  a  triumphal  procession  pork-butcher.  Poor  fellow!  He  was  very  low 
to  the  Capitol,  when  he  fell  into  a  deep  ink-  all  day  on  Maxby's  sister's  wedding-day,  and 
stand,  and  was  dyed  black  and  drowned.  The  35  afterwards  was  thought  to  favour  Maxby 
mice  were  the  occasion  of  some  most  ingenious  more  than  ever,  though  he  had  been  expected 
engineering,  in  the  construction  of  their  houses  to  spite  him.  He  has  been  dead  these  twenty 
and  instruments  of  performance.    The  famous      years.    Poor  fellow! 

one  belonged  to  a  Company  of  proprietors.  Our  remembrance  of  Our  School,  presents 

some  of  whom  have  since  made  Railroads,  40  the  Latin  master  as  a  colourless,  doubled-up. 
Engines,  and  Telegraphs;  the  chairman  has  near-sighted  man  with  a  crutch,  who  was  al- 
erected  mills  and  bridges  in  New  Zealand.  ways  cold,  and  always  putting  onions  into  his 

The  usher  at  Our  School,  who  was  con-  ears  for  deafness,  and  always  disclosing  ends 
sidered  to  know  everything,  as  opposed  to  of  flannel  under  all  his  garments,  and  almost 
the  Chief,  who  was  considered  to  know  45  always  applying  a  ball  of  pocket-handkerchief 
nothmg,  was  a  bony,  gentle-faced,  clerical-  to  some  part  of  his  face  with  a  screwing  action 
looking  young  man  in  rusty  black.  It  was  round  and  round.  He  was  a  very  good  scholar, 
whispered  that  he  was  sweet  upon  one  of  and  took  great  pains  where  he  saw  intelligence 
Maxby's  sisters  (Maxby  lived  close  by,  and  and  a  desire  to  learn:  otherwise,  perhaps  not. 
was  a  day  pupil),  and  further  that  he  "favoured  50  Our  memory  presents  him  (unless  teased  into 
Maxby."  As  we  remember,  he  taught  Italian  a  passion)  with  as  little  energy  as  colour— as 
to  Maxby's  sisters  on  half-holidays.  He  once  having  been  worried  and  tormented  into 
went  to  the  play  with  them,  and  wore  a  white  monotonous  feebleness— as  havmg  had  the 
waistcoat,  and  a  rose;  which  was  considered      best  part  of  his  life  ground  out  of  him  m  a  Mill 

1  Aubrey  of  Montdidier  was  murdered  ini37i.   He  had  55  of  boys.     We  remember  with  terror  how  he 

a  dog.  Dragon,  who  after  the  murder  showed  a  marked  fgH  asleep  one  sultry  afternoon  With  the  little 

dislike  toward  one.  Richard  of  Macaire.     Suspicion  was  __„,,_.„i„j    pi„s!^    before    him      and    awoke    not 

aroused,   and    Richard  of   Macaire   was  condemned   to  Smuggled    Ciass    DCIore    mm,    ana    awoKe    not 

judicial  combat  with  the  dog.    He  was  mortally  wounded,  when  the  foot-Step  of  the  Chief  fell  heavy  On 

'^t^^Slt^^.t^eS^riS^tuio^'r^ '''''""''     the  floor;  how  the  Chief  aroused  him,  in  the 


718  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

midst  of  a  dread  silence,  and  said,  "Mr.  Blink-        So  fades  and  languishes,  grows  dim  and  dies, 

ins,  are  you  ill,  sir?"  how  he  blushingly  re-        All  that  this  world  is  proud  of, 

plied,  "Sir,  rather  so;"  how  the  Chief  retorted 

with  severity,  "Mr.  Blinkins,  this  is  no  place     — and  is  not  proud  of ,  too.    It  had  little  reason 

to  be  ill  in"  (which  was  very  very  true)  and  5  to  be  proud  of  Our  School,  and  has  done  much 

walked  back,  solemn  as  the  ghost  in  Hamlet,      better  since  in  that  way,  and  will  do  far  better 

until,  catching  a  wandering  eye,  he  caned  that      yet. 

boy  for  inattention,  and  happily  expressed  his  , 

feelings  towards  the  Latin  master  through  the  ^tOt^t    dcllOt 

medium  of  a  substitute.  10  (Mary  Ann  Evans) 

There  was  a  fat  little  dancmg-master  who 
used  to  come  in  a  gig,  and  taught  the  more  1819-1880 

advanced  among  us  hornpipes  (as  an  accom-  r^r^Ar^ry  -Dr^ATAo  /^-r.  -cixTi-T  axtt^ 

plishment  in  great  social  demand  in  after-life) ;  ™E  OLD  COACH  ROADS  OF  ENGLAND 
and  there  was  a  brisk  little  French  master  who  15  (^^.^^  ^j^^  Introduction  to  Felix  HoU,  1866) 
used  to  come  m  the  sunniest  weather,  with  a 

handleless  umbrella,  and  to  whom  the  Chief  Five-and- thirty  years  ^   ago   the  glory  had 

was  always  polite,  because  (as  we  believed),  not  yet  departed  from  the  old  coach  roads: 
if  the  Chief  offended  him  he  would  instantly  the  great  road-side  inns  were  still  brilliant  with 
address  the  Chief  in  French,  and  forever  con-  20  well  polished  tankards,  the  smiling  glances  of 
found  him  before  the  boys  with  his  inability  pretty  barmaids,  and  the  repartees  of  jocose 
to  understand  or  reply.  hostlers;  the  mail  still  announced  itself  by  the 

There  was  besides  a  serving  man,  whose  merry  notes  of  the  horn;  the  hedge-cutter  or 
name  was  Phil.  Our  retrospective  glance  the  rick-thatcher  might  still  know  the  exact 
presents  Phil  as  a  shipwrecked  carpenter,  cast  25  hour  by  the  unfailing  yet  otherwise  meteoric 
away  upon  the  desert  island  of  a  school,  and  apparition  of  the  pea-green  Tally-ho  or  the 
carrying  into  practice  an  ingenious  inkling  of  yellow  Independent;  and  elderly  gentlemen 
many  trades.  He  mended  whatever  was  in  pony  chaises,  quartering^  nervously  to  make 
broken,  and  made  whatever  was  wanted.  He  way  for  the  roUing,  swinging  swiftness,  had 
was  general  glazier,  among  other  things,  and  30  not  yet  ceased  to  remark  that  times  were 
mended  all  the  broken  windows — at  the  prime  finely  changed  since  they  used  to  see  the  pack- 
cost  (as  was  darkly  rumoured  among  us)  of  horses  and  hear  the  tinkling  of  their  bells  on 
ninepence,  for  every  square  charged  three-and-      this  very  highway. 

six  to  parents.    We  had  a  high  opinion  of  his  In  those  days  there  were  pocket-boroughs,* 

mechanical  genius,  and  generally  held  that  35  a  Birmingham  unrepresented  in  Parliament  and 
the  Chief  "knew  something  bad  of  him,"  and  compelled  to  make  strong  representations  out 
on  pain  of  divulgence  forced  Phil  to  be  his  of  it,  unrepealed  corn-laws,^  three-and-sixpenny 
bondsman.  We  particularly  remember  that  letters,^  a  brawny  and  many-breeding  pau- 
Phil  had  a  sovereign  contempt  for  learning:  perism,  and  other  departed  evils;  but  there 
which  engenders  in  us  a  respect  for  his  sagacity,  40  were  some  pleasant  things,  too,  which  have 
as  it  implies  his  accurate  observation  of  the  also  departed.  Non  omnia  grandior  cetas  quae 
relative  positions  of  the  Chief  and  the  ushers,  fugiamus  habet,^  says  the  wise  goddess:  you 
He  was  an  impenetrable  man,  who  waited  at  have  not  the  best  of  it  in  all  things,  oh  young- 
table  between  whiles,  and  throughout  "the  eters!  the  elderly  man  has  his  enviable  mem- 
half"  kept  th3  boxes  in  severe  custody.  He45ories,  and  not  the  least  of  them  is  the  memory 
was  morose  even  to  the  Chief,  and  never  smiled,  of  a  long  journey  in  midspring  or  autumn  on 
except  at  breaking-up,  when  in  acknowledge-  the  outside  of  a  stage-coach.  Posterity  may  j 
ment  to  the  toast,  "Success  to  Phil!  Hooray!"  be  shot,  hke  a  bullet,  through  a  tube,  by  at-  j 
he  would  slowly  carve  a  grin  out  of  his  wooden  mospheric  pressure  from  Winchester  to  New-  | 
face,  where  it  would  remain  until  we  were  all  50  castle:  that  is  a  fine  result  to  have  among  our   | 

gone.      Nevertheless,    one  time,   when   we  had  i  i.  e.  about  1830,  when  travel  by  the  railway  had  but 

the  scarlet  fever  in  the  school,  Phil  nursed  all      ^"?y  ^^^°;  57g  ^^  3 

the  sick  boys  of  his  own  accord,  and  was  like  3  a 'borough  controlled  by  one  man,  which,  as  it  were- 

a  mother  to  them.     There  was  another  school       ^^  carried  in  his  pocket.    There  were  many  of  them,  and 
,   „  ~  ,     .  ,       ,  1 J  1  many  important  places  hke  Birmingham  that  were  unrep- 

not  far  off,  and  of  course  our  school  could  nave  55  resented  before  the  enactment  of  the  Reform  Bill  in  1832.  •  \  | 

nothing  to  say  to  that  school.    It  is  mostly  the         \y-^^f\^^^\^-'^-;      ,  ^u       -  n-  a-  i) 

°  -  ~      ,  1     , ,  (.   1  0 1.  e.  at  that  time  it  cost  three  snillings  and  six  pence   'j1 

way  with  schools,  whether  of  boys  or  men.      to  send  a  letter. 

Well!  the  railway  has  swallowed  up  ours,  and  the         '  The  older  time  does  not  hold  all  those  things  which 

,  .  *'  .  1  1  -i         r  w^  naturally  avoid.     1  he  passage  is  from  Ovid  s  Meta- 

locomotives  now  run  smoothly  over  its  asnes.  morphoses,  and  the  "  wise  goddess  "  is  Minerva. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  719 

hopes;  but  the  slow,  old-fashioned  way  of  blossomed,  ruby-berried  night-shade^  oi  the 
getting  from  one  end  of  our  country  to  the  wild  convolvulus  climbing  and  spreadmg  in 
other  is  the  better  thmg  to  have  in  the  memory,  tendrilled  strength  till  it  made  a  great  curtain 
1  he  tube-journey  can  never  lend  much  of  a  of  pale-green  hearts  and  white  trumpets,  of 
picture  and  narrative;  it  is  as  barren  as  an  5  the  many-tubed  honeysuckle,  which,  in  its 
exclamatory  O!  Whereas  the  happy  outside  most  delicate  fragrance,  hid  a  charge  more 
passenger  seated  on  the  box  from  the  dawn  subtle  and  penetrating  than  beauty.  Even  if 
to  the  gloaming  gathered  enough  stories  of  it  were  winter  the  hedgerows  showed  their 
English  life,  enough  of  English  labors  in  town  coral,  the  scarlet  haws,  the  deep-crimson  hips,i» 
and  country,  enough  aspects  of  earth  and  sky,  lo  with  lingering  brown  leaves  to  make  a  resting 
to  make  episodes  for  a  modern  Odyssey.  Sup-  place  for  the  jewels  of  the  hoar-frost.  Such 
pose  only  that  his  journey  took  him  through  hedgerows  were  often  as  tall  as  the  laborers' 
that  central  plain,^  watered  at  one  extremity  cottages  dotted  along  the  lanes,  or  clustered 
by  the  Avon,  at  the  other  by  the  Trent.  As  into  a  small  hamlet,  their  Uttle  dingy  windows 
the  morning  silvered  the  meadows  with  their  15  telling,  hke  thick-filmed  eyes,  of  nothing  but 
long  lines  of  bushy  willows  marking  the  water-  the  darkness  within.  The  passenger  on  the 
courses,  or  burnished  the  golden  corn-ricks  coach-box,  bowled  along  above  such  a  hamlet, 
clustered  near  the  long  roofs  of  some  midland  saw  chiefly  the  roofs  of  it:  probably  it  turned 
homestead,  he  saw  the  full-uddered  cows  its  back  on  the  road,  and  seemed  to  He  away 
driven  from  their  early  pasture  to  the  milking.  20  from  everything  but  its  own  patch  of  earth 
Perhaps  it  was  the  shepherd,  head-servant  of  and  sky,  away  from  the  parish  church  by  long 
the  farm,  who  drove  them,  his  sheep-dog  fol-  fields  and  green  lanes,  away  from  all  intercourse 
lowing  with  a  heedless,  unofficial  air  as  of  a  except  that  of  tramps.  If  its  face  could  be 
beadle  in  undress.  The  shepherd  with  a  slow  seen  it  was  most  likely  dirty;  but  the  dirt  was 
and  slouching  walk,  timed  by  the  walk  of  25  Protestant  dirt,  and  the  big,  bold,  gin-breathing 
grazing  beasts,  moved  aside,  as  if  unwillingly,  tramps  were  Protestant  tramps.  There  was 
throwing  out  a  monosyllabic  hint  to  his  cattle;  no  sign  of  superstition  near,  no  crucifix  or  image 
his  glance,  accustomed  to  rest  on  things  very  near  to  indicate  a  misguided  reverence:  the 
near  the  earth,  seemed  to  lift  itself  with  dif-  inhabitants  were  probably  so  free  from  super- 
ficulty  to  the  coachman.  Mail  or  stage  coach  30  stition  that  they  were  in  much  less  awe  of 
for  him  belonged  to  that  mysterious  distant  the  parson  than  of  the  overseer.  Yet  they 
system  of  things  called  "Gover'ment,"  which,  were  saved  from  the  excesses  of  Protestantism 
whatever  it  might  be,  was  no  business  of  his,  by  not  knowing  how  to  read,  and  by  the  ab- 
any  more  than  the  most  outlying  nebula  or  the  sence  of  hand-looms  and  mines  to  be  the 
coal-sacks  of  the  southern  hemisphere;  his  35  pioneers  of  Dissent,  they  were  kept  safely  in 
solar  system  was  the  parish;  the  master's  the  via  media}^  of  indifference,  and  could  have 
temper  and  the  casualties  of  lambing-time  were  registered  themselves  in  the  census  by  a  big 
his  region  of  storms.  He  cut  his  bread  and  ba-  black  mark  as  members  of  the  Church  of 
con  with  his  pocket-knife,  and  felt  no  bitterness      England. 

except  in  the  matter  of  pauper  laborers  and  40  But  there  were  trim  cheerful  villages,  too, 
the  bad  luck  that  sent  contrarious  seasons  and  with  a  neat  or  handsome  paruonage  and  grey 
the  sheep-rot.  He  and  his  cows  were  soon  left  church  set  in  the  midst;  there  was  the  pleasant 
behind,  and  the  homestead  too,  with  its  pond  tinkle  of  the  blacksmith's  anvil,  the  patient 
overhung  by  elder-trees,  its  untidy  kitchen-  cart-horses  waiting  at  his  door;  the  basket- 
garden  and  cone-shaped  yew-tree  arbor.  But  45  maker  peeling  his  willow  wands  in  the  sunshine ; 
everywhere  the  bushy  hedgerows  wasted  the  the  wheelwright  putting  the  last  touch  to  a  blue 
land  with  their  straggling  beauty,  shrouded  the  cart  with  red  wheels;  here  and  there  a  cottage 
grassy  borders  of  the  pastures  with  cat-kined^  with  bright,  transparent  windows  showing 
hazels,  and  tossed  their  long  blackberry  pots  full  of  blooming  balsams  or  geraniums, 
branches  on  the  corn-fields.  Perhaps  they  50  and  little  gardens  in  front,  all  double-daisies  or 
were  white  with  May,^  or  starred  with  pale-  dark  wall-flowers;  at  the  well  clean  and  comely 
pink  dog-roses;  perhaps  the  urchins  were  women  carrying  yoked  buckets,  and  toward 
already  nutting  among  them,  or  gathering  the  the  free-school  small  Britons  dawdling  on,  and 
plenteous  crabs.  It  was  worth  the  journey  handling  their  marbles  in  the  pockets  of  un- 
only  to  see  those  hedgerows,  the  liberal  homes  55  patched  corduroys  adorned  with  brass  buttons. 
of     unmarketable     beauty — of     the     purple-      The  land  round  was  rich  and  marly ;^2  great 

^  i.  e.  through   the   heart  of   England  the  Midlands,  w  Haws,  the  fruit  of  the  hawthorne,  and  hips,  the  fruit 

including  Warwickshire,  the  county  of  Shakespeare  and  of  the  rose.                                            "  The  middle  way. 

George  Eliot.  '"  A  soil  rich  in  the  mixture  of  calcium  carbonate,  clay, 

'  Catkin.                                                  *  Hawthorne.  and  sand. 


720  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

corn-stacks  stood  in  the  rick-yards — for  the  over  all  the  surrounding  country,  filling  the 
rick-burners^^  had  not  found  their  way  hither;  air  with  eager  unrest.  Here  was  a  population 
the  homesteads  were  those  of  rich  farmers  who  not  convinced  that  old  England  was  as  good 
paid  no  rent,  or  had  the  rare  advantage  of  a  as  possible;  here  were  multitudinous  men  and 
lease,  and  could  afford  to  keep  their  corn  till  5  women  aware  that  their  religion  was  not  ex- 
prices  had  risen.  The  coach  would  be  sure  to  actly  the  religion  of  their  rulers,  who  might 
overtake  some  of  them  on  their  way  to  their  therefore  be  better  than  they  were,  and  who,  if 
outlying  fields  or  to  the  market  town,  sitting  better,  might  alter  many  things  which  now 
heavily  on  their  well-groomed  horses,  or  weigh-  made  the  world  perhaps  more  painful  than 
ing  down  one  side  of  an  olive-green  gig.  They  lo  it  need  be,  and  certainly  more  sinful.  Yet 
probably  thought  of  the  coach  with  some  con-  there  were  the  grey  steeples,  too,  and  the 
tempt,  as  an  accommodation  for  people  who  church-yards,  with  their  grassy  mounds  and 
had  not  their  own  gigs,  or  who,  wanting  to  venerable  head-stones,  sleeping  in  the  sunlight; 
travel  to  London  or  such  distant  parts,  be-  there  were  broad  fields  and  homesteads,  and 
longed  to  the  trading  and  less  solid  part  of  the  15  fine  old  woods  covering  a  rising  ground,  or 
nation.  The  passenger  on  the  box  could  see  stretching  far  by  the  road-side,  and  allowing 
that  this  was  the  district  of  protuberant  opti-  only  peeps  at  the  park  and  mansion  which 
mists,  sure  that  old  England  was  the  best  of  all  they  shut  in  from  the  working-day  world.  In 
countries,  and  that  if  there  were  any  facts  these  midland  districts  the  traveller  passed 
that  had  not  fallen  under  their  own  observa- 20  rapidly  from  one  phase  of  English  life  to  an- 
tion,  they  were  facts  not  worth  observing:  the  other;  after  looking  down  on  a  village  dingy 
district  of  clean  little  market  towns  without  with  coal-dust,  noisy  with  the  shaking  of  looms, 
manufactures,  of  fat  livings,  an  aristocratic  he  might  skirt  a  parish  all  of  fields,  high  hedges, 
clergy,  and  low  poor-rates.  But  as  the  day  and  deep-rutted  lanes;  after  the  coach  had  rat- 
wore  on  the  scene  would  change;  the  land  25  tied  over  the  pavement  of  a  manufacturing 
would  begin  to  be  blackened  with  coal-pits,  towTi,  the  scene  of  riots  and  trades-union 
the  rattle  of  hand-looms  to  be  heard  in  hamlets  meetings,  it  would  take  him  in  another  ten 
and  villages.  Here  were  powerful  men  walk-  minutes  into  a  rural  region,  where  the  neigh- 
ing queerly  with  knees  bent  outward  from  borhood  of  the  town  was  only  felt  in  the  ad- 
squatting  in  the  mine,  going  home  to  throw  30  vantages  of  a  near  market  for  corn,  cheese, 
themselves  down  in  their  blackened  flannel  and  and  hay,  and  where  men  with  a  considerable 
sleep  through  the  daylight,  then  rise  and  spend  banking  account  were  accustomed  to  say  that 
much  of  their  high  wages  at  the  ale-house  with  ''they  never  meddled  with  politics  themselves." 
their  fellows  of  the  Benefit  club;  here  the  pale.  The  busy  scenes  of  the  shuttle  and  the  wheel, 
eager  faces  of  hand-loom  weavers,  men  and  35  of  the  roaring  furnace,  of  the  shaft  and  the 
women,  haggard  from  sitting  up  late  at  night  pulley,  seemed  to  make  but  crowded  nests  in 
to  finish  the  week's  work,  hardly  begun  till  the  midst  of  the  large-spaced,  slow-moving  life 
the  Wednesday.  Everywhere  the  cottagers  of  homesteads  and  far-away  cottages  and 
and  the  small  children  were  dirty,  for  the  oak-sheltered  parks.  Looking  at  the  dwellings 
languid  mothers  gave  their  strength  to  the  40  scattered  among  the  woody  flats  and  the 
loom — pious  Dissenting  women,  perhaps,  who  ploughed  uplands,  under  the  low  grey  sky 
took  fife  patiently,  and  thought  that  salvation  which  overhung  them  with  an  unchanging  still- 
depended  chiefly  on  predestination,  and  not  ness  as  if  Time  itself  were  pausing,  it  was  easy 
at  all  on  cleanliness.  The  gables  of  Dissenting  for  the  traveller  to  conceive  that  town  and 
chapels  now  made  a  visible  sign  of  religion,  45  country  had  no  pulse  in  common,  except  where 
and  of  a  meeting-place  to  counter-balance  the  the  hand-looms  made  a  far-reaching,  strag- 
ale-house,  even  in  the  hamlets;  but  if  a  couple  gling  fringe  about  the  great  centres  of  manu- 
of  old  termagants  were  seen  tearing  each  other's  facture;  that  till  the  agitation  about  the  Cath- 
caps,  it  was  a  safe  conclusion  that,  if  they  had  olics  in  '29,^^  rural  Englishmen  had  hardly 
not  received  the  sacraments  of  the  Church,  50  known  more  of  Catholics  than  of  the  fossil 
they  had  not  at  least  given  in  to  schismatic  mammals;  and  that  their  notion  of  Reform 
rites,  and  were  free  from  the  errors  of  Volun-  was  a  confused  combination  of  rick-burners, 
taryism.i*    The  breath  of  the  manufacturing      trades-unions,     Nottingham    riots, ^^    and    in 

town,  which  made  a  cloudy  day  and  a  red         ,,  ..^  u     -4.  *•        t>  n  *u  r    v>  r  e  nn    . 

,       '    ,  .   -^  ,,      ,       .-^  ,.«.        J  ..     ,.  15  After  much  agitation  a  Roman  Catholic  Relief  Bill  ij 

gloom  by  night  on  the  horizon,  dlftusea  itself  55  was  passed  in  I829.  removing  many  of  the  restrictions    \* 

from  Roman  Catholics,  and  making  it  possible  for  them     'jj 
13  During  the  autumn  of  1830,  especially  in  the  south-       to  sit  in  Parliament.  '1 

em  counties  of  England,  certain  malcontents  instituted  '^  a  reference  to  the  popular  agitation  that  arose  when 

a  reign  of  terror  by  setting  fire  to  the  hay-ricks.  the  House  of  Lords  registered  the  Reform  Bill  in  1832. 

1*  The  system  of  those  who  believe  in  the  separation  of       Nottingham  was  one  of  the  important  centres  that  was 
Church  and  State.  without  representation. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  721 

general  whatever  required  the  calling  out  of  into  the  abyss.  Still  he  would  soon  relapse 
the  yeomanry.  It  was  still  easier  to  see  that,  from  the  high  prophetic  strain  to  the  familiar 
for  the  most  part,  they  resisted  the  rotation  one  of  narrative.  He  knew  whose  the  land 
of  crops  and  stood  by  their  fallows:  and  the  was  wherever  he  drove;  what  noblemen  had 
coachman  would  perhaps  tell  how  in  one  parish  5  half  ruined  themselves  by  gambling;  who 
an  innovating  farmer,  who  talked  of  Sir  Hum-  made  handsome  returns  of  rent;  and  who  was 
phrey  Davy,!^  had  been  fairly  driven  out  by  at  daggers-drawn  with  his  eldest  son.  He  per- 
popular  dislike,  as  if  he  had  been  a  confounded  haps  remembered  the  fathers  of  actual  baron- 
Radical;  and  how,  the  parson  having  one  ets,  and  knew  stories  of  their  extravagant  oi 
Sunday  preached  from  the  words  "Plough  up  10 stingy  housekeeping;  whom  they  had  married, 
the  fallow  ground  of  your  hearts,  "^^  the  people  whom  they  had  horsewhipped,  whether  they 
thought  he  had  made  the  text  out  of  his  own  were  particular  about  preserving  their  game, 
head,  otherwise  it  would  never  have  come  and  whether  they  had  had  much  to  do  with 
"so  pat"  on  a  matter  of  business;  but  when  canal  companies.  About  any  actual  landed 
they  found  it  in  the  Bible  at  home,  some  said  is  proprietor  he  could  also  tell  whether  he  was  a 
it  was  an  argument  for  fallows  (else  why  should  Reformer  or  an  Anti-Reformer.  That  was  a 
the  Bible  mention  fallows?),  but  a  few  of  the  distinction  which  had  "turned  up"  in  later 
weaker  sort  were  shaken,  and  thought  it  was  times,  and  along  with  it  the  paradox,  very 
an  argument  that  fallows  should  be  done  away  puzzling  to  the  coachman's  mind,  that  there 
with,  else  the  Bible  would  have  said,  "  Let  your  20  were  men  of  old  family  and  large  estate  who 
hearts  lie  fallow;"  and  the  next  morning  the  had  voted  for  the  Bill. 2'  He  did  not  grapple 
parson  had  a  stroke  of  apoplexy,  which,  as  with  the  paradox;  he  let  it  pass,  with  all  the 
coincident  with  a  dispute  about  fallows,  so  discreetness  of  an  experienced  theologian  or 
set  the  parish  against  the  innovating  farmer  learned  scholiast,  preferring  to  point  his  whip 
and  the  rotation  of  crops,  that  he  could  stand  25  at  some  object  which  could  raise  no  questions, 
his  ground  no  longer,  and  transferred  his  lease. 

The  coachman  was  an  excellent  travelling 
companion  and  commentator  on  the  landscape;  3l9^^^^   3tntl)0n^   jFtOUDt 

he  could  tell  the  name  of  sites  and  persons,  and  i«iS_iaQ4 

explain  the  meaning  of  groups,  as  well  as  the  30  I5ls-l»y4 

shade  of  Virgil  in  a  more  memorable  journey;i9  MARY    OTTFFN 

he  had  as  many  stories  about  parishes,  and  THE  EXECUTION  OF  MARY  QUEEN 
the  men  and  women  in  them,  as  the  Wanderer  ^^    bOUlfe 

in  the  "Excursion,"2o  only  his  style  was  dif-      ^-p^.^^  History  of  England  from  the  faU  of  WoU 
ferent.    His  views  of  life  had  origmally  been  35   ^^y  ^^  ^/^^  ^^y^^^  ^f  i^e  Armada,  1856-1870) 
genial,  and  such  as  became  a  man  who  was 

well-warmed  within  and  without,  and  held  a  The  blow^  when  it  came  at  last,  therefore 
position  of  easy,  undisputed  authority;  but  came  suddenly.  Beale  rode  hard — for  unless, 
the  recent  initiation  of  Railways  had  embit-  which  is  unlikely,  he  trusted  the  letter  to  Kent 
tered  him:  he  now,  as  in  a  perpetual  vision,  40  to  a  second  hand  he  called  at  Wrest  on  his 
saw  the  ruined  country  strewn  with  shattered  way  down — and  he  arrived  at  Fotheringay 
limbs,  and  regarded  Mr.  Huskisson's  deatn"  on  Sunday  evening.  The  purpose  of  his  com- 
as a  proof  of  God's  anger  against  Stephenson. 22  ing  was  not  made  known  in  the  castle.  Early 
"Why,  every  inn  on  the  road  would  be  shut  on  Monday  he  went  in  search  of  Lord  Shrews- 
up!"  and  at  that  word  the  coachman  looked  45  bury,  while  a  message  was  dispatched  to  the 
before  him  with  the  blank  gaze  of  one  who  Sheriff  of  Northamptonshire,  to  be  in  attend- 
had  driven  his  coach  to  the  outermost  edge  ance  on  Wednesday  morning.  On  Monday 
of  the  universe,  and  saw  his  leaders  plunging     evening  the  Earl  of  Kent  came.    Shrewsbury 

appeared  on  Tuesday  before  noon,  and  when 

"  A  great  chemist.    He  lectured  and  wrote  much  on  59  the  early  castle  dinner  was  over,  they  sent  a 
T.ti^VsSI^S''l'^\^^^^"'T^M-,tii^     servant  to  the  Queen  of  Scots  with  a  request 

farmers  who  believed  in  the  rotation  of  crops  were  op-       ^q  j^g  admitted  to  her  presence, 
posed  to  these  new  ideas.  23  The  Reform  Bill 

^Wordsworth's  Doemo   that  name.  from  the  Scottish  throne,,  had  taken  refuge  m  England 

-S^?;SmH«sltW  was  a  prominent  public  official.  in  1568     She  ^eoame  a  prisoner  of  State  and  was  p^^ 

who  died  frominiuries  received  at  the  opemng  of  the  under^he  --  f/^.S^^iX"  Babfn^^^^  plot   oTssSfin"a?e 

^'""^^TeXTL^'^'^hel^v^^^^^^     the  famous  locomo-  Sn  ElizTeth  a^d^ to  usurp   fhe   throne.     She  was 

tive  fhe  ''Socket"  and  wis  the  engineer  who  built  the  tried  at  Fotheringay  Castle  near  Peterborough  and  con- 

Liverpool  and  Manchester  railway.  demned  to  death. 


722  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

Shrewsbury  had  not  seen  her  since  she  had  as  anxious  that  her  execution  should  wear  its 
passed  from  under  his  charge.  He  had  not  real  character  as  she  was  herself  determined  to 
been  on  the  Commission  w^hich  tried  her;  ill-  convert  it  into  a  martyrdom,  refused,  perhaps 
ness  had  prevented  him  from  attending  the  unwisely,  to  allow  him  access  to  her,  and  of- 
last  Parliament,  and  he  had  taken  no  public  5  fered  her  again  the  assistance  of  an  Anglican 
part  in  the  prosecution ;  and  although  he  had  Dean.  They  gave  her  an  advantage  over  them 
signified  privately  as  his  personal  opinion  that  which  she  did  not  fail  to  use.  She  would  not 
her  death  was  necessary,  it  could  not  have  been  let  the  Dean  come  near  her.  She  sent  a  note 
without  emotion  that  he  was  once  more  brought  to  the  chaplain  telling  him  that  she  had  meant 
into  a  brief  relation  with  her  in  so  terrible  a  10  to  receive  the  sacrament,  but  as  it  might  not 
form.  Kent  was  an  austere  Puritan,  to  whom  be  she  must  content  herself  with  a  general 
she  was  merely  a  wicked  woman  overtaken  confession.  She  bade  him  watch  through  the 
at  last  by  the  punishment  which  she  had  too  night  and  pray  for  her.  In  the  morning  when 
long  deserved  and  escaped.  she  was  brought  out  she  might  perhaps  see 

Briefly,  solemnly,  and  sternly  they  de- 15  him,  and  receive  his  blessing  on  her  knees, 
livered  their  awful  message.  They  informed  She  supped  cheerfully,  giving  her  last  meal 
her  that  they  had  received  a  commission  under  with  her  attendants  a  character  of  sacred  part- 
the  great  seal  to  see  her  executed,  and  she  was  ing;  afterwards  she  drew  aside  her  apothecary, 
told  that  she  must  prepare  to  suffer  on  the  M.  Gorion,  and  asked  him  if  she  might  depend 
following  morning.  20  upon  his  fidelity :  when  he  satisfied  her  that 

She  was  dreadfully  agitated.  For  a  moment  she  might  trust  him,  she  said  she  had  a  letter 
she  refused  to  believe  them.  Then,  as  the  and  two  diamonds  which  she  wished  to  send 
truth  forced  itself  upon  her,  tossing  her  head  to  Mendoza.^  He  undertook  to  melt  some  drug 
in  disdain  and  struggling  to  control  herself,  and  conceal  them  in  it  where  they  would  never 
she  called  her  physician  and  began  to  speak  to  25  be  looked  for,  and  promised  to  deliver  them 
him  of  money  that  was  owed  to  her  in  France,  faithfully.  One  of  the  jewels  was  for  Mendoza 
At  last  it  seems  that  she  broke  down  altogether,  himself;  the  other  and  the  largest  was  for 
and  they  left  her  with  a  fear  either  that  she  Philip.^  It  was  to  be  a  sign  that  she  was  dying 
would  destroy  herself  in  the  night,  or  that  she  for  the  truth,  and  was  meant  also  to  bespeak 
would  refuse  to  come  to  the  scaffold,  and  that  30  his  care  for  her  friends  and  servants.  Every 
it  might  be  necessary  to  drag  her  there  by  one  of  them  so  far  as  she  was  able,  without 
violence.  forgetting    a   name,    she    commended   to   his 

The  end  had  come.  She  had  long  professed  liberality.  Arundel,  Paget,  Morgan,  the  Arch- 
to  expect  it,  but  the  clearest  expectation  is  bishop  of  Glasgow,  Westmorland,  Throgmor- 
not  certainty.  The  scene  for  which  she  had  35  ton,  The  Bishop  of  Ross,  her  two  secretaries, 
affected  to  prepare  she  was  to  encounter  in  the  ladies  who  had  shared  the  trials  of  her  im- 
its  dread  reality,  and  all  her  busy  schemes,  her  prisonment,  she  remembered  them  all,  and 
dreams  of  vengeance,  her  visions  of  a  revolu-  specified  the  sums  which  she  desired  Philip 
tion,  with  herself  ascending  out  of  the  con-  to  bestow  on  them.  And  as  Mary  Stuart  then 
vulsion  and  seating  herself  on  her  rival's  40  and  throughout  her  life  never  lacked  gratitude 
throne — all  were  gone.  She  had  played  deep,  to  those  who  had  been  true  to  her,  so  then  as 
and  the  dice  had  gone  against  her.  always  she  remembered  her  enemies.     There 

Yet  in  death,  if  she  encountered  it  bravely,  was  no  cant  about  her,  no  unreal  talk  of 
victory  was  still  possible.  Could  she  but  sus-  forgiveness  of  injuries.  She  bade  Gorion  tell 
tain  to  the  last  the  character  of  a  calumniated  45  Philip  it  was  her  last  prayer  that  he  should 
suppliant  accepting  heroically  for  God's  sake  persevere,  notwithstanding  her  death,  in  the 
and  her  creed's  the  concluding  stroke  of  a  long  invasion  of  England.  It  was  God's  quarrel, 
series  of  wrongs,  she  might  stir  a  tempest  of  she  said,  and  worthy  of  his  greatness:  and  as 
indignation  which,  if  it  could  not  save  herself,  soon  as  he  had  conquered  it,  she  desired  him 
might  at  least  overwhelm  her  enemy.  Per- 50  not  to  forget  how  she  had  been  treated  by 
sisting,  as  she  persisted  to  the  last,  in  denying  Cecil,  and  Leicester,  and  Walsingham;  by 
all  knowledge  of  Babington,  it  would  be  affec-  Lord  Huntingdon,  who  had  ill-used  her  fifteen 
tation  to  credit  her  with  a  genuine  feeling  of  years  before  at  Tutbury;  by  Sir  Amyas  Paulet, 
religion;  but  the  imperfection  of  her  motive      and  Secretary  Wade. 

exalts  the  greatness  of  her  fortitude.     To  an  55     Her  last  night  was  a  busy  one.    As  she  said 
impassioned  believer  death  is  comparatively      herself  there  was  much  to  be  done  and  the 

easy.  2  The  Spanish  ambassador  to  England,  who  by  reason 

Her  chaplain  was  lodged  in  a  separate  part      °^^^?  i"*''i^"S^K^^^i°^V^?^  government,  had  be«i  sent 

-     ,  fi         mi       /-.  •     •  1  out  of  England  by  Ehzabeth  m  1584. 

of  the  castle.    The  Commissioners,  who  were         a  phUip  ii,  King  of  Spain  (1556  -1598). 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  723 

time  was  short.  A  few  lines  to  the  King  of  said,  "would  never  deny  her  so  slight  a  re- 
Jbrance  were  dated  two  hours  after  midnight,  quest,"  and  when  Kent  still  hesitated,  she 
They  were  to  msist  for  the  last  time  that  she  added  with  tears,  "You  know  I  am  cousin  to 
was  mnocent  of  the  conspiracy,  that  she  was  your  Queen,  of  the  blood  of  Henry  the  Seventh, 
dymg  for  religion,  and  for  having  asserted  her  5  a  married  Queen  of  France,  and  anointed 
right  to  the  crown;  and  to  beg  that  out  of  the      Queen  of  Scotland." 

sum  which  he  owed  her,  her  servants'  wages  It  was  impossible  to  refuse.  She  was  al- 
might  be  paid,  and  masses  provided  for  her  lowed  to  take  six  of  her  own  people  with  her, 
soul.  After  this  she  slept  for  three  or  four  and  select  them  herself.  She  chose  her  physi- 
hours,  and  then  rose  and  with  the  most  elabor-  lo  cian  Burgoyne,  Andrew  Melville,  the  apothe- 
ate  care  prepared  to  encounter  the  end.  cary  Gorion,  and  her  surgeon,  with  two  ladies, 

At  eight  in  the  morning  the  Provost-marshal  Elizabeth  Kennedy  and  Curie's  young  wife 
knocked  at  the  outer  door  which  communicated  Barbara  Mowbray,  whose  child  she  had  bap- 
with  her  suite  of  apartments.     It  was  locked      tised. 

and  no  one  answered,  and  he  went  back  in  15  "AUons  done,"  she  then  said— "Let  us  go," 
some  trepidation  lest  the  fears  might  prove  and  passing  out  atterided  by  the  Earls,  and 
true  which  had  been  entertained  the  preceding  leaning  on  the  arm  of  an  officer  of  the  guard, 
evening.  On  his  returning  with  the  Sheriff,  she  descended  the  great  staircase  to  the  hall, 
however,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  door  was  The  news  had  spread  far  through  the  country, 
open,  and  they  were  confronted  with  the  tall  20  Thousands  of  people  were  collected  outside 
majestic  figure  of  Mary  Stuart  standing  before  the  walls.  About  three  hundred  knights  and 
them  in  splendour.  The  plain  grey  dress  had  gentlemen  of  the  county  had  been  admitted 
been  exchanged  for  a  robe  of  black  satin;  her  to  witness  the  execution.  The  tables  and  forms 
jacket  was  of  black  satin  also,  looped  and  had  been  removed,  and  a  great  wood  fire  was 
slashed  and  trimmed  with  velvet.  Her  false  25  blazing  in  the  chimney.  At  the  upper  end  of 
hair  was  arranged  studiously  with  a  coif,  and  the  hall,  above  the  fire-place,  but  near  it,  stood 
over  her  head  and  falling  down  over  her  back  the  scaffold,  twelve  feet  square  and  two  feet 
was  a  white  veil  of  delicate  lawn.  A  crucifix  of  and  a  half  high.  It  was  covered  with  black 
gold  hung  from  her  neck.  In  her  hand  she  cloth;  a  low  rail  ran  round  it  covered  with 
held  a  crucifix  of  ivory,  and  a  number  of  30  black  cloth  also,  and  the  Sheriff's  guard  of 
jewelled  Paternosters  was  attached  to  her  gir-  halberdiers  were  ranged  on  the  floor  below  on 
die.  Led  by  two  of  Paulet's  gentlemen,  the  the  four  sides  to  keep  off  the  crowd.  On  the 
Sheriff  walking  before  her,  she  passed  to  the  scaffold  was  the  block,  black  like  the  rest;  a 
chamber  of  presence  in  which  she  had  been  square  black  cushion  was  placed  behind  it,  and 
tried,  where  Shrewsbury,  Kent,  Paulet,  Drury  35  behind  the  cushion  a  black  chair;  on  the  right 
and  others  were  waiting  to  receive  her.  Andrew  were  two  other  chairs  for  the  Earls.  The  axe 
Melville,  Sir  Robert's  brother,  who  had  been  leant  against  the  rail,  and  two  m^ked  figures 
master  of  her  household,  was  kneeling  in  tears,  stood  like  mutes  on  either  side  at  the  back. 
"Melville,"  she  said,  "you  should  rather  re-  The  Queen  of  Scots  as  she  swept  in  seemed  as 
joice  than  weep  that  the  end  of  my  troubles  40  if  coming  to  take  a  part  in  some  solemn  pa- 
is come.  Tell  my  friends  I  die  a  true  Catholic,  geant.  Not  a  muscle  of  her  face  could  be 
Commend  me  to  my  son.  Tell  him  I  have  done  seen  to  quiver;  she  ascended  the  scaffold  with 
nothing  to  prejudice  his  kingdom  of  Scotland,  absolute  composure,  looked  round  her  smiling, 
and  so,  good  Melville,  farewell."  She  kissed  and  sate  down.  Shrewsbury  and  Kent  fol- 
him,  and  turning  asked  for  her  chaplain  Du  45  lowed  and  took  their  places,  the  Sheriff  stood  at 
Preau.  He  was  not  present.  There  had  been  her  left  hand,  and  Beale  then  mounted  a  plat- 
a  fear  of  some  religious  melodrama  which  it  form  and  read  the  warrant  aloud. 
was  thought  well  to  avoid.     Her  ladies,  who  In  all  the  assembly  Mary  Stuart  appeared 

had  attempted  to  follow  her,  had  been  kept      the  person  least  interested  in  the  words  which 
back  also.    She  could  not  afford  to  leave  the  50  were  consigning  her  to  death, 
account  of  her  death  to  be  reported  by  enemies  "Madam,"  said  Lord  Shrewsbury  to  her, 

and  Puritans,  and  she  required  assistance  for      when  the  reading  was  ended,  "you  hear  what 
the  scene  which  she  meditated.    Missing  them      we  are  commanded  to  do." 
she  asked  the  reason  of  their  absence,   and  "You  will  do  your  duty,"  she  answered,  and 

said  she  wished  them  to  see  her  die.     Kent  55  rose  as  if  to  kneel  and  pray, 
said  he  feared  they  might  scream  or  faint,  or         The  Dean  of  Peterborough,   Dr.  Fletcher, 
attempt  perhaps  to  dip  their  handkerchiefs  in      approached  the  rail.     "Madam,"  he^began, 
her  blood.    She  undertook  that  they  should      with  a  low  obeisance,  "the  Queen's  most  ex- 
be  quiet  and  obedient.     "The  Queen/.'  she      cellent  Majesty;"  "Madam,  the  Queen's  most 


724  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

excellent  Majesty" — thrice  he  commenced  his  never  had  such  grooms  waiting  on  me  before." 
sentence,  wanting  words  to  pursue  it.  When  Her  ladies  were  allowed  to  come  up  upon  the 
he  repeated  the  words  a  fourth  time,  she  cut  scafifold  to  assist  her;  for  the  work  to  be  done 
him  short.  was  considerable,  and  had  been  prepared  with 

"Mr.  Dean,"  she  said,  "I  am  a  Catholic,  5 no  common  thought, 
and  must  die  a  Catholic.    It  is  useless  to  at-         She  laid  her  crucijSx  on  her  chair.    The  chief 
tempt  to  move  me,  and  your  prayers  will  avail     executioner  took  it  as  a  perquisite;  but  was 
me  but  little."  ordered  instantly  to  lay  it  down.    The  lawn 

"  Change  your  opinion,  Madam,"  he  cried,  veil  was  lifted  carefully  off,  not  to  disturb  the 
his  tongue  being  loosed  at  last;  "repent  of  your  lo  hair,  and  was  hung  upon  the  rail.  The  black 
sins,  settle  your  faith  in  Christ,  by  Him  to  be  robe  was  next  removed.  Below  it  was  a  petti- 
saved."  coat  of  crimson  velvet.    The  black  jacket  fol- 

*' Trouble  not  yourseK  further,  Mr.  Dean,"  lowed,  and  under  the  jacket,  was  a  body  of 
she  answered;  "I  am  settled  in  my  own  faith,  crimson  satin.  One  of  her  ladies  handed  her 
for  which  I  mean  to  shed  my  blood."  15  a  pair  of   crimson   sleeves,   with   which  she 

"I  am  sorry,  Madarh,"  said  Shrewsbury,  hastily  covered  her  arms;  and  thus  she  stood 
"to  see  you  so  addicted  to  Popery."  on  the  black  scaffold  with  the  black  figures  all 

"That  image  of  Christ  you  hold  there,"      around  her,  blood-red  from  head  to  foot, 
said  Kent,  "will  not  profit  you  if  he  be  not         Her  reasons  for  adopting  so  extraordinary  a 
engraved  in  your  heart."  20  costume  must  be  left  to  conjecture.     It  is 

She  did  not  reply,  and  turning  her  back  on  only  certain  that  it  must  have  been  carefully 
Fletcher  knelt  for  her  own  devotions.  studied,  and  that  the  pictorial  effect  must  have 

He  had  been  evidently  instructed  to  impair  been  appalling, 
the  Catholic  complexion  of  the  scene,  and  the  The  women,  whose  firmness  had  hitherto 
Queen  of  Scots  was  determined  that  he  should  25  borne  the  trial,  began  now  to  give  way,  spas- 
not  succeed.  When  she  knelt  he  commenced  modic  sobs  bursting  from  them  which  they 
an  extempore  prayer  in  which  the  assembly  could  not  check.  "Ne  criez  vous,"*  she  said, 
joined.  As  his  voice  sounded  out  in  the  hall  "j'ai  promis  pour  vous."  Struggling  bravely, 
she  raised  her  own,  reciting  with  powerful  they  crossed  their  breasts  again  and  again, 
deep-chested  tones  the  penitential  Psalms  in  30  she  crossing  them  in  turn  and  bidding  them 
Latin,  introducing  English  sentences  at  in-  pray  for  her.  Then  she  knelt  on  the  cushion, 
tervals,  that  the  audience  might  know  what  Barbara  Mowbray  bound  her  eyes  with  a 
she  was  saying,  and  praying  with  especial  dis-  handkerchief.  "Adieu,"  she  said,  smiling  for 
tinctness  for  her  holy  father  the  Pope.  the  last  time  and  waving  her  hand  to  them, 

From  time  to  time,  with  conspicuous  ve- 35  "Adieu,  au  revoir."  They  stepped  back  from 
hemence,  she  struck  the  crucifix  against  her  off  the  scaffold  and  left  her  alone.  On  her  knees 
bosom,  and  then,  as  the  Dean  gave  up  the  she  repeated  the  Psalm,  In  te.  Domino,  con- 
struggle,  leaving  her  Latin,  she  prayed  in  fido,^  "In  thee,  O  Lord,  have  I  put  my  trust." 
English  wholly,  still  clear  and  loud.  She  prayed  Her  shoulders  being  exposed,  two  scars  became 
for  the  Church  which  she  had  been  ready  to  40  visible,  one  on  either  side,  and  the  Earls  being 
betray,  for  her  son,  whom  she  had  disinherited,  now  a  httle  behind  her,  Kent  pointed  to  them 
for  the  Queen,  whom  she  had  endeavoured  to  with  his  white  wand  and  looked  enquiringly 
murder.  She  prayed  God  to  avert  his  wrath  at  his  companion.  Shrewsbury  whispered 
from  England,  that  England  which  she  had  that  they  were  the  remains  of  two  abscesses 
sent  Philip  a  last  message  to  beseech  him  to  45  from  which  she  had  suffered  while  living  with 
invade.    She  forgave  her  enemies,  whom  she     him  at  Sheffield. 

had  invited  Philip  not  to  forget,  and  then,  When  the  Psalm  was  finished  she  felt  for 
praying  to  the  saints  to  intercede  for  her  with  the  block,  and  laying  down  her  head  mut- 
Christ,  and  kissing  the  crucifix  and  crossing  tered:  "In  manus,  Domine,  tuas,  commendo 
her  own  breast,  "Even  as  thy  arms,  O  Jesus,"  50animam  meam."^  The  hard  wood  seemed  to 
she  cried,  "were  spread  upon  the  cross,  so  hurt  her,  for  she  placed  her  hands  under  her 
receive  me  into  thy  mercy  and  forgive  my  sins."      neck.    The  executioners  gently  removed  them. 

With  these  words  she  rose;  the  black  mutes  lest  they  should  deaden  the  blow,  and  then 
stepped  forward,  and  in  the  usual  form  begged  one  of  them  holding  her  slightly,  the  other 
her  forgiveness.  55  raised  the  axe  and  struck.    The  scene  had  been 

"I  forgive  you,"  she  said,  "for  now  I  hope      too  trying  even  for  the  practised  headsman  of 

you  shall  end  all  my  troubles."     They  offered  4  Do  not  weep:  I  have  promised  that  you  would  not. 

their  help  in  arrangmg  her  dress.    " Truly,  my         '  "I?  t^^e.  O  Lord,  do  I  put  my  trust."  Ps.,  xxxi.  1. 

1     J    „    V  -J       -^1.  M     X     XI-     -n     1      /,T  6  "Father,   mto  thy  hands  I  commend  my  ^xnt.' 

lords,"  she  said  with  a  smile  to  the  Earls,  "I     st.  Luke,  xxxiii.  46. 


JAMES  ANTHONY   FROUDE  725 

the  Tower.  His  arm  wandered.  The  blow  fell  "The  people  began  to  fall  sick  and  faint- 
on  the  knot  of  the  handkerchief,  and  scarcely  hearted— whereupon,  very  orderly,  with  good 
broke  the  skin,  bhe  neither  spoke  nor  moved,  discretion,  they  entreated  me  to  regard  the 
He  struck  again,  this  time  effectively.  The  safety  of  mine  own  hfe,  as  well  as  the  preserva- 
head  hung  by  a  shred  of  skin,  which  he  divided  5  tion  of  theirs;  and  that  I  should  not,  through 
without  withdrawing  the  axe;  and  at  once  a  over-boldness,  leave  their  widows  and  father- 
metamorphosis  was  witnessed,  strange  as  was  less  children  to  give  me  bitter  curses, 
ever  wrought  by  wand  of  fabled  enchanter.  "Whereupon    seeking    counsel   of   God,  it 

The  coif  fell  off,  and  the  false  plaits.  The  pleased  His  Divine  Majesty  to  move  my  heart 
laboured  illusion  vanished.  The  lady  who  had  10  to  prosecute  that  which  I  hope  shall  be  to  His 
knelt  before  the  block  was  in  the  maturity  of  glory,  and  to  the  contentation^  of  every  Chris- 
grace  and  loveliness.     The  executioner,  when      tian  mind." 

he  raised  the  head,  as  usual,  to  shew  it  to  the  He  had  two  vessels— one  of  some  burthen, 
crowd,  exposed  the  withered  features  of  a  the  other  a  pinnace^  of  thirty  tons.  The  result 
grizzled,  wrinkled  old  woman.  15  of  the  counsel  which  he  had  sought  was,  that 

"So  perish  all  enemies  of  the  Queen,"  said  he  made  over  his  own  large  vessel  to  such  as 
the  Dean  of  Peterborough.  A  loud  Amen  rose  wished  to  return,  and  himself,  "thinking  it 
over  the  hall.  "Such  end,"  said  the  Earl  of  better  to  die  with  honour  than  to  return  with 
Kent,  rising  and  standing  over  the  body,  "to  infamy,"  went  on,  with  such  volunteers  as 
the  Queen's  and  the  Gospel's  enemies."  20  would  follow  him,  in  a  poor  leaky  cutter,  up 

the  sea  now  in  commemoration  of  that  adven- 
ture called  Davis's  Straits.     He  ascended  4** 
North  of  the  furthest  known  point,  among 
JOHN  DAVIS^  storms  and  icebergs,  when  the  long  days  and 

25  twilight  nights  alone  saved  him  from  being 

AN  EXAMPLE  OF  j^HB  TRUE  HERO  destroyed,  and,  coasting  back  along  the  Amer- 

(Fiom  Short  Studies  on  Great  Subjects,  18Q7-77)      i^an  shore,   he  discovered  Hudson's  Straits, 

supposed  then  to  be  the  long-desired  entrance 
For  the  present,  however,  we  are  forced  to  into  the  Pacific.  This  exploit  drew  the  atten- 
content  ourselves  with  a  few  sketches  out  of  30  tion  of  Walsingham,*  and  by  him  Davis  was 
the  north-west  voyages.  Here  is  one,  for  in-  presented  to  Burleigh,^  "who  was  also  pleased 
stance,  which  shows  how  an  Englishman  could  to  show  him  great  encouragement."  If  either 
deal  with  the  Indians.  Davis  had  landed  at  these  statesmen  or  Elizabeth  had  been  twenty 
Gilbert  Sound,  and  gone  up  the  country  ex-  years  younger,  his  name  would  have  filled  a 
ploring.  On  his  return  he  found  his  crew  loud  35  larger  space  in  history  than  a  small  corner  of 
in  complaints  of  the  thievish  propensities  of  the  map  of  the  world;  but  if  he  was  employed 
the  natives,  and  urgent  to  have  an  example  at  all  in  the  last  years  of  the  century,  no  vates 
made  of  some  of  them.  On  the  next  occasion  sacer^  has  been  found  to  celebrate  his  work, 
he  fired  a  gun  at  them  with  blank  cartridge;  and  no  clue  is  left  to  guide  us.  He  disappears; 
but  their  nature  was  still  too  strong  for  them.  40  a  cloud  falls  over  him.  He  is  known  to  have 
"Seeing  iron  (he  says),  they  could  in  no  case  commanded  trading  vessels  in  the  Eastern  seas, 
forbear  stealing;  which,  when  I  perceived,  it  and  to  have  returned  five  times  from  India, 
did  but  minister  to  me  occasion  of  laughter  to  But  the  details  are  all  lost,  and  accident  has 
see  their  simplicity,  and  I  willed  that  they  only  parted  the  clouds  for  a  moment  to  show 
should  not  be  hardly  used,  but  that  our  com-  45  us  the  mournful  setting  with  which  he,  too, 
pany  should  be  more  diligent  to  keep  their  went  down  upon  the  sea. 
things,  supposing  it  to  be  very  hard  in  so  In  taking  out  Sir  Edward  Michellthome  to 
short  a  time  to  make  them  know  their  India,  in  1604,  he  fell  in  with  a  crew  of  Japa- 
evils.  .  .  ."  nese,  whose  ship  had  been  burnt,  drifting  at 

Leaving  Gilbert's  Sound,  Davis  went  on  50  sea,  without  provisions,  in  a  leaky  junk.  He 
to  the  northwest,  and  in  lat.  63**  fell  in  with  a  supposed  them  to  be  pirates,  but  he  did  not 
barrier  of  ice,  which  he  coasted  for  thirteen  choose  to  leave  them  to  so  wretched  a  death, 
days  without  finding  an  opening.  The  very  and  took  them  on  board;  and  in  a  few  hours, 
sight  of  an  iceberg  was  new  to  all  his  crew;  and         ^  contcDting. 

the  ropes  and  shrouds,  though  it  was  midsum-55      s  a  small  saUing  ship  capable  of  being  propelled  by  oars. 

rviQr.  K«««^;««  r,^^^^ccnA  tttUVi  ino *  A  member  of  the  Privy  Council  and,  after  Burleigh. 

mer,  becoming  compassed  with  ice,—  q^^^^  Elizabeth's  most  important  minister. 

iJoAn  Dam  (c.  1550-1605),  was  an  English  navigator  ^  Lord   Burleigh,    who    as    Secretary   of    State    under 

chiefly  famous  for  three  voyages  he  made  in  search  of  a  Elizabeth   originated   the  policy   that   made   her  reign 

north-west  passage.    In  the  first  of  these  voyages  he  dis-  famous, 

covered  the  strait  which  bears  his  name.  «  Holy  prophet. 


726  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

watching   their   opportunity,    they   murdered  i(l0l^1T    l^U^l^tn 

him. 

As  the  fool  dieth,  so  dieth  the  wise,  and  1819-1900 

there  is  no  difference:  it  was  the  chance  of  the 

sea,  and  the  iU  reward  of  a  humane  action-a  5    SOME  SEA  PICTURES  OF  TURNER 
melancholy  end  for  such  a  man-Hke  the  end  (^^^^  j^^^^^  Painters,^  Part  I,  1843) 

of  a  warrior,  not  dymg  Epammondas-like^  on 

the  field  of  victory,  but  cut  off  in  some  poor  Few  people,  comparatively,  have  ever  seen 
brawl  or  ambuscade.  But  so  it  was  with  all  the  effect  on  the  sea  of  a  powerful  gale  con- 
these  men.  They  were  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  10  tinued  without  intermission  for  three  or  four 
their  days,  and  few  of  them  laid  their  bones  days  and  nights,  and  to  those  who  have  not, 
in  the  sepulchres  of  their  fathers.  They  knew  I  beheve  it  must  be  unimaginable,  not  from  the 
the  service  which  they  had  chosen,  and  they  mere  force  or  size  of  surge,  but  from  the  com- 
did  not  ask  the  wages  for  which  they  had  not  plete  annihilation  of  the  limit  between  sea  and 
laboured.  Life  with  them  was  no  summer  15  air.  The  water  from  its  prolonged  agitation 
holiday,  but  a  holy  sacrifice  offered  up  to  duty,  is  beaten,  not  into  mere  creaming  foam,  but 
and  what  their  Master  sent  was  welcome,  into  masses  of  accumulated  yeast,  which  hang 
Beautiful  is  old  age — beautiful  as  the  slow-  in  ropes  and  wreaths  from  wave  to  wave,  and 
dropping  mellow  autumn  of  a  rich  glorious  where  one  curls  over  to  break,  form  a  festoon 
summer.  In  the  old  man.  Nature  has  fulfilled  20  like  a  drapery,  from  its  edge;  these  are  taken 
her  work;  she  loads  him  with  her  blessings;  she  up  in  wind,  not  in  dissipating  dust,  but  bodily, 
fills  him  with  the  fruits  of  a  well-spent  life;  in  writhing,  hanging,  coiling  masses,  which 
and  surrounded  by  his  children  and  his  chil-  make  the  air  white  and  thick  as  with  snow, 
dren's  children,  she  rocks  him  softly  away  to  a  only  the  flakes  are  a  foot  or  two  long  each;  the 
grave,  to  which  he  is  followed  with  blessings.  25  surges  themselves  are  full  of  foam  in  their 
God  forbid  we  should  not  call  it  beautiful.  It  very  bodies,  underneath,  making  them  white 
is  beautiful,  but  not  the  most  beautiful.  There  all  through,  as  the  water  is  under  a  great 
is  another  life,  hard,  rough,  and  thorny,  trodden  cataract;  and  their  masses,  being  thus  half 
with  bleeding  feet  and  aching  brow;  the  life  water  and  half  air,  are  torn  to  pieces  by  the 
of  which  the  cross  is  the  symbol;  a  battle  which  30  wind  whenever  they  rise,  and  carried  away  in 
no  peace  follows,  this  side  the  grave;  which  roaring  smoke,  which  chokes  and  strangles 
the  grave  gapes  to  finish,  before  the  victory  like  actual  water.  Add  to  this  that  when  the 
is  won;  and — strange  that  it  should  be  so — this  air  has  been  exhausted  of  its  moisture  by  long 
is  the  highest  life  of  man.  Look  back  along  the  rain,  the  spray  of  the  sea  is  caught  by  it  as 
great  names  of  history;  there  is  none  whose  35  described  above  (Section  III.  chap,  vi.,  §  13), 
life  has  been  other  than  this.  They  to  whom  it  and  covers  its  surface  not  merely  with  the 
has  been  given  to  do  the  really  highest  work  in  smoke  of  finely  divided  water,  but  with  boiling 
this  earth — whoever  they  are,  Jew  or  Gentile,  mist;  imagine  also  the  low  rain-clouds  brought 
Pagan  or  Christian,  warriors,  legislators,  phil-  down  to  the  very  level  of  the  sea,  as  I  have 
osophers,  priests,  poets,  kings,  slaves — one  and  40  often  seen  them,  whirling  and  flying  in  rags 
all,  their  fate  has  been  the  same — the  same  and  fragments  from  wave  to  wave;  and  finally, 
bitter  cup  has  been  given  to  them  to  drink,  conceive  the  surges  themselves  in  their  utmost 
And  so  it  was  with  the  servants  of  England  in  pitch  of  power,  velocity,  vastness,  and  madness, 
the  sixteenth  century.  Their  life  was  a  long  lifting  themselves  in  precipices  and  peaks, 
battle,  either  with  the  elements  or  with  men ;  45  furrowed  with  the  whirl  of  ascent,  through  all 
and  it  was  enough  for  them  to  fulfil  their  work,  this  chaos;  and  you  will  understand  that  there 
and  to  pass  away  in  the  hour  when  God  had  is  indeed  no  distinction  left  between  the  sea 
nothing  more  to  bid  them  do.  They  did  not  and  air;  that  no  object,  nor  horizon,  nor  any 
complain,  and  why  should  we  complain  for  landmark  or  natural  evidence  of  position  is 
them?  Peaceful  life  was  not  what  they  desired,  50  left;  that  the  heaven  is  all  spray,  and  the  ocean 
and  an  honourable  death  had  no  terrors  for  all  cloud,  and  that  you  can  see  no  farther  in 
them.  .  .  .  any  direction  than  you  could  see  through  a 

"Seeing,"   in  Gilbert's*  own  brave  words,      cataract.    Suppose  the  effect  of  the  first  sun- 
"that  death  is  inevitable,   and  the  fame  of      beam  sent  from  above  to  shew  this  annihila-   j 
virtue  is  immortal;  wherefore  in  this  behalf  55  tion  to  itself,  and  you  have  the  sea  picture  of  J 
mutare  vel  timere  sperno."  ^  the  Academy,   1842 — the  Snowstorm,  one  of  "^ 

">  A  great  general  and  statesman  of  Thebes.  '  Modern  Painters,  a  book  in  five  volumes,  was  under- 

8  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  the  great  explorer,  who  was  lost  taken  as  an  answer  to  the  critics  of  Turner's  paintings, 

in  a  storm  ofif  the  Azores  in  1583.     V.  p.  179,  and  n.  1,  in  it  Ruskin  desired  to  demonstrate  Turner's  ess«itial 

supra.  » I  scorn  either  to  change  or  to  fear.  truth  to  nature. 

I 


JOHN  RUSKIN  727 

the  very  grandest  statements  of  sea-motion,  and  mixes  its  flaming  flood  with  the  sunlight,— 
mist,  and  light,  that  has  ever  been  put  on  can-  and  cast  far  along  the  desolate  heave  of  the 
vas,  even  by  Turner. ^  Of  course  it  was  not  sepulchral  waves,  incarnadines  the  multitudi- 
understood;  his  finest  works  never  are;  but      nous  sea.^ 

there  was  some  apology  for  the  public's  not  5  I  believe,  if  I  were  reduced  to  rest  Turner's 
comprehending  this,  for  few  people  have  had  immortality  upon  any  single  work,  I  should 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  the  sea  at  such  a  choose  this.  Its  daring  conception— ideal  in 
time,  and  when  they  have,  cannot  face  it.  the  highest  sense  of  the  word— is  based  on  the 
To  hold  by  a  mast  or  a  rock,  and  watch  it,  is  purest  truth,  and  wrought  out  with  the  con- 
a  prolonged  endurance  of  drowning  which  few  10  centrated  knowledge  of  a  life;  its  color  is 
people  have  the  courage  to  go  through.  To  absolutely  perfect,  not  one  false  or  morbid  hue 
those  who  have,  it  is  one  of  the  noblest  lessons  in  any  part  or  line,  and  so  modulated  that 
of  nature.  every  square  inch  of  canvas  is  a  perfect  com- 

But  I  think  the  noblest  sea  that  Turner  has  position;  its  drawing  as  accurate  as  fearless; 
ever  painted,  and,  if  so,  the  noblest  certainly  15  the  ship  buoyant,  bending,  and  full  of  motion; 
ever  painted  by  man,  is  that  of  the  Slave  Ship,  its  tones  as  true  as  they  are  wonderful;  and  the 
the  chief  Academy  picture  of  the  exhibition  whole  picture  dedicated  to  the  most  sublime 
of  1840.  It  is  a  sunset  on  the  Atlantic  after  of  subjects  and  impressions — (completing  the 
prolonged  storm;  but  the  storm  is  partially  perfect  system  of  all  truth,  which  we  have 
lulled,  and  the  torn  and  streaming  rain-clouds  20  shown  to  be  formed  by  Turner's  works) — the 
are  partially  moving  in  scarlet  lines  to  lose  power,  majesty,  and  deathfulness  of  the  open, 
themselves  in  the  hollow  of  the  night.  The  deep,  illimitable  sea. 
whole  surface  of  sea  included  in  the  picture 

is  divided  into  two  ridges  of  enormous  swell,  r  r\  r^ 

not  high,  nor  local,  but  a  low,  broad  heaving  25  ^HE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY 

of  the  whole  ocean,  like  the  lifting  of  its  bosom      ^^^^^  rpj^^  g^^^^  j^  ^j  Architecture,  1849) 

by  deep-drawn  breath  after  the  torture  of  the 

storm.     Between  these  two  ridges,  the  fire  of  I.  Among  the  hours  of  his  life  to  which  the 

the  sunset  falls  along  the  trough  of  the  sea,  writer  looks  back  with  peculiar  gratitude,  as 
dyeing  it  with  an  awful  but  glorious  light,  30  having  been  m-arked  by  more  than  ordinary 
the  intense  and  lurid  splendor  which  burns  fulness  of  joy  or  clearness  of  teaching,  is  one 
like  gold  and  bathes  like  blood.  Along  this  passed,  now  some  years  ago,  near  time  of  sun- 
fiery  path  and  valley,  the  tossing  waves  by  set,  among  the  broken  masses  of  pine  forest 
which  the  swell  of  the  sea  is  restlessly  divided,  which  skirt  the  course  of  the  Ain,^  above  the 
lift  themselves  in  dark,  indefinite,  fantastic  35  village  of  Champagnole,^  in  the  Jura.  It  is 
forms,  each  casting  a  faint  and  ghastly  shadow  a  spot  which  has  all  the  solemnity,  with  none 
behind  it  along  the  illumined  foam.  They  do  of  the  savageness,  of  the  Alps;  where  there  is 
not  rise  everywhere,  but  fhree  or  four  together  the  sense  of  a  great  power  beginning  to  be 
in  wild  groups,  fitfully  and  furiously,  as  the  manifested  in  the  earth,  and  of  a  deep  and 
under  strength  of  the  swell  compels  or  permits  40  majestic  concord  in  the  rise  of  the  long  low 
them ;  leaving  between  them  treacherous  spaces  lines  of  piny  hills;  the  first  utterance  of  those 
of  level  and  whirling  water,  now  lighted  with  mighty  mountain  symphonies,  soon  to  be  more 
green  and  lamplike  fire,  now  flashing  back  the  loudly  lifted  and  wildly  broken  along  the  battle- 
gold  of  the  declining  sun,  now  fearfully  dyed  ments  of  the  Alps.  But  their  strength  is  as 
from  above  with  the  indistinguishable  images  45  yet  restrained;  and  the  far  reaching  ridges  of 
of  the  burning  clouds,  which  fall  upon  them  in  pastoral  mountain  succeed  each  other,  like  the 
flakes  of  crimson  and  scarlet,  and  give  to  the  long  and  sighing  swell  which  moves  over  quiet 
reckless  waves  the  added  motion  of  their  own  waters  from  some  far  off  stormy  sea.  And 
fiery  flying.  Purple  and  blue,  the  lurid  shadows  there  is  a  deep  tenderness  pervading  that  vast 
of  the  hollow  breakers  are  cast  upon  the  mist  50  monotony.  The  destructive  forces  and  the 
of  the  night,  which  gathers  cold  and  low,  ad-  stern  expression  of  the  central  ranges  are 
vancing  like  the  shadow  of  death  upon  the  alike  withdrawn.  No  frost-ploughed,  dust- 
guilty  ship'  as  it  labors  amidst  the  lightning  encumbered  paths  of  ancient  glacier  fret  the 
of  the  sea,  its  thin  masts  written  upon  the  sky  soft  Jura  pastures;  no  splintered  heaps  of  ruin 
in  lines  of  blood,  girded  with  condemnation  in  55  break  the  fair  ranks  of  her  forest;  no  pale, 
that  fearful  hue  which  signs  the  sky  with  horror,      defiled,  or  furious  rivers  send  their  rude  and 

2/.  M.  W.  Turner  (1775-1851),  an  English  landscape  *  "  The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine."    Macb.  II.  u. 

painter.  ^  A  river  in  the  eastern  part  of  France,  rising  in  the 

»  "She  is  a  slaver,  throwing  her  slaves  overboard.    The  Jura  mountains, 

near  sea  is  encumbered  with  corpses." — Uuakin.  *  A  small  town  on  the  river  Am. 


728  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

changeful  ways  among  her  rocks.  Patiently,  precious  in  their  memories  than  it,  in  its  re- 
eddy  by  eddy,  the  clear  green  streams  wind  newing.  Those  ever  springing  flowers  and  ever 
along  their  well-known  beds;  and  under  the  flowing  streams  had  been  dyed  by  the  deep 
dark  quietness  of  the  undisturbed  pines,  there  colours  of  human  endurance,  valour,  and  vir- 
spring  up,  year  by  year,  such  company  of  5  tue;  and  the  crests  of  the  sable  hills  that  rose 
joyful  flowers  as  I  know  not  the  like  of  among  against  the  evening  sky  received  a  deeper 
all  the  blessings  of  the  earth.  It  was  spring  worship,  because  their  far  shadows  fell  east- 
time,  too;  and  all  were  coming  forth  in  clusters  ward  over  the  iron  wall  of  Joux,«  and  the  four- 
crowded  for  very  love;  there  was  room  enough  square  keep  of  Granson.' 
for  all,  but  they  crushed  their  leaves  into  all  lo  II.  It  is  as  the  centrahsation  and  protectress 
manner  of  strange  shapes  only  to  be  nearer  of  this  sacred  influence,  that  Architecture  is 
each  other.  There  was  the  wood  anemone,  to  be  regarded  by  us  with  the  most  serious 
star  after  star,  closing  every  now  and  then  thought.  We  may  live  without  her,  and  wor- 
into  nebulae;  and  there  was  the  oxalis,  troop  by  ship  without  her,  but  we  cannot  remember 
troop,  like  virginal  processions  of  the  Mois  de  15  without  her.  How  cold  is  all  history,  how  life- 
Marie,  ^  the  dark  vertical  clefts  in  the  limestone  less  all  imagery,  compared  to  that  which  the 
choked  up  with  them  as  with  heavy  snow,  and  living  nation  writes,  and  the  uncorrupted 
touched  with  ivy  on  the  edges — ivy  as  light  and  marble  bears! — how  many  pages  of  doubtful 
lovely  as  the  vine;  and,  ever  and  anon,  a  blue  record  might  we  not  often  spare,  for  a  few 
gush  of  violets,  and  cowslip  bells  in  sunny  20  stones  left  one  upon  another!  The  ambition 
places;  and  in  the  more  open  ground,  the  of  the  old  Babel  builders'  was  well  directed 
vetch,  and  comfrey,*  and  mezereon,^  and  the  for  this  world:  tl^gre  are  but  two  strong  con- 
small  sapphire  buds  of  the  Polygala  Alpina,  qi^rors  of  t^  fr>rgoii^ii]^^,gg  m  Tr>Qn^  ^^rtpffpY^RTrrK 
and  the  wild  strawberry,  just  a  blossom  or  ArckitectureTand  the  latter  in  some  sort  m- 
two,  all  showered  amidst  the  golden  softness  25  clildey  the  lofmer,  and  is  mightier  in  its  reality : 
of  deep,  warm,  amber-coloured  moss.  I  came  it  is  well  to  have,  not  only  what  men  have 
out  presently  on  the  edge  of  the  ravine:  the  thought  and  felt,  but  what  their  hands  have 
solemn  murmur  of  its  waters  rose  suddenly  handled,  and  their  strength  wrought,  and  their 
from  beneath,  mixed  with  the  singing  of  the  eyes  beheld,  all  the  days  of  their  life.  The  age 
thrushes  among  the  pine  boughs;  and,  on  the  30  of  Homer  is  surrounded  with  darkness,  his 
opposite  side  of  the  valley,  walled  all  along  as  very  personality  with  doubt.  Not  so  that  of 
it  was  by  grey  cliffs  of  Umestone,  there  was  a  Pericles:^  and  the  day  is  coming  when  we  shall 
hawk  sailing  slowly  off  their  brow,  touching  confess,  that  we  have  learned  more  of  Greece 
them  nearly  with  his  wings,  and  with  the  out  of  the  crumbled  fragments  of  her  sculpture 
shadows  of  the  pines  flickering  upon  his  plu-  35  than  even  from  her  sweet  singers  or  soldier 
mage  from  above;  but  with  the  fall  of  a  hundred  historians.  And  if  indeed  there  be  any  profit 
fathoms  under  his  breast,  and  the  curling  pools  in  our  knowledge  of  the  past,  or  any  joy  in  the 
of  the  green  river  gliding  and  glittering  dizzily  thought  of  being  remembered  hereafter,  which 
beneath  him,  their  foam  globes  moving  with  can  give  strength  to  present  exertion,  or  pa- 
him  as  he  flew.  It  would  be  difficult  to  con-  40  tience  to  present  endurance,  there  are  two  du- 
ceive  a  scene  less  dependent  upon  any  other  ties  respecting  national  architecture  whose 
interest  than  that  of  its  own  secluded  and  importance  it  is  impossible  to  overrate:  the 
serious  beauty;  but  the  writer  well  remembers  first,  to  render  the  architecture  of  the  day, 
the  sudden  blankness  and  chill  which  were  historical;  and,  the  second,  to  preserve,  as  the 
cast  upon  it  when  he  endeavoured,  in  order  45  most  precious  of  inheritances,  that  of  past  ages, 
more  strictly  to  arrive  at  the  sources  of  its 

impressiveness,  to  unagine  it,  for  a  moment,        SCIENCE  AND  MODERN  PROGRESS 
a  scene  in  some  aboriginal  forest  of  the  New  ^^         ,,    ,       _  ^       t^t  ^r^^«^ 

Continent.    The  flowers  in  an  mstant  lost  their  (From  Modem  Painters,  Part  IV,  1856) 

light,  the  river  its  music;  the  hills  became  op-  50  The  great  mechanical  impulses  of  the  age, 
pressively  desolate;  a  heaviness  in  the  boughs  of  which  most  of  us  are  so  proud,  are  a  mere 
of  the  darkened  forest  showed  how  much  of        « rp,    ,  _*    «^  r       •    *i,    t  ^u   u      a        * 

. ,     .     -  1      1  1.  1  J      -  *  The  fort  of  Joux  m  the  Jura,  near  the  boundary  of 

their  former  power  had  been  dependent  upon  a     Switzerland. 

Hfe   which   was  not   theirs,    how   much   of   the  ^  An  ancient  village  on  the  Lake  of  Neuchatel  in  Swit- 

glory   of  the   imperishable,    or   continually   re- 55      «Gen'.,  xi.  4.      "And  they  said  one  to  another,  Go  to,    \ 
newed,  creation  is  reflected  from  things  more       '^t  us  build  us  a,  city  and  a  tower  whose  top  may  reach 

'  unto  heaven,  and  let  us  make  us  a  name;  lest  we  be  scat-      ' 

tered  abroad  upon  the  face  of  the  whole  earth." 
'  May  (Month  of  Mary)  held  sacred  to  the  Virgin.  '  Pericles  became  the  ruler  of  Athens  after  he  had 

*  A  plant  of  the  Borage  family.  ostracized  Cimon.    The  Age  of  Pericles  is  noted  for  the 

'  A  shrub  bearing  fragrant  flowers.  adornment  of  the  city  and  for  its  brilliant  culture. 


JOHN  RUSKIN  729 

passing  fever,   half-speculative,   half-childish.      cate  that,  we  could  have  done  it  in  less  than 
People  will  discover  at  last  that  royal  roads  to      1800  years,  without  steam.    Most  of  the  good 
anything  can  no  more  be  laid  in  iron  than  they      religious  communication  that  I  remember  has 
can  in  dust;  that  there  are,  m  fact,  no  royal      been,  done  on  foot;  and  it  cannot  easily  be  done 
roads  to  anywhere  worth  going  to,  that  if  there  5  faster  than  at  foot  pace.    Is  it  science?    But 
were,  it  would  that  instant  cease  to  be  worth     what  science— of  motion,  meat,  and  medicine? 
going  to,— I  mean  so  far  as  the  things  to  be      Well;  when  you  have  moved  your  savage,  and 
obtamed  are  m  any  way  estimable  in  terms  of      dressed  your  savage,  fed  him  with  white  bread, 
price.     For  there  are  two  classes  of  precious      and  shown  him  how  to  set  a  limb,— what  next? 
things  m  the  world:  those  that  God  gives  us  for  lo  Follow  out  that  question.    Suppose  every  ob- 
nothing— sun,  air,  and  life  (both  mortal  life      stacle  overcome;  give  your  savage  every  ad- 
and  immortal);  and  the  secondarily  precious      vantage  of  civihzation  to  the  full:  suppose 
things,  worldly  wine  and  milk,  can  only  be      that  you  have  put  the  Red  Indian  in  tight 
bought  for  definite  money;  they  can  never  be      shoes;  taught  the  Chinese  how  to  make  Wedge- 
cheapened.     No  cheating  nor  bargaining  will  15  wood's  ware,  and  to  paint  it  with  colors  that 
ever  get  a  single  thing  out  of  nature's  "estab-      will  rub  off;  and  persuaded  all  Hindoo  women 
hshment"  at  half  price.     Do  we  want  to  be      that  it  is  more  pious  to  torment  husbands  into 
strong?— we  must  work.    To  be  hungry?— we      graves  than  to  bum  themselves  at  the  burial,— 
must   starve.     To   be  happy?— we  must  be     what  next?    Gradually,  thinking  on  from  point 
kind.    To  be  wise?— we  must  look  and  think.  20  to  point,  we  shall  come  to  perceive  that  all 
No  changing  of  place  at  a  hundred  miles  an      true  happiness  and  nobleness  are  near  us,  and 
hour,  nor  making  of  stuffs  a  thousand  yards      yet  neglected  by  us;  and  that  till  we  have 
a  minute,  will  make  us  one  whit  stronger,  hap-      learned  how  to  be  happy  and  noble,  we  have 
pier,  or  wiser.    There  was  always  more  in  the     not  much  to  tell,  even  to  Red  Indians.    The 
world  than  men  could  see,  walked  they  ever  25  delights  of  horse-racing  and  hunting,  of  as- 
so  slowly;  they  will  see  it  no  better  for  going      semblies  in  the  night  instead  of  the  day,  of 
fast.    And  they  will  at  last,  and  soon  too,  find      costly   and  wearisome  music,   of   costly   and 
out  that  their  grand  inventions  for  conquering      burdensome    dress,    of    chagrined    contention 
(as  they  think)  space  and  time,  do,  in  reahty,      for  place  or  power,  or  wealth,  or  the  eyes  of 
conquer  nothing;  for  space  and  time  are,  in  30  the  multitude;  and  all  the  endless  occupation 
their  own  essence,  unconquerable,  and  besides     without  purpose,   and  idleness  without  rest, 
did  not  want  any  sort  of  conquering;   they     of  our  vulgar  world,  are  not,  it  seems  to  me, 
wanted  using.    A  fool  always  wants  to  shorten      enjoyments  we  need  be  ambitious  to  communi- 
space  and  time;  a  wise  man  wants  to  lengthen      cate.    And  all  real  and  wholesome  enjoyments 
both.    A  fool  wants  to  kill  space  and  kill  time:  35  possible  to  man  have  been  just  as  possible  to 
a  wise  man,  first  to  gain  them,  then  to  animate     him,  since  first  he  was  made  of  the  earth,  as 
them.    Your  railroad,  when  you  come  to  under-      they  are  now;  and  they  are  possible  to  him 
stand  it,  is  only  a  device  for  making  the  world      chiefly  in  peace.    To  watch  the  corn  grow,  and 
smaller:  and  as  for  being  able  to  talk  from  place      the  blossoms  set;  to  draw  hard  breath  over 
to  place,  that  is,  indeed,  well  and  convenient ;  40  ploughshare  or  spade;  to  read,  to  think,  to 
but  suppose  you  have  originally  nothing  to      love,  to  hope,  to  pray, — these  are  the  things 
say.     We  shall  be  obliged  at  last  to  confess,      that. make  men  happy;  they  have  always  had 
what  we  should  long  ago  have  known,  that  the      the  power  of  doing  these,  they  never  vnll  have 
really  precious  things  are  thought  and  sight,      power  to  do  more.     The  world's  prosperity 
not  pace.    It  does  a  bullet  no  good  to  go  fast;  45  or  adversity  depends  upon  our  knowing  and 
and  a  man,  if  he  be  truly  a  man,  no  harm  to      teaching  these  few  things:  but  upon  iron,  or 
go  slow;  for  his  glory  is  not  at  all  in  going,      glass,  or  electricity,  or  steam,  in  no  wise, 
but  in  being.  And  I  am  Utopian  and  enthusiastic  enough 

"Well;  but  railroads  and  telegraphs  are  so  to  believe,  that  the  time  will  come  when  the 
useful  for  communicating  knowledge  to  savage  50  world  will  discover  this.  It  has  now  made  its 
nations."  Yes,  if  you  have  any  to  give  them,  experiments  in  every  possible  direction  but  the 
If  you  know  nothing  but  railroads,  and  can  right  one;  and  it  seems  that  it  must,  at  last, 
communicate  nothing  but  aqueous  vapor  and  try  the  right  one,  in  a  mathematical  necessity, 
gunpowder, — what  then?  But  if  you  have  It  has  tried  fighting,  and  preaching,  and  fast- 
any  other  thing  than  those  to  give,  then  the  55  ing,  buying  and  selhng,  pomp  and  parsimony, 
railroad  is  of  use  only  because  it  communi-  pride  and  humihation, — every  possible  man- 
cates  that  other  thing,  and  the  question  is, —  ner  of  existence  in  which  it  could  conjecture 
what  that  other  thing  may  be.  Is  it  religion?  there  was  any  happiness  or  dignity;  and  all 
I  believe  if  we  had  really  wanted  to  communi-      the  while,  as  it  bought,  sold,  and  fought,  and 


730  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

fasted,  and  wearied  itself  with  policies,  and  not  work,  and  the  wasteful  person  who  lays 
ambitions,  and  self-denials,  God  had  placed  nothing  by,  at  the  end  of  the  same  time  will  be 
its  real  happiness  in  the  keeping  of  the  little  doubly  poor — poor  in  possession,  and  dis- 
mosses  of  the  wayside,  and  of  the  clouds  of  solute  in  moral  habit;  and  he  will  then  naturally 
the  firmament.  Now  and  then  a  weary  king,  5  covet  the  money  which  the  other  has  saved, 
or  a  tormented  slave,  found  out  where  the  true  And  if  he  is  then  allowed  to  attack  the  other, 
kingdoms  of  the  world  were,  and  possessed  and  rob  him  of  his  well  earned  wealth,  there 
himself,  in  a  furrow  or  two  of  garden  ground,  is  no  more  any  motive  for  saving,  or  any  re- 
of  a  truly  infinite  dominion.  But  the  world  ward  for  good  conduct ;  and  all  society  is  there- 
would  not  beUeve  their  report,  and  went  on  lo  upon  dissolved,  or  exists  only  in  systems  of 
trampling  down  the  mosses,  and  forgetting  rapine.  Therefore  the  first  necessity  of  social 
the  clouds,  and  seeking  happiness  in  its  own  life  is  the  clearness  of  national  conscience  in 
way,  until,  at  last,  blundering  and  late,  came  enforcing  the  law — that  he  should  keep  who 
natural  science;  and  in  natural  science  not  only      has  Justly  Earned. 

the  observation  of  things,  but  the  finding  out  of  15  That  law  I  say,  is  the  proper  basis  of  dis- 
new  uses  for  them.  Of  course  the  world,  hav-  tinction  between  rich  and  poor.  But  there  is 
ing  a  choice  left  to  it,  went  wrong  as  usual,  and  also  a  false  basis  of  distinction;  namely,  the 
thought  that  these  mere  material  uses  were  power  held  over  those  who  are  earning  wealth 
to  be  the  sources  of  its  happiness.  It  got  the  by  those  who  already  possess  it,  and  only  use 
clouds  packed  into  iron  cylinders,  and  made  20  it  to  gain  more.  There  will  be  always  a  num- 
it  carry  its  wise  self  at  their  own  cloud  pace,  ber  of  men  who  would  fain  set  themselves  to 
It  got  weaveable  fibres  out  of  the  mosses,  and  the  accumulation  of  wealth  as  the  sole  object 
made  clothes  for  itself,  cheap  and  fine, — here  of  their  lives.  Necessarily  that  class  of  men 
was  happiness  at  last.  To  go  as  fast  as  the  is  an  uneducated  class,  inferior  in  intellect, 
clouds,  and  manufacture  everything  out  of  25  and  more  or  less  cowardly.  It  is  physically 
anything, — here  was  paradise,  indeed!  impossible   for   a   well-educated,    intellectual, 

And  now,  when  in  a  little  while  it  is  unpara-  or  brave  man  to  make  money  the  chief  object 
dised  again,  if  there  were  any  other  mistake  of  his  thoughts;  just  as  it  is  for  him  to  make 
that  the  world  could  make,  it  would  of  course  his  dinner  the  principal  object  of  them.  All 
make  it.  But  I  see  not  that  there  is  any  other;  30  healthy  people  like  their  dinners,  but  their 
and,  standing  fairly  well  at  its  wits'  end,  having  dinner  is  not  the  main  object  of  their  lives.  So 
found  that  going  fast,  when  it  is  used  to  it,  all  healthily-minded  people,  like  making 
is  no  more  paradisiacal  than  going  slow;  and  money — ought  to  like  it,  and  to  enjoy  the 
that  all  the  prints  and  cottons  in  Manchester  sensation  of  winning  it:  but  the  main  object 
cannot  make  it  comfortable  in  its  mind,  I  do  35  of  their  life  is  not  money ;  it  is  something  better 
verily  believe  it  will  come,  finally  to  under-  than  money.  A  good  soldier,  for  instance, 
stand  that  God  paints  the  clouds  and  shapes  mainly  wishes  to  do  his  fighting  well.  He  is 
the  moss-fibres,  that  men  may  be  happy  in  glad  of  his  pay — very  properly  so,  and  justly 
seeing  Him  at  His  work,  and  that  in  resting  grumbles  when  you  keep  him  ten  years  with- 
quietly  beside  Him,  and  watching  His  work- 40  out  it — still,  his  main  notion  of  life  is  to  win 
ing,  and — according  to  the  power  He  has  com-  battles,  not  to  be  paid  for  winning  them.  So 
municated  to  ourselves,  and  the  guidance  He  of  clergymen.  They  like  pew-rents,  and  bap- 
grants, — in  carrying  out  His  purposes  of  peace  tismal  fees,  of  course;  but  yet,  if  they  are  brave 
and  charity  among  all  His  creatures,  are  the  and  well-educated,  the  pew-rent  is  not  the  sole 
only  real  happinesses  that  ever  were,  or  will  be,  45  object  of  their  lives,  and  the  baptismal  fee  is 
possible  to  mankind.  not  the  sole  purpose  of  the  baptism ;  the  clergy- 

man's  object   is   essentially    to   baptize   and 
A/rr»xn?v  preach,  not  to  be  paid  for  preaching.     So  of 

MONEY  doctors.     They  like  fees  no  doubt,— ought  to 

(From  The  Crcrum  of  Wild  Olive,  1866)        ^Olike  them;  yet  if  they  are  brave  and  well-edu- 
cated the  entire  object  of  their  lives  is  not  lees. 

The  lawful  basis  of  wealth  is,  that  a  man  who     They,  on  the  whole,  desire  to  cure  the  sick; 
works  should  be  paid  the  fair  value  of  his      and,— if  they  are  good  doctors,  and  the  choice 
work;  and  that  if  he  does  not  choose  to  spend      were  fairly  put  to  them— would  rather  cure 
it  today,  he  should  have  free  leave  to  keep  it,  55  their  patient,  and  lose  their  fee,  than  kill  him    , 
and  spend  it  tomorrow.    Thus,  an  industrjlsus      and  get  it.     And  so  with  all  other  brave  and\; 
man  working  daily,  attains  at  last  the  posses-      rightly  trained  men;  their  work  is  first,  their  \ 
sion  of  an  accumulated  sum  of  wealth,  to  which      fee  second— very  important  always,  but  still, 
he  has  absolute  right.    The  idle  person  who  wiU      second.    But  in  every  nation,  as  I  said,  there  are 


JOHN   RUSKIN  731 

a  vast  class  who  are  ill-educated,  cowardly,  that  benevolent  business;  makes  his  own  little 
and  more  or  less  stupid.  And  with  these  job  out  of  it  at  all  events,  come  what  will, 
people,  just  as  certamly  the  fee  is  first,  and  the  And  thus,  out  of  every  mass  of  men,  you  have 
work  second,  as  with  the  brave  people  the  work  a  certain  number  of  bagmen— your  "fee-first" 
IS  first,  and  the  fee  second.  And  this  is  no  small  5  men,  whose  main  object  is  to  make  money, 
distmction.  It  is  between  life  and  death  in  a  And  they  do  make  it— make  it  in  all  sorts  of 
man;  between  heaven  and  hell  for  him.  You  unfair  ways,  chiefly  by  the  force  and  weight  of 
cannot  serve  two  masters:— you  must  serve  money  itself,  or  what  is  called  the  power  of 
one  or  other.  If  your  work  is  first  with  you,  capital;  that  is  to  say,  the  power  which  money, 
and  your  fee  second,  work  is  your  master,  and  lo  once  obtained,  has  over  the  labour  of  the  poor, 
the  lord  of  work,  who  is  God.  But  if  your  fee  so  that  the  capitalist  can  take  all  its  produce 
is  first  with  you,  and  your  work  second,  fee  is  to  himself,  except  the  labourer's  food.  That 
your  master,  and  the  lord  of  fee,  who  is  the  is  the  modern  Judas's  way  of  "carrying  the 
Devil;  and  not  only  the  Devil,  but  the  lowest  bag,"  and  "bearing  what  is  put  therein." 
of  devils— the  "leaft  erected  fiend  that  fell."i  15  Nay,  but  (it  is  asked)  how  is  that  an  unfair 
So  there  you  hava  it  in  brief  terms;  Work  advantage?  Has  not  the  man  who  has  worked 
first— you  are  God's  servants;  Fee  first— you  for  the  money  a  right  to  use  it  as  he  best  can? 
are  the  Fiend's.  And  it  makes  a  difference,  No,  in  this  respect,  money  is  now  exactly  what 
now  and  ever,  believe  me,  whether  you  serve  mountain  promontories  over  public  roads  were 
him  who  has  on  His  vesture  and  thigh  written,  20  in  old  times.  The  barons  fought  for  them 
"King  of  Kings,"2  and  whose  service  is  perfect  fairly ;— the  strongest  and  cunningest  got  them; 
freedom;  or  him  on  whose  vesture  and  thigh  then  fortified  them,  and  made  every  one  who 
the  name  is  written,  "Slave  of  Slaves,"  and  passed  below  pay  toll.  Well,  capital  now  is 
whose  service  is  perfect  slavery.  exactly   what    crags   were   then.     Men   fight 

However  in  every  nation  there  are,  and  must  25  fairly  (we  will,  at  least,  grant  so  much,  though 
always  be,  a  certain  number  of  these  Fiend's  it  is  more  than  we  ought)  for  their  money;  but, 
servants,  who  have  it  principally  for  the  object  once  having  got  it,  the  fortified  millionaire 
of  their  life  to  make  money.  They  are  always,  can  make  everybody  who  passes  below  pay 
as  I  said,  more  or  less  stupid,  and  cannot  con-  toll  to  his  million,  and  build  another  tower  of 
ceive  of  anything  else  so  nice  as  money.  Stu-  30  his  money  castle.  And  I  can  tell  you,  the  poor 
pidity  is  always  the  basis  of  the  Judas  bargain,  vagrants  by  the  roadside  suffer  quite  as  much 
We  do  great  injustice  to  Iscariot,  in  thinking  from  the  bag-baron,  as  ever  they  did  from  the 
him  wicked  above  all  common  wickedness,  crag-baron.  Bags  and  crags  have  just  the  same 
He  was  only  a  common  money-lover,  and,  like  result  on  rags.  I  have  no  time  however,  to- 
all  money-lovers,  did  not  understand  Christ; —  35  night,  to  show  you  in  how  many  ways  the 
could  not  make  out  the  worth  of  Him,  or  mean-  power  of  capital  is  unjust;  but  remember  this 
ing  of  Him.  He  never  thought  he  would  be  one  great  principle — you  will  find  it  unfailing — 
killed.  He  was  horror-struck  when  he  found  that  whenever  money  is  the  principal  object 
that  Christ  would  be  killed;  threw  his  money  of  life  with  either  man  or  nation,  it  is  both  got 
away  instantly,  and  hanged  himself.  How  40  ill,  and  spent  ill;  and  does  harm  both  in  the 
many  of  our  present  money-seekers,  think  getting  and  spending;  but  when  it  is  not  the 
you,  would  Ijia-ve  the  grace  to  hang  themselves,  principal  object,  it  and  all  other  things  will 
whoever  was*^-k:lled?  But  Judas  was  a  com-  be  well  got,  and  well  spent, 
mon,  selfish,  muddle-headed,  pilfering  fellow; 

his  hand  always  in  the  bag  of  the  poor,  not  45  T'AQTT? 

caring    for    them.      Helpless    to    understand  lAblH. 

Christ,  he  yet  believed  in  Him,  much  more  (From  the  same) 

than  most  of  us  do ;  had  seen  Him  do  miracles, 

thought  he  was  quite  strong  enough  to  shift  Now  pardon  me  for  telling  you^   frankly 

for  Himself,  and  he,  Judas,  might  as  well  make  50  you  cannot  have  good  architecture  merely  by 
his  own  Httle  bye-perquisites  out  of  the  affair,  asking  people's  advice  on  occasion.  All  good 
Christ  would  come  out  of  it  well  enough,  and  architecture  is  the  expression  of  national  life 
he  have  his  thirty  pieces.  Now,  that  is  the  and  character;  and  it  is  produced  by  a  preva- 
money-seeker's  idea,  all  over  the  world.     He      lent  and   eager  national  taste,  or  desire  for 

doesn't     hate     Christ,     but     can't    understand  55      iThis  selection  is  from  an  address  delivered  in  the 

Him doP^n't   pnrp  fnr  Him sees  no  eood  in       Town    Hall    at   Bradford,   a  proaporous   inanufacturing 

mm      aoesn  l  care  lOr  mm      bees  iiu  guuu  m       ^.^^  ^^  Yorkshire.     Ruskin   had  been  invited  to  lecture 

there  on  an  Exchange  which  the  city  proposed  to  build. 

1  "Mammon,  the  least  erected  spirit  that  fell."    Milton,       He  said  little  of  the  Exchange,  but  spoke  of  the  relation 
Par.  Lost   I.  679.  of  industrial  civilization  to  art.    The  address  was  after- 

2  jr^eo.,  jdx.  16.  wards  included  in  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive. 


732  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

beauty.  And  I  want  you  to  think  a  little  of  the  is  to  make  people  not  merely  do  the  right  things, 
deep  significance  of  this  word  "taste;"  for  no  but  enjoy  the  right  things: — not  merely  indus- 
statement  of  mine  has  been  more  earnestly  or  trious,  but  to  love  industry — not  merely 
oftener  controverted  than  that  good  taste  is  es-  learned,  but  to  love  knowledge — not  merely 
sentially  a  moral  quahty.  "No,"  say  many  of  5 pure,  but  to  love  purity — not  merely  just,  but 
my  antagonists,  "taste  is  one  thing,  morahty  to  hunger  and  thirst  after  justice, 
is  another.    Tell  us  what  is  pretty:  we  shall  be  But  you  may  answer  or  think,  "Is  the  hking 

glad  to  know  that;  but  we  need  no  sermons,  for  outside  ornaments, — for  pictures,  or  statues, 
even  were  you  able  to  preach  them,  which  or  furniture,  or  architecture,  amoral  quality?" 
may  be  doubted."  10  Yes,  most  surely,  if  a  rightly  set  hking.    Taste 

Permit  me,  therefore,  to  fortify  this  old  for  any  pictures  or  statues  is  not  a  moral  qual- 
dogma  of  mine  somewhat.  Taste  is  not  only  ity,  but  taste  for  good  ones  is.  Only  here  again 
a  part  and  an  index  of  morahty; — it  is  the  we  have  to  define  the  word  "good,"  clever — 
ONLY  morahty.  The  first,  and  last,  and  or  learned — or  difficult  in  the  doing.  Take  a 
closest  trial  question  to  any  hving  creature  is,  15  picture  by  Teniers,  of  sots  quarreling  over 
"What  do  you  hke?"  Tell  me  what  you  hke  their  dice;  it  is  an  entirely  clever  picture;  so 
and  I'll  tell  you  what  you  are.  Go  out  into  clever  that  nothing  in  its  kind  has  ever  been 
the  street,  and  ask  the  first  man  or  woman  you  done  equal  to  it;  but  it  is  also  an  entirely  base 
meet,  what  their  "taste"  is;  and  if  they  answer  and  evil  picture.  It  is  an  expression  of  delight 
candidly,  you  know  them,  body  and  soul.  20  in  the  prolonged  contemplation  of  a  vile  thing, 
"  You,  my  friend  in  the  rags,  with  the  unsteady  and  delight  in  that  is  an  "unmannered,"  or 
gait,  what  do  you  like?"  "A  pipe  and  a  quar-  "immoral"  quahty.  It  is  "bad  taste"  in  the 
tern  of  gin."  I  know  you.  "You,  good  prof oundest  sense — it  is  the  taste  of  the  devils, 
woman,  with  the  quick  step  and  tidy  bonnet.  On  the  other  hand,  a  picture  of  Titian's,  or  a 
what  do  you  like?"  "A  swept  hearth,  and  a 25 Greek  statue,  or  a  Greek  coin,  or  a  Turner 
clean  tea-table;  and  my  husband  opposite  me,  landscape,  expresses  delight  in  the  perpetual 
and  a  baby  at  my  breast."  Good,  I  know  you  contemplation  of  a  good  and  perfect  thing, 
also.  "You,  little  girl  with  the  golden  hair  That  is  an  entirely  moral  quality — it  is  the 
and  the  soft  eyes,  what  do  you  like?"  "My  taste  of  the  angels.  And  all  dehght  in  fine  art, 
canary,  and  a  run  among  the  wood  hyacinths."  30  and  all  love  of  it,  resolve  themselves  into  simple 
"You,  httle  boy  with  the  dirty  hands,  and  the  love  of  that  which  deserves  love.  That  de- 
low  forehead,  what  do  you  like?"  "A  shy  at  serving  is  the  quality  which  we  call  "loveli- 
the  sparrows,  and  a  game  at  pitch  farthing."  ness"  (we  ought  to  have  an  opposite  word, 
Good;  we  know  them  all  now.  What  more  hateliness,  to  be  said  of  the  things  which  de- 
need  we  ask?  35  serve  to  be  hated) ;  and  it  is  not  an  indifferent 

"Nay,"  perhaps  you  answer;  "we  need  nor  optional  thing  whether  we  love  this  or 
rather  to  ask  what  these  people  and  children  that;  but  it  is  just  the  vital  function  of  all  our 
do,  than  what  they  like.  If  they  do  right,  it  is  being.  What  we  like  determines  what  we  are, 
no  matter  that  they  like  what  is  wrong;  and  if  and  is  the  sign  of  what  we  are;  and  to  teach 
they  do  wrong,  it  is  no  matter  that  they  like  40  taste  is  to  inevitably  form  character, 
what  is  right.  Doing  is  the  great  thing;  and  As  I  was  thinking  over  this,  in  walking  up 
it  does  not  matter  that  the  man  likes  drinking.  Fleet  Street  the  other  day,  my  eye  caught  the 
so  that  he  does  not  drink;  nor  that  the  little  title  of  a  book  standing  open  in  a  bookseller's 
girl  likes  to  be  kind  to  her  canary,  if  she  will  window.  It  was — "On  the  necessity  of  the 
not  learn  her  lessons;  nor  that  the  httle  boy 45 diffusion  of  taste  among  all  classes."  "Ah,"  I 
likes  throwing  stones  at  the  sparrows,  if  he  thought  to  myself,  "my  classifying  friend, 
goes  to  the  Sunday  school.'*  Indeed  for  a  when  you  have  diffused  your  taste,  where  will 
short  time,  and  in  a  provisional  sense,  this  is  your  classes  be?  The  man  who  likes  what  you 
true.  For  if,  resolutely,  people  do  what  is  like,  belongs  to  the  same  class  with  you,  I 
right,  in  time  to  come  they  like  doing  it.  But  50  think.  Inevitably  so.  You  may  put  him  to 
they  only  are  in  a  right  moral  state  when  they  other  work  if  you  choose;  but,  by  the  condi- 
have  come  to  like  doing  it;  and  as  long  as  they  tion  you  have  brought  him  into,  he  will  dislike 
don't  hke  it,  they  are  still  in  a  vicious  state,  the  work  as  much  as  you  would  yourself.  You 
The  man  is  not  in  health  of  body  who  is  always  get  hold  of  a  scavenger  or  a  costermonger, 
thinking  of  the  bottle  in  the  cupboard,  though  55  who  enjoyed  the  Newgate  Calendar^  for  htera-  \ 
he  bravely  bears  his  thirst;  but  the  man  who  ture,  and  "Pop  goes  the  weasel"  for  music, 
heartily  enjoys  water  in  the  morning,  and  You  think  you  can  make  him  like  Dante  and 
wine  in  the  evening,  each  in  its  own  proper         ,.  x**  -iluj  j 

.      ,  ,,  ,.         1  •     X     *.  X  J        X-  *An  account  of   famous   criminals  who   had  served 

time.    And  the  entire  object  of  true  education     terms  in  Newgate  prison. 


JOHN  RUSKIN  733 

Beethoven?  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  lessons;  If  stone  work  is  well  put  together,  it  means 
but  if  you  do,  you  have  made  a  gentleman  of  that  a  thoughtful  man  planned  it,  and  a  care- 
him:  he  wont  hke  to  go  back  to  his  coster-  ful  man  cut  it,  and  an  honest  man  cemented 
mongermg.  it.    if  it  has  too  much  ornament,  it  means  that 

sits  carver  was  too  greedy  of  pleasure;  if  too 
little,  that  he  was  rude,  or  insensitive,  or  stupid, 

ART  AND  CHARACTER  f^  ^^\^^^:    ^""iwf  when  once  you  have 

learned  how  to  spell  these  most  precious  of  all 
(From  The  Queen  of  the  Air,  1869)  legends,— pictures   and   buildings,— you   may 

10  read  the  characters  of  men,  and  of  nations,  in 

I  have  now  only  a  few  words  to  say,  bearing  their  art,  as  in  a  mirror; — nay,  as  in  a  micro- 
on  what  seems  to  me  present  need,  respecting  scope,  and  magnified  a  hundredfold;  for  the  char- 
the  third  function  of  Athena,  conceived  as  the  acter  becomes  passionate  in  the  art,  and  inten- 
directress  of  human  passion,  resolution,  and  sifies  itself  in  all  its  noblest  or  meanest  delights, 
labour.  15  Nay,  not  only  as  in  a  microscope,  but  as  under 

Few  words,  for  I  am  not  yet  prepared  to  give  a  scalpel,  and  in  dissection;  for  a  man  may 
an  accurate  distinction  between  the  intellec-  hide  himself  from  you,  or  misrepresent  himseK 
tual  rule  of  Athena  and  that  of  the  Muses:  but,  to  you,  every  other  way;  but  he  cannot  in  his 
broadly,  the  Muses,  with  their  king,  preside  work:  there,  be  sure,  you  have  him  to  the  in- 
over  meditative,  historical,  and  poetic  arts,  20  most.  All  that  he  hkes,  all  that  he  sees, — all 
whose  end  is  the  discovery  of  light  or  truth,  that  he  can  do, — his  imaginations,  his  affec- 
and  the  creation  of  beauty:  but  Athena  rules  tions,  his  perseverance,  his  impatience,  his 
over  moral  passion,  and  practically  useful  art.  clumsiness,  cleverness,  everything  is  there. 
She  does  not  make  men  learned,  but  prudent  If  the  work  is  a  cobweb,  you  know  it  was  made 
and  subtle:  she  does  not  teach  them  to  make  25  by  a  spider;  if  a  honeycomb,  by  a  bee;  a  worm- 
their  work  beautiful,  but  to  make  it  right.  cast  is  thrown  up  by  a  worm,  and  a  nest 

In  different  places  of  my  writings,  and  wreathed  by  a  bird;  and  a  house  built  by  a 
through  many  years  of  endeavour  to  define  man,  worthily,  if  he  be  worthy,  and  ignobly, 
the  laws  of  art,  I  have  insisted  on  this  rightness     if  he  is  ignoble. 

in  work,  and  on  its  connection  with  virtue  of  30  And  always,  from  the  least  to  the  greatest, 
character,  in  so  many  partial  ways,  that  the  as  the  made  thing  is  good  or  bad,  so  is  the 
impression  left  on  the  reader's  mind — if,  in-     maker  of  it. 

deed,  it  was  ever  impressed  at  all — has  been  You  all  use  this  faculty  of  judgment  more 
confused  and  uncertain.  In  beginning  the  or  less,  whether  you  theoretically  admit  the 
series  of  my  corrected  works,  I  wish  this  prin- 35  principle  or  not.  Take  that  floral  gable;  you 
ciple  (in  my  own  mind  the  foundation  of  every  don't  suppose  the  man  who  built  Stonehenge 
other)  to  be  mad^  plain,  if  nothing  else  is:  and  could  have  built  that,  or  that  the  man  who  built 
will  try,  therefore,  to  make  it  so,  as  far  as,  by  that,  would  have  built  Stonehenge?  Do  you 
any  effort,  I  can  put  it  into  unmistakable  think  an  old  Roman  would  have  liked  such  a 
words.  And,  first,  here  is  a  very  simple  state- 40  piece  of  filagree  work?  or  that  Michael  Angelo 
ment  of  it,  given  lately  in  a  lecture  on  the  Archi-  would  have  spent  his  time  in  twisting  these 
tecture  of  the  Valley  of  the  Somme,  which  will  stems  of  roses  in  and  out?  Or,  of  modem  hand- 
be  better  read  in  this  place  than  in  its  incidental  craftsmen,  do  you  think  a  burglar,  or  a  brute, 
connection  with  my  account  of  the  porches  of  or  a  pickpocket,  could  have  carved  it?  Could 
Abbeville.  45  Bill  Sykes  have  done  it?  or  the  Dodger,  ^  dex- 

I  had  used,  in  a  preceding  part  of  the  lee-  terous  with  finger  and  tool?  You  will  find  in 
ture,  the  expression,  "by  what  faults"  this  the  end,  that  no  man  could  have  done  it  but  ex- 
Gothic  architecture  fell.  We  continually  speak  actly  the  man  who  did  it;  and  by  looking  close 
thus  of  works  of  art.  We  talk  of  their  faults  at  it,  you  may,  if  you  know  your  letters,  read 
and  merits,  as  of  virtues  and  vices.  What  do  50  precisely  the  manner  of  man  he  was. 
we  mean  by  talking  of  the  faults  of  a  picture,  Now  I  must  insist  on  this  matter,  for  a  grave 

or  the  merits  of  a  piece  of  stone?  reason.    Of  all  facts  concerning  art,  this  is  the 

The  faults  of  a  work  of  art  are  the  faults  of  one  most  necessary  to  be  known,  that,  while 
its  workman,  and  its  virtues  his  virtues.  manufacture  is  the  work  of  hands  only,  art  is 

Great  art  is  the  expression  of  the  mind  of  a 55 the  work  of  the  whole  spirit  of  man;  and  as 
great  man,  and  mean  art,  that  of  the  want  of  that  spirit  is,  so  is  the  deed  of  it:  and  by  what- 
mind  of  a  weak  man.  A  foolish  person  builds  ever  power  of  vice  or  virtue  any  art  is  produced, 
foolishly,  and  a  wise  one,  sensibly;  a  virtuous  the  same  vice  or  virtue  it  reproduces  and 
one,   beautifully;   and  a  vicious  one,   basely.  i  criminal  charactera  in  Dickens' OKocr  rtn'«<. 


734  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

teaches.     That  which  is  bom  of  evil  begets     of  moral  character'  in  war.    I  must  make  both 
evil;  and  that  which  is  bom  of  valour  and      these  assertions  clearer,  and  prove  them, 
honour,  teaches  valour  and  honour.    All  art  is  First,  of  the  foundation  of  art  in  moral  char- 

either  infection  or  education.  It  must  be  one  acter.  Of  course  art-gift  and  amiability  of 
or  other  of  these.  5  disposition  are  two  different  things;  a  good  man 

This,  I  repeat,  of  all  truths  respecting  art,  is  not  necessarily  a  painter,  nor  does  an  eye 
is  the  one  of  which  understanding  is  the  most  for  colour  necessarily  imply  an  honest  mind, 
precious,  and  denial  the  most  deadly.  And  But  great  art  implies  the  union  of  both  powers: 
I  assert  it  the  more,  because  it  has  of  late  been  it  is  the  expression,  by  an  art-gift,  of  a  pure 
repeatedly,  expressly,  and  with  contumely  de-  10  soul.  If  the  gift  is  not  there,  we  can  have  no 
nied;  and  that  by  high  authority:  and  I  hold  art  at  all;  and  if  the  soul — and  a  right  soul  too 
it  one  of  the  most  sorrowful  facts  connected  — is  not  there,  the  art  is  bad,  however  dextrous, 
with  the  decline  of  the  arts  among  us,  that  But  also,  remember,  that  the  art-gift  itself 

English  gentlemen,  of  high  standing  as  scholars  is  only  the  result  of  the  moral  character  of 
and  artists,  should  have  been  blinded  into  the  15  generations.  A  bad  woman  may  have  a  sweet 
acceptance,  and  been  betrayed  into  the  asser-  voice;  but  that  sweetness  of  voice  comes  of  the 
tion,  of  a  fallacy  which  only  authority  such  as  past  morality  of  her  race.  That  she  can  sing 
theirs  could  have  rendered  for  an  instant  with  it  at  all,  she  owes  to  the  determination 
credible.  For  the  contrary  of  it  is  written  in  of  laws  of  music  by  the  morality  of  the  past, 
the  history  of  all  great  nations;  it  is  the  one  20  Every  act,  every  impulse,  of  virtue  and  vice, 
sentence  always  inscribed  on  the  steps  of  their  affects  in  any  creature,  face,  voice,  nervous 
thrones;  the  one  concordant  voice  in  which  power,  and  vigour  and  harmony  of  invention, 
they  speak  to  us  out  of  the  dust.  at  once.    Perseverance  in  rightness  of  human 

All  such  nations  first  manifest  themselves  conduct,  renders,  after  a  certain  number  of 
as  a  pure  and  beautiful  animal  race,  with  in- 25  generations,  human  art  possible;  every  sin 
tense  energy  and  imagination.  They  live  clouds  it,  be  it  ever  so  little  a  one;  and  persist- 
lives  of  hardship  by  choice,  and  by  grand  in-  ent  vicious  living  and  following  of  pleasure 
stinct  of  manly  discipline:  they  become  fierce  render,  after  a  certain  number  of  generations, 
and  irresistible  soldiers;  the  nation  is  always  all  art  impossible.  Men  are  deceived  by  the 
its  own  army,  and  their  king,  or  chief  head  of  30 long-suffering  of  the  laws  of  nature;  and  mis- 
government,  is  always  their  first  soldier,  take  in  a  nation,  the  reward  of  the  virtue  of  its 
Pharaoh,  or  David,  or  Leonidas,  or  Valerius,  sires  for  the  issue  of  its  own  sins.  The  time 
or  Barbarossa,  or  Coeur  de  Lion,  or  St.  Louis,  of  their  visitation  will  come,  and  that  inevi- 
or  Dandolo,  or  Frederick  the  Great; — Egyp-  tably;  for,  it  is  always  true,  that  if  the  fathers 
tian,  Jew,  Greek,  Roman,  German,  English,  35  have  eaten  sour  grapes,  the  children's  teeth 
French,  Venetian, — that  is  inviolable  law  for  are  set  on  edge.  And  for  the  individual,  as 
them  all;  their  king  must  be  their  first  soldier,  soon  as  you  have  learned  to  read,  you  may, 
or  they  cannot  be  in  progressive  power.  Then,  as  I  have  said,  know  him  to  the  heart's  core, 
after  their  great  military  period;  in  which,  through  his  art.  Let  his  art-gift  be  never  so 
without  betraying  the  discipline  of  war,  they  40  great,  and  cultivated  to  the  height  by  the 
add  to  their  great  soldiership  the  delights  and  schools  of  a  great  race  of  men;  and  it  is  still  but 
possessions  of  a  delicate  and  tender  home-life;  a  tapestry  thrown  over  his  own  being  and  inner 
and  then,  for  all  nations,  is  the  time  of  their  soul;  and  the  bearing  of  it  will  show,  infallibly, 
perfect  art,  which  is  the  fruit,  the  evidence,  whether  it  hangs  on  a  man,  or  on  a  skeleton, 
the  reward  of  their  national  ideal  of  character,  45  If  you  are  dim-eyed,  you  may  not  see  the 
developed  by  the  finished  care  of  the  occupa-  difference  in  the  fall  of  the  folds  at  first,  but 
tions  of  peace.  That  is  the  history  of  all  true  learn  how  to  look,  and  the  folds  themselves  will  ' 
art  that  ever  was,  or  can  be:  palpably  the  his-  become  transparent,  and  you  shall  see  through 
tory  of  it, — unmistakably, — written  on  the  them  the  death's  shape,  or  the  divine  one, 
forehead  of  it  in  letters  of  light, — in  tongues  of  50  making  the  tissue  above  it  as  a  cloud  of  light, 
fire,  by  which  the  seal  of  virtue  is  branded  as      or  as  a  winding  sheet. 

deep  as  ever  iron  burnt  into  a  convict's  flesh  Then  farther,  observe,  I  have  said  (and  you 

the  seal  of  crime.    But  always,  hitherto,  after      will  find  it  true,  and  that  to  the  uttermost) 
the  great  period,  has  followed  the  day  of  luxury,      that,  as  all  lovely  art  is  rooted  in  virtue,  so  it   , 
and  pursuit  of  the  arts  for  pleasure  only.    And  55  bears  fruit  of  virtue,  and  is  didactic  in  its  own  \j 
all  has  so  ended.  nature.    It  is  often  didactic  also  in  actually  ex-  'lj| 

Thus  far  of  Abbeville  building.    Now  I  have      pressed  thought,  as  Giotto's,  Michael  Angelo's,   :j 
here  asserted  two  things, — first,  the  foundation      Diirer's,  and  hundreds  more;  but  that  is  not 
of  art  in  moral  character;  next,  the  foundation     its  special  function, — it  is  didactic  chiefly  by 


JOHN  RUSKIN  735 

being  beautiful;  but  beautiful  with  haunting  its  first  sea  kings;  and  also  the  compassion  and 
thought,  no  less  than  with  form,  and  full  of  the  joy  that  are  woven  into  the  innermost  fabric 
mj^ths  that  can  be  read  only  with  the  heart.  of  every  great  imaginative  spirit,  born  now  in 

For  instance,  there  is  at  this  moment  open  countries  that  have  lived  by  the  Christian  faith 
beside  me  as  I  write,  a  page  of  Persian  manu-  5  with  any  courage  or  truth.  And  the  picture 
script,  wrought  with  wreathed  azure  and  gold,  contains  also,  for  us,  just  this  which  its  maker 
and  soft  green,  and  violet,  and  ruby  and  scar-  had  in  him  to  give;  and  can  convey  it  to  us, 
let,  into  one  field  of  pure  resplendence.  It  is  just  so  far  as  we  are  of  the  temper  in  which  it 
wrought  to  deUght  the  eyes  only;  and  it  does  must  be  received.  It  is  didactic,  if  we  are 
delight  them;  and  the  man  who  did  it  surely  10  worthy  to  be  taught,  no  otherwise.  The  pure 
had  eyes  in  his  head;  but  not  much  more.  It  is  heart,  it  will  make  more  pure;  the  thoughtful, 
not  didactic  art,  but  its  author  was  happy:  more  thoughtful.  It  has  in  it  no  words  for  the 
and  it  will  do  the  good,  and  the  harm,  that      reckless  or  the  base. 

mere  pleasure  can  do.  But,  opposite  me,  is  an  As  I  myself  look  at  it,  there  is  no  fault  nor 
early  Turner  drawing  of  the  lake  of  Geneva,  15  folly  of  my  life, — and  both  have  been  many  and 
taken  about  two  miles  from  Geneva,  on  the  great, — that  does  not  rise  up  against  me,  and 
Lausanne  road,  with  Mont  Blanc  in  the  dis-  take  away  my  joy,  and  shorten  my  power  of 
tance.  The  old  city  is  seen  lying  beyond  the  possession,  of  sight,  of  understanding.  And 
waveless  waters,  veiled  with  a  sweet  misty  veil  every  past  effort  of  my  life,  every  gleam  of 
of  Athena's  weaving:  a  faint  light  of  morning,  20  rightness  or  good  in  it,  is  with  me  now,  to  help 
peaceful  exceedingly,  and  almost  colourless,  me  in  my  grasp  of  this  heart,  and  its  vision, 
shed  from  behind  the  Voirons,  increases  into  So  far  as  I  can  rejoice  in,  or  interpret  either, 
soft  amber  along  the  slopes  of  the  Sal^ve,  and  my  power  is  owing  to  what  of  right  there  is  in 
is  just  seen,  and  no  more,  on  the  fair  warm  fields  me.  I  dare  to  say  it,  that,  because  through  all 
of  its  summit,  between  the  folds  of  a  white  25  my  life  I  have  desired  good,  and  not  evil;  be- 
cloud that  rests  upon  the  grass,  but  rises,  high  cause  I  have  been  kind  to  many;  have  wished 
and  towerlike,  into  the  zenith  of  dawn  above,      to  be  kind  to  all;  have  willfully  injured  none; 

There  is  not  as  much  colour  in  that  low  and  because  I  have  loved  much,  and  not  sel- 
amber  light  upon  the  hillside  as  there  is  in  the  fishly; — therefore,  the  morning  light  is  yet 
palest  dead  leaf.  The  lake  is  not  blue,  but  30  visible  to  me  on  those  hills,  and  you,  who  read, 
grey  in  mist,  passing  into  deep  shadow  beneath  may  trust  my  thought  and  word  in  such  work 
the  Voirons'  pines;  a  few  dark  clusters  of  leaves,  as  I  have  to  do  for  you;  and  you  will  be  glad 
a  single  white  flower — scarcely  seen — are  all  afterwards  that  you  have  trusted  them, 
the  gladness  given  to  the  rocks  of  the  shore. 
One  of  the  ruby  spots  of  the  eastern  manu- 35 

script  would  give  colour  enough  for  all  the  -rf^TRATNT 

red  that  is  in  Turner's  entire  drawing.     For  LIBERTY  AND  REbTRAlNT 

the  mere  pleasure  of  the  eye,  there  is  not  so  (From  the  same) 

much  in  all  those  fines  of  his,  throughout  the 

entire  landscape,  as  in  half  an  inch  square  of  40  Next  to  Modesty,  and  her  delight  in  meas- 
the  Persian's  page.  What  made  him  take  ures,  let  us  reflect  a  fittle  on  the  character  of 
pleasure  in  the  low  colour  that  is  only  like  the  her  adversary,  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  and  her 
brown  of  a  dead  leaf?  in  the  cold  grey  of  dawn —  delight  in  absence  of  measures,  or  in  false  ones, 
in  the  one  white  flower  among  the  rocks — in  It  is  true  that  there  are  liberties  and  liberties, 
these— and  no  more  than  these?  45  Yonder  torrent,  crystal-clear,  and  arrow-swift. 

He  took  pleasure  in  them  because  he  had  with  its  spray  leaping  into  the  air  fike  white 
been  bred  among  Engfish  fields  and  hills;  be-  troops  of  fawns,  is  free  enough.  Lost,  presently, 
cause  the  gentleness  of  a  great  race  was  in  his  amidst  bankless,  boundless  marsh— soaking 
heart,  and  its  power  of  thought  in  his  brain;  in  slow  shallowness,  as  it  will,  hither  and 
because  he  knew  the  stories  of  the  Alps,  and  60  thither,  fistless,  among  the  poisonous  reeds 
of  the  cities  at  their  feet;  because  he  had  read  and  unresisting  sfime— it  is  free  also.  We  may 
the  Homeric  legends  of  the  clouds,  and  beheld  choose  which  liberty  we  fike,- the  restramt  of 
the  clouds  of  dawn,  and  the  givers  of  dew  to  voiceful  rock,  or  the  dumb  and  edgeless  shore 
the  fields;  because  he  knew  the  face  of  the  of  darkened  sand.  Of  that  evil  liberty,  which 
crags,  and  the  imagery  of  the  passionate  moun-  55  men  are  now  glonfying,  and  proclaiming  as 
tains,  as  a  man  knows  the  face  of  his  friend;  essence  of  gospel  to  all  the  earth,  and  wiU 
because  he  had  in  him  the  wonder  and  sorrow  presently,  I  suppose,  proclaim  also  to  the  stars, 
concerning  fife  and  death,  which  are  the  in-  with  invitation  to  them  out  of  their  courses,— 
heritance  of  the  Gothic  soul  from  the  days  of      and  of  its  opposite  continence,  which  is  the 


736  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

clasp  and  XP^o-^  TrepSmj  i  of  Aglaia's  cestus,  sensation  only.  With  help  of  right,  and  in 
we  must  try  to  find  out  something  true,  action  on  a  substance  which  does  not  quiver 
For  no  quality  of  art  has  been  more  powerful  nor  yield,  a  fine  artist's  line  is  measurable  in 
in  its  influence  on  pubUc  mind;  none  is  more  its  purposed  direction  to  considerably  less  than 
frequently  the  subject  of  popular  praise,  or  5  the  thousandth  of  an  inch, 
the  end  of  vulgar  effort,  than  what  we  call         A  wide  freedom  truly! 

"Freedom."    It  is  necessary  to  determine  the         The  conditions  of  popular  art  which  most 
justice  or  injustice  of  this  popular  praise.  foster  the  common  ideas  about  freedom,  are 

I  said,  a  little  while  ago,  that  the  practical  merely  results  of  irregularly  energetic  effort 
teaching  of  the  masters  of  Art  was  summed  up  10  by  men  imperfectly  educated;  these  conditions 
by  the  O  of  Giotto. ^  "You  may  judge  my  being  variously  mingled  with  cruder  man- 
masterhood  of  craft,"  Giotto  tells  us,  "by  see-  nerisms  resulting  from  timidity,  or  actual  im- 
ing  that  I  can  draw  a  circle  unerringly."  And  perfection  of  body.  Northern  hands  and  eyes 
we  may  safely  believe  him,  understanding  him  are,  of  course,  never  so  subtle  as  Southern;  and 
to  mean,  that — though  more  may  be  necessary  15  in  very  cold  countries,  artistic  execution  is 
to  an  artist  than  such  a  power — at  least  this  palsied.  The  effort  to  break  through  this 
power  is  necessary.  The  qualities  of  hand  and  timidity,  or  to  refine  the  bluntness,  may  lead 
eye  needful  to  do  this  are  the  first  conditions  to  a  licentious  impetuosity,  or  an  ostentatious 
of  artistic  craft.  minuteness.     Every  man's  manner  has   this 

Try  to  draw  a  circle  yourself  with  the  "free"  20  kind  of  relation  to  some  defect  in  his  physical 
hand,  and  with  a  single  fine.  You  cannot  do  powers  or  modes  of  thought;  so  that  in  the 
it  if  your  hand  trembles,  nor  if  it  hesitates,  greatest  work  there  is  no  manner  visible.  It  is 
nor  if  it  is  unmanageable,  nor  if  it  is  in  the  at  first  uninteresting  from  its  quietness;  the 
common  sense  of  the  word  "free."  So  far  majesty  of  restrained  power  only  dawns  gradu- 
from  being  free,  it  must  be  under  a  control  as  25  ally  upon  us,  as  we  walk  towards  its  horizon, 
absolute  and  accurate  as  if  it  were  fastened  to  There  is,  indeed,  often  great  delightfulness 
an  inflexible  bar  of  steel.  And  yet  it  must  in  the  innocent  manners  of  artists  who  have 
move  under  this  necessary  control,  with  per-  real  power  and  honesty,  and  draw,  in  this  way 
feet  untormented  serenity  of  ease.  or  that,  as  best  they  can,  under  such  and  such 

That  is  the  condition  of  all  good  work  what-  30  untoward  circumstances  of  fife.  But  the 
soever.  All  freedom  is  error.  Every  line  you  greater  part  of  the  looseness,  flimsiness,  or 
lay  down  is  either  right  or  wrong:  it  may  be  audacity  of  modern  work  is  the  expression  of 
timidly  and  awkwardly  wrong,  or  fearlessly  an  inner  spirit  of  license  in  mind  and  heart, 
and  impudently  wrong;  the  aspect  of  the  im-  connected,  as  I  said,  with  the  peculiar  folly  of 
pudent  wrongness  is  pleasurable  to  vulgar 35  this  age,  its  hope  of,  and  trust  in,  "liberty." 
persons;  and  it  is  what  they  commonly  call  Of  which  we  must  reason  a  Httle  in  more  general 
"free"  execution:  the  timid,  tottering,  hesitat-     terms. 

ing  wrongness  is  rarely  so  attractive;  yet  some-  I  believe  we  can  nowhere  find  a  better  type 
times,  if  accompanied  with  good  qualities,  of  a  perfectly  free  creature  than  in  the  com- 
and  right  aims  in  other  directions,  it  becomes  40  mon  house  fly.  Nor  free  only,  but  brave;  and 
in  a  manner  charming,  like  the  inarticulateness  irreverent  to  a  degree  which  I  think  no  human 
of  a  child:  but,  whatever  the  charm  or  manner  republican  could  by  any  philosophy  exalt 
of  the  error,  there  is  but  one  question  ulti-  himself  to.  There  is  no  courtesy  in  him;  he 
mately  to  be  asked  respecting  every  line  you  does  not  care  whether  it  is  king  or  clown  whom 
draw.  Is  it  right  or  wrong?  If  right,  it  most  45  he  teases;  and  in  every  step  of  his  swift  me- 
assuredly  is  not  a  "free"  line,  but  an  intensely  chanical  march,  and  in  every  pause  of  his  res- 
continent,  restrained,  and  considered  line;  and  olute  observation,  there  is  one  and  the  same 
the  action  of  the  hand  in  laying  it  is  just  as  expression  of  perfect  egotism,  perfect  inde- 
decisive,  and  just  as  "free"  as  the  hand  of  a  pendence  and  self-confidence,  and  conviction 
first-rate  surgeon  in  a  critical  incision.  A  50  of  the  world's  having  been  made  for  flies, 
great  operator  told  me  that  his  hand  could  Strike  at  him  with  your  hand;  and  to  him,  the 
check  itseK  within  about  the  two-hundredth  mechanical  fact  and  external  aspect  of  the 
of  an  inch,  in  penetrating  a  membrane,  and  matter  is,  what  to  you  it  would  be,  if  an  acre 
this,  of  course,  without  the  help  of  sight,  by      of  red  clay,  ten  feet  thick,  tore  itself  up  from^ 

1  Golden  buckle.  Aglaia  (splendor)  was  one  of  the  55  the  ground  in  one  massive  field,  hovered  over  /^ 
^^^^^-  S^^^^  is  a  girdle.  .  you  in  the  air  for  a  second,  and  came  crashing 

'  The  Pope  once  sent  a  messenger  to  obtain  specimens       r,  .,  .  rpr    j.  •    j-u         i.^,^^1     <,.^,  „<- 

of  the  work  of  the  chief  artists  of  Italy.    Giotto  simply      down  With  an  aim.     Ihat  IS  the  external  aspect 

drew  a  circle  and  gave  it  to  the  amazed  messenger,  who  Qf  H'  tJjg  inner  aspect,  to  his  fly's  mind,  is  of  a 
asked  if  that  was  all.    "Send  it,"  said  Giotto,  "and  we  ..'         ,        ,         j         .  _.       . 

Bhall  see  if  his  HoUness  understands  the  hint."  quite  natural  and  unimportant  occun'ence^ 


JOHN  RUSKIN  737 

one  of  the  momentary  conditions  of  his  active  forget)  the  infinite  follies  of  modem  thought 
life.  He  steps  out  of  the  way  of  your  hand,  in  this  matter,  centred  in  the  notion  that  lib- 
and  alights  on  the  back  of  it.  You  cannot  ter-  erty  is  good  for  a  man,  irrespectively  of  the 
rify  him,  nor  govern  him,  nor  persuade  him,  use  he  is  likely  to  make  of  it.  Folly  unfathon^ 
nor  convince  him.  He  has  his  own  positive  sable!  unspeakable!  unendurable  to  look  in  the 
opinion  on  all  matters;  not  an  unwise  one,  full  face  of,  as  the  laugh  of  a  cretin.  You  will 
usually,  for  his  own  ends;  and  will  ask  no  ad-  send  your  child,  will  you,  into  a  room,  where  a 
vice  of  yours.  He  has  no  work  to  do — no  table  is  loaded  with  sweet  wine  and  fruit — some 
tyrannical  instinct  to  obey.  The  earthworm  poisoned,  some  not? — you  will  say  to  him, 
has  his  digging,  the  bee  her  gathering  and  10  "Choose  freely,  my  little  child!  it  is  so  good  for 
building;  the  spider  her  cunning  network;  the  you  to  have  freedom  of  choice;  it  forms  your 
ant  her  treasury  and  accounts.  All  these  are  character — your  individuahty !  If  you  take  the 
comparatively  slaves,  or  people  of  vulgar  wrong  cup,  or  the  wrong  berry,  you  will  die 
business.  But  your  fly,  free  in  the  air,  free  in  before  the  day  is  over,  but  you  will  have  ac- 
the  chamber — a  black  incarnation  of  caprice — 15  quired  the  dignity  of  a  Free  child?" 
wandering,     investigating,     flitting,     flirting.  You  think  that  puts  the  case  too  sharply? 

feasting  at  his  will,  with  rich  variety  of  choice  I  tell  you,  lover  of  hberty,  there  is  no  choice 
in  feast,  from  the  heaped  sweets  in  the  grocer's  offered  to  you,  but  it  is  similarly  between  life 
window  to  those  of  the  butcher's  back-yard,  and  death.  There  is  no  act,  nor  option  of  act, 
and  from  the  galled  place  on  your  cab-horse's  20  possible,  but  the  wrong  deed  or  option  has 
back,  to  the  brown  spot  in  the  road,  from  whicK,  poison  in  it,  which  will  stay  in  your  veins  there- 
as  the  hoof  disturbs  him,  he  rises  with  angry  after  for  ever.  Never  more  to  all  eternity 
republican  buzz — what  freedom  is  like  his?  can  you  be  as  you  might  have  been,  had  you 

For  captivity,  again,  perhaps  your  poor  not  done  that— chosen  that.  You  have 
watch-dog  is  as  sorrowful  a  type  as  you  will  25  "formed  your  character,"  forsooth!  No!  if 
easily  find.  Mine  certainly  is.  The  day  is  you  have  chosen  ill,  you  have  Deformed  it, 
lovely,  but  I  must  write  this,  and  cannot  go  and  that  for  ever!  In  some  choices,  it  had 
out  with  him.  He  is  chained  in  the  yard,  be-  been  better  for  you  that  a  red-hot  iron  bar 
cause  I  do  not  like  dogs  in  rooms,  and  the  struck  you  aside,  scarred  and  helpless,  than 
gardener  does  not  like  dogs  in  gardens.  He 30  that  you  had  so  chosen.  "You  will  know  bet- 
has  no  books, — nothing  but  his  own  weary  ter  next  time!"  No.  Next  time  will  never 
thoughts  for  company,  and  a  group  of  those  come.  Next  time  the  choice  will  be  in  quite 
free  flies  whom  he  snaps  at,  with  sullen  ill  another  aspect — between  quite  different  things, 
success.  Such  5im  hope  as  he  may  have  that  — you,  weaker  than  you  were  by  the  evil  into 
I  may  yet  take  him  out  with  me,  will  be,  hour  35  which  you  have  fallen;  it,  more  doubtful  than 
by  hour,  wearily  disappointed;  or,  worse,  it  was,  by  the  increased  dimness  of  your  sight, 
darkened  at  once  into  a  leaden  despair  by  an  No  one  ever  gets  wiser  by  doing  wrong,  nor 
authoritative  "  No  " — too  well  understood.  His  stronger.  You  will  get  wiser  and  stronger  only 
fidelity  only  seals  his  fate;  if  he  would  not  watch  by  doing  right,  whether  forced  or  not;  the 
for  me,  he  would  be  sent  away,  and  go  hunting  40  prime,  the  one  need  is  to  do  that,  under  what- 
with  some  happier  master:  but  he  watches,  ever  compulsion,  until  you  can  do  it  without 
and  is  wise  and  faithful,  and  miserable;  and  compulsion.  And  then  you  are  a  Man. 
his  high  animal  intellect  only  gives  him  the 

wistful  powers  of  wonder,   and  sorrow,   and  t  t   t:^ 

desire,  and  affection,  which  embitter  his  cap- 45  SCIENCE  AND  LIFE 

tivity.     Yet  of  the  two  would  we  rather  be  (^^^^  p,^^^  Clavigera,  1871-1878) 

watch-dog,  or  fly? 

Indeed  the  first  point  we  have  all  to  deter-  And  all  true  science — which  my  Savoyard 
mine  is  not  how  free  we  are,  but  what  kind  of  guide  rightly  scorned  me  when  he  thought  I 
creatures  we  are.  It  is  of  small  importance  to  50  had  not, — all  true  science  is  "savoir  vivre." 
any  of  us  whether  we  get  liberty;  but  of  the  But  all  your  modem  science  is  the  contrary  of 
greatest  that  we  deserve  it.  Whether  we  can  that.  It  is  "savoir  mourir." 
win  it,  fate  must  determine;  but  that  we  will  be  And  of  its  very  discoveries,  such  as  they 
worthy  of  it,   we  may  ourselves  determine;      are,  it  cannot  make  use. 

and  the  sorrowfullest  fate,  of  all  that  we  can  55  That  telegraphic  signalling  was  a  discovery ; 
suffer,  is  to  have  it,  without  deserving  it.  and  conceivably,  some  day,  may  be  a  useful  one. 

I  have  hardly  patience  to  hold  my  pen  and  And  there  was  some  excuse  for  your  being  a 
go  on  writing,  as  I  remember  (I  would  that  it  little  proud  when,  about  last  sixth  of  April 
were  possible  for  a  few  consecutive  instants  to      (Coeur    de    Lion's    death-day,     and    Albert 


738  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

Durer's), you  knotted  a  copper  wire allthe way  be  something  to  boast  of.  But  are  you  so 
to  Bombay,  and  flashed  a  message  along  it,  entirely  sure  that  you  have  got  it— that  the 
and  back.  mortal  disease  of  plenty,  and  afflictive  afflu- 

But  what  was  the  message,  and  what  the  ence  of  good  things,  are  all  you  have  to 
answer?     Is  India  the  better  for  what  you  5  dread? 

said  to  her?  Are  you  the  better  for  what  she  Observe.  A  man  and  a  woman,  with  their 
rephed?  children  properly  trained,  are  able  easily  to 

If  not,  you  have  only  wasted  an  all-round-  cultivate  as  much  ground  as  will  feed  them; 
the-world's  length  of  copper  wire,— which  is,  to  build  as  much  wall  and  roof  as  will  lodge 
indeed,  about  the  sum  of  your  doing.  If  you  10  them,  and  to  spin  and  weave  as  much  cloth  as 
had  had,  perchance,  two  words  of  common  will  clothe  them.  They  can  all  be  perfectly 
sense  to  say,  though  you  had  taken  wearisome  happy  and  healthy  in  doing  this.  Supposing 
time  and  trouble  to  send  them;— though  you  that  they  invent  machinery  which  will  build, 
had  written  them  slowly  in  gold,  and  sealed  plough,  thresh,  cook,  and  weave,  and  that  they 
them  with  a  hundred  seals,  and  sent  a  squadron  15  have  none  of  these  things  any  more  to  do,  but 
of  ships  of  the  Une  to  carry  the  scroll,  and  the  may  read,  or  play  croquet,  or  cricket,  all  day 
squadron  had  fought  its  way  round  the  Cape  long,  I  believe  myself  that  they  will  neither  be 
of  Good  Hope,  through  a  year  of  storms,  with  so  good  nor  so  happy  as  without  the  machines, 
loss  of  all  its  ships  but  one,— the  two  words  of  But  I  waive  my  belief  in  this  matter  for  the 
common  sense  would  have  been  worth  the  20  time.  I  will  assume  that  they  become  more 
carriage,  and  more.  But  you  have  not  any-  refined  and  moral  persons,  and  that  idleness  in 
thing  like  so  much  as  that,  to  say,  either  to  future  is  to  be  the  mother  of  all  good.  But 
India  or  to  any  other  place.  observe,  I  repeat,  the  power  of  your  machine 

You  think  it  a  great  triumph  to  make  the  is  only  in  enabling  them  to  be  idle.  It  will  not 
sun  draw  brown  landscapes  for  you.  25  enable  them  to  live  better  than  they  did  be- 

That  was  also  a  discovery,  and  some  day  fore,  nor  to  live  in  greater  numbers.  Get  your 
may  be  useful.  But  the  sun  had  drawn  land-  heads  quite  clear  on  this  matter.  Out  of  so 
scapes  before  for  you,  not  in  brown,  but  in  much  ground,  only  so  much  living  is  to  be 
green,  and  blue,  and  all  imaginable  colours,  here  got,  with  or  without  machinery.  You  may 
in  England.  Not  one  of  you  ever  looked  at  them  30  set  a  million  of  steam-ploughs  to  work  on  an 
then;  not  one  of  you  cares  for  the  loss  of  them  acre,  if  you  like— out  of  that  acre  only  a  given 
now,  when  you  have  shut  the  sun  out  with  number  of  grains  of  com  will  grow,  scratcj^or 
smoke,  so  that  he  can  draw  nothing  more,  scorch  it  as  you  will.  So  that  the  question  is 
except  brown  blots  through  a  hole  in  a  box.  not  at  all  whether,  by  having  more  machines, 
There  was  a  rocky  valley  between  Buxton  and  35  more  of  you  can  live.  No  machines  will  in- 
Bakewell,  once  upon  a  time,  divine  as  the  Vale  crease  the  possibilities  of  Ufe.  They  only  in- 
of  Tenape;  you  might  have  seen  the  Gods  there  crease  the  possibilities  of  idleness.  Suppose, 
morning  and  evening— Apollo  and  all  the  for  instance,  you  could  get  the  oxen  in  your 
sweet  Muses  of  the  Light— walking  in  fair  plough  driven  by  a  goblin,  who  would  ask  for 
processions  on  the  lawns  of  it,  and  to  and  fro  40  no  pay,  not  even  a  cream  bowl, — (you  have 
anaong  the  pinnacles  of  its  crags.  You  cared  nearly  managed  to  get  it  driven  by  an  iron 
neither  for  Gods  nor  grass,  but  for  cash  (which  goblin,  as  it  is;)— Well,  your  furrow  will  take 
you  did  not  know  the  way  to  get) ;  you  thought  no  more  seeds  than  if  you  had  held  the  stilts 
you  could  get  it  by  what  the  Times  calls  "Rail-  yourself.  But,  instead  of  holding  them,  you 
road  Enterprise."  You  Enterprised  a  Railroad  45  sit,  I  presume,  on  a  bank  beside  the  field, 
through  the  valley — you  blasted  its  rocks  under  an  eglantine; — watch  the  goblin  at  his 
away,  heaped  thousands  of  tons  of  shale  into  work,  and  read  poetry.  Meantime,  your  wife 
its  lovely  stream.  The  valley  is  gone,  and  the  in  the  house  has  also  got  a  goblin  to  weave  and 
Gods  with  it;  and  now,  every  fool  in  Buxton  wash  for  her.  And  she  is  lying  on  the  sofa,  j 
can  be  at  Bakewell  in  half  an  hour,  and  every  50  reading  poetry.  I 

fool  in  Bakewell  at  Buxton;  which  you  think  a  Now,  as  I  said,  I  don't  believe  you  would 
lucrative  process  of  exchanges— you  Fools  be  happier  so,  but  I  am  willing  to  believe  it; 
Everywhere.      ^  only,  since  you  are  already  such  brave  me 

To  talk  at  a  distance,  when  you  have  nothing     chanists,  show  me  at  least  one  or  two  plac( 
to  say,  though  you  were  ever  so  near;  to  go  fast  55  where  you  are  happier.    Let  me  see  one  smai 
from  this  place  to  that,  with  nothing  to  do     example  of  approach  to  this  seraphic  condition 
either  at  one  or  the  other:  these  are  powers     I  can  show  you  examples,  millions  of  them,  of 
certainly.     Much  more,    power  of   increased      happy  people,  made  happy  by  their  own  in-     | 
Production,  if  you,  indeed,  had  got  it,  would     dustry.    Farm  after  farm  I  can  show  you  in 


JOHN  RUSKIN  739 

Bavaria,  Switzerland,  the  Tyrol,  and  such  be  able  to  show  me  five  hundred  dresses  for 
other  places,  where  men  and  women  are  per-  one  that  used  to  be;  tidiness  ought  to  have 
fectly  happy  and  good,  without  any  iron  become  five  hundred  fold  tidier;  tapestry 
servants.  Show  me,  therefore,  some  Enghsh  should  be  increased  in  cinque-cento-fold^  iri- 
family,  with  its  fiery  familiar,  happier  than  5  descence  of  tapestry.  Not  only  your  peasant 
these.  Or  bring  me— for  I  am  not  inconvincible  girl  ought  to  be  lying  on  the  sofa  reading  poetry, 
by  any  kind  of  evidence,— bring  me  the  testi-  but  she  ought  to  have  in  her  wardrobe  five 
mony  of  an  English  family  or  two  to  their  in-  hundred  petticoats  instead  of  one.  Is  that, 
creased  fehcity.  Or  if  you  cannot  do  so  much  indeed,  your  issue?  or  are  you  only  on  a 
as  that,  can  you  convince  even  themselves  of  lO  curiously  crooked  way  to  it? 
it?  They  are  perhaps  happy,  if  only  they  knew  It  is  just  possible,  indeed,  that  you  may  not 
how  happy  they  were;  Virgil  thought  so,i  long  have  been  allowed  to  get  the  use  of  the  goblin's 
ago,  of  simple  rustics;  but  you  hear  at  present  work — that  other  people  may  have  got  the 
your  steam-propelled  rustics  are  crying  out  use  of  it,  and  you  none;  because,  perhaps,  you 
that  they  are  anything  else  than  happy,  and  15  have  not  been  able  to  evoke  goblins  wholly 
that  they  regard  their  boasted  progress  *'in  for  your  own  personal  service;  but  have  been 
the  fight  of  a  monstrous  Sham."  I  must  tell  borrowing  gobhns  from  the  capitalist,  and 
you  one  Httle  thing  however,  which  greatly  paying  interest,  in  the  "position  of  William," 
perplexes  my  imagination  of  the  relieved  on  ghostly  self-going  planes,  but  suppose  you 
ploughman  sittmg  under  his  rose  bower,  20  had  laid  by  capital  enough,  yourselves,  to 
reading  poetry.  I  have  told  it  you  before,  hire  all  the  demons  in  the  world,— nay,— all 
indeed,  but  I  forget  where.  There  was  really  that  are  inside  of  it;  are  you  quite  sure  you 
a  great  festivity,  and  expression  of  satisfaction  know  what  you  might  best  set  them  to  work 
in  the  new  order  of  things,  down  in  Cumber-  at?  and  what  "useful  things"  you  should  com- 
land,  a  little  while  ago;  some  first  of  May,  l25mand  them  to  make  for  you?  I  told  you,  last 
think  it  was,  a  country  festival,  such  as  the  month,  that  no  economist  going  (whether  by 
old  heathens,  who  had  no  iron  servants,  used  steam,  or  ghost,)  knew  what  are  useful  things 
to  keep  with  piping  and  dancing.  So  I  thought  and  what  are  not.  Very  few  of  you  know, 
from  the  liberated  country  people — their  work  yourselves,  except  by  bitter  experience  of  the 
all  done  for  them  by  goblins — we  should  have  30  want  of  them.  And  no  demons,  either  of  iron 
some  extraordinary  piping  and  dancing.  But  or  spirit,  can  ever  make  them, 
there  was  no  dancing  at  all,  and  they  could  not  There  are  three  Material  things,  not  only 

even  provide  their  own  piping.    They  had  their      useful,  but  essential  to  Life.    No  one  "knows 
goblin  to  Pipe  for  them.    They  walked  in  pro-      how  to  live"  till  he  has  got  them, 
cession  after  their  steam  plough,   and  their  35     These  are.  Pure  Air,  Water,  and  Earth, 
steam  plough  whistled  to  them  occasionally  in         There  are  three  Immaterial  things,  not  only 
the  most  melodious  manner  it  could.    Which     useful,  but  essential  to  Life.     No  one  knows 
seemed  to  me,  indeed,  a  return  to  more  than      how  to  live  till  he  has  got  them  also. 
Arcadian  simplicity;  for  in  old  Arcadia,  plough-         These  are.  Admiration,  Hope,  and  Love.^ 
boys  truly  whistled  as  they  went,  for  want  40     Admiration — the  power  of  discerning  and 
of  thought;  whereas,  here  was  verily  a  large      taking  delight  in  what  is  beautiful  in  visible 
company  walking  without  thought,  but  not      form,  and  lovely  in  human  Character;  and, 
having  any  more  even  the  capacity  of  doing      necessarily,  striving  to  produce  what  is  beau- 
their  own  Whistling.  tiful  in  form,  and  to  become  what  is  lovely 

But  next,  as  to  the  inside  of  the  house.    Be-  45  in  character, 
fore  you  got  your  power-looms,  a  woman  could  Hope,  the  recognition,  by  true  Foresight, 

always  make  herself  a  chemise  and  petticoat  of  better  things  to  be  reached  hereafter, 
of  bright  and  pretty  appearance.  I  have  seen  whether  by  ourselves  or  others;  necessarily 
a  Bavarian  peasant-woman  at  church  in  issuing  in  the  straightforward  and  undisap- 
Munich,  looking  a  much  grander  creature,  50  pointable  effort  to  advance,  according  to  our 
and  more  beautifully  dressed,  than  any  of  the  proper  power,  the  gaining  of  them, 
crossed  and  embroidered  angels  in  Hesse's  Love,  both  of  family  and  neighbour,  faithful, 
high-art  frescoes;  (which  happened  to  be  just      and  satisfied. 

above  her,  so  that  I  could  look  from  one  to  the         These  are  the  six  chiefly  useful  things  to  be 
other).    Well,  here  you  are,  in  England,  served  55  got  by  PoUtical  Economy,  when  it  has  become 
by  household  demons,  with  five  hundred  fin-      a  science.    I  will  briefly  tell  you  what  Modern 
gers,  at  least,  weaving,  for  one  that  used  to 
weave  in  the  days  of  Minerva.    You  ought  to         f  ]^7^i'."°J^''®*^  !^'.'*' =,        •      r»i    a     ..x^r    r      u 

■^  *=  3Cf.  Wordsworth's  Excursion,  Bk.  4.     "We  live  by 

1  Qeorgics,  II.  458.    V.  PortunatiNimium,  p.  172,  su-pra.  admiration,  hope  and  love." 


740  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

Political   Economy — the  great  "savoir   mou-      Earth,    Tisiphone* — ^with   the   voice   of   your 
rir" — is  doing  with  them.  brother's  blood  crying  out  of  it,  in  one  wild 

The  first  three,  I  said,  are  Pure  Air,  Water,      harmony  round  all  its  murderous  sphere, 
and  Earth.  That  is  what  you  have  done  for  the  Three 

Heaven   gives   you   the  main   elements   of  5  Material  Useful  Things, 
these.    You  can  destroy  them  at  your  pleasure.  Then    for    the    Three    Immaterial    Useful 

or  increase,  almost  without  limit,  the  available      Things.     For  Admiration  you  have  learned 
quantities  of  them.  contempt  and   conceit.     There  is  no   lovely 

You  can  vitiate  the  air  by  your  manner  of  thing  ever  yet  done  by  man  that  you  care  for, 
life,  and  of  death,  to  any  extent.  You  might  lo  or  can  understand ;  but  you  are  persuaded  that 
easily  vitiate  it  so  as  to  bring  such  a  pestilence  you  are  able  to  do  much  finer  things  your- 
on  the  globe  as  would  end  all  of  you.  You  or  selves.  You  gather  and  exhibit  together,  as 
your  fellows,  German  and  French,  are  at  if  equally  instructive,  what  is  infinitely  bad, 
present  vitiating  it  to  the  best  of  your  power  with  what  is  infinitely  good.  You  do  not  know 
in  every  direction; — chiefly  at  this  moment  15  which  is  which;  you  instinctively  prefer  the 
with  corpses,  and  animal  and  vegetable  ruin  Bad,  and  do  more  of  it.  You  instinctively 
in  war:  changing  men,  horses,  and  garden-stuff  hate  the  Good,  and  destroy  it. 
into  noxious  gas.     But  everywhere,   and  all  Then  secondly,  for  Hope.     You  have  not 

day  long,  you  are  vitiating  it  with  foul  chemical  so  much  spirit  of  it  in  you  as  to  begin  any 
exhalations;  and  the  horrible  nests,  which  you  20  plan  which  will  not  pay  for  ten  years;  nor  so 
call  towns,  are  little  more  than  laboratories  much  intelligence  of  it  in  you,  (either  politicians 
for  the  distillation  into  leven  of  venomous  or  workmen),  as  to  be  able  to  form  one  clear 
smokes  and  smells,  mixed  with  effluvia  from  idea  of  what  you  would  like  your  country  to 
decajdng  animal  matter,  and  infectious  mias-  become, 
mata  from  purulent  disease.  25     Then,  thirdly,  for  Love.    You  were  ordered 

On  the  other  hand,  your  power  of  purifying  by  the  Founder  of  j'our  religion  to  love  your 
the  air,  by  dealing  properly  and  swiftly  with  neighbour  as  yourselves, 
all  substances  in  corruption;  by  absolutely  for-  You  have  founded  an  entire  science  of  Polit- 
bidding  noxious  manufactures;  and  by  plant-  ical  Economy,  on  what  you  have  stated  to  be 
ing  in  all  soils  the  trees  which  cleanse  and  30  the  constant  instinct  of  man — the  desire  to  de- 
invigorate  earth  and  atmosphere, — is  literally      fraud  his  neighbour. 

infinite.     You  might  make  every  breath  of  And  you  have  driven  your  women  mad,  so 

air  you  draw,  food.  that  they  ask  no  more  for  Love,  nor  for  fellow- 

Secondly,  your  power  over  the  rain  and  river-     ship  with  you;  but  stand  against  you,  and 
waters  of  the  earth  is  infinite.    You  can  bring  35  ask  for  "justice." 

rain  where  you  will,  by  planting  wisely  and  Are  there  any  of  you  who  are  tired  of  all 

tending  carefully; — drought,  where  you  will,  by      this?     Any  of  you,    Landlords  or  Tenants? 
ravage   of   woods    and    neglect    of    the    soil.      Employers,  or  Workmen? 
You  might  have  the  rivers  of  England  as  pure  Are  there  any  Landlords — any  masters, — 

as  the  crystal  of  the  rock, — beautiful  in  falls,  40  who  would  like  better  to  be  served  by  men  than 
in  lakes,  in  living  pools; — so  full  of  fish  that      by  iron  devils? 

you  might  take  them  out  with  your  hands  in-  Any  tenants,   any  workmen,   who   can  be 

stead  of  nets.    Or  you  may  do  always  as  you      true  to  their  leaders  and  to  each  other?  who 
have  done  now,  turn  every  river  of  England      can  vow  to  work  and  to  live  faithfully,  for  the 
into  a  common  sewer,  so  that  you  cannot  so  45  sake  of  the  joy  of  their  homes? 
much  as  baptize  an  English  baby  but  with  Will  any  such  give  the  tenth  of  what  they 

filth,  unless  you  hold  its  face  out  in  the  rain;      have;  and  of  what  they  earn, — not  to  emigrate 
and  even  </iai  falls  dirty.  with,  but  to  stay  in  England  with;  and  do 

Then  for  the  third.  Earth, — meant  to  be      what  is  in  their  hands  and  hearts  to  make  her 
nourishing   for   you,    and    blossoming.      You  50  a  happy  England? 
have  learned,  about  it,  that  there  is  no  such 

thing  as  a  flower;  and  as  far  as  your  scientific         «One  of  the  Furies,  the  "blood-avenger."   Cf.  Shake- 
hands  and  scientific  brams,  mventive  of  explo-  ..^^^  j^  ^^^  ^^^^^  pj^^  ^^  j^  ^,^3 

sive  and  deathful,   instead  of  blossoming   and  That  villainoua  saltpetre  should  b§  digg'd 

life-giving,  Dust,  can  contrive,  you  have  turned  55  Out^  "^  S«yTgrd  tall  fdlowTadSroyd      ^ 

the  Mother-Earth,  Demeter,  into  the  Avenger-  So  cowardly." 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY  741 

C|)atk0  ^tngpSrlq^  For  there  are  islands  in  the  sea  which  have 

1819-1875  escaped  the  destroying  deluge  of  peat-moss, — 

out-crops  of  firm  and  fertile  land,  which  in  the 
ST    GUTHLAG  ^^^^^  Middle  Age  were  so  many  natural  parks, 

5  covered  with  richest  grass  and  stateliest  trees, 
(From  The  Hermits,  1867)  swarming  with  deer  and  roe,  goat  and  boar, 

as  the  streams  around  swarmed  with  otter 
Hermits  dwelling  in  the  wilderness,  as  far     and  beaver,  and  with  fowl  of  every  feather, 
as  I  am  aware,  were  to  be  seen  only  in  the     and  fish  of  every  scale. 

northern  and  western  parts  of  the  island,  where  lo  Beautiful  after  their  kind  were  those  far 
not  only  did  the  forest  afford  concealment,  isles  in  the  eyes  of  the  monks  who  were  the 
but  the  crags  and  caves  shelter.  The  southern  first  settlers  in  the  wilderness.  The  author  of 
and  eastern  EngUsh  seldom  possess  the  vivid  the  "History  of  Ramsey,"^  grows  enthusiastic, 
imagination  of  the  Briton,  the  Northumbrian,  and  somewhat  bombastic  also,  as  he  describes 
andtheScot;  while  the  rich  lowlands  of  central,  15  the  lovely  isle,  which  got  its  name  from  the 
southern,  and  eastern  England,  well  peopled  solitary  ram  which  had  wandered  thither, 
and  well  tilled,  offered  few  spots  lonely  enough  either  in  extreme  drought  or  over  the  winter 
for  the  hermit's  cell.  ice,  and  never  able  to  return,  was  found  feed- 

One  district  only  was  desolate  enough  to  ing  among  the  wild  deer,  fat  beyond  the  wont 
attract  those  who  wished  to  be  free  from  the  20  of  rams.  He  tells  of  the  stately  ashes,  most 
world, — namely,  the  great  fens  north  of  Cam-  of  them  cut  in  his  time,  to  furnish  mighty  beams 
bridge;  and  there,  accordingly,  as  early  as  the  for  the  church  roof;  of  the  rich  pastures  painted 
seventh  century,  hermits  settled  in  morasses  with  all  gay  flowers  in  spring;  of  the  "green 
now  so  utterly  transformed  that  it  is  difficult  to  crown"  or  reed  and  alder  which  encircled  the 
restore  in  one's  imagination  the  original  25  isle;  of  the  fair  wide  mere  (now  drained)  with 
scenery.  its  "sandy  beach"  along  the  forest  side,  "a 

The  fens  in  the  seventh  century  were  prob-  delight,"  he  says,  "to  all  who  look  thereon." 
ably  very  like  the  forests  at  the  mouth  of  the  In  like  humour  William  of  Malm  esbury,*  writ- 
Mississippi,  or  the  swampy  shores  of  the  ing  in  the  first  half  of  the  twelfth  century, 
Carolinas.  Their  vast  plain  is  now,  in  summer,  30  speaks  of  Thomey  Abbey^  and  its  isle.  "It 
oneseaof  golden  corn;  in  winter,  a  black  dreary  represents,"  says  he,  "a  very  paradise;  for 
fallow,  cut  into  squares  by  stagnant  dykes,  that  in  pleasure  and  delight  it  resembles  heaven 
and  broken  only  by  unsightly  pumping  mills,  itself.  These  marshes  abound  in  trees,  whose 
and  doleful  hnes  of  poplar  trees.  Of  old  it  length,  without  a  knot,  doth  emulate  the  stars, 
was  a  labyrinth  of  black  wandering  streams;  35  The  plain  there  is  as  level  as  the  sea,  alluring 
broad  lagoons;  morasses  submerged  every  the  eye  with  its  green  grass,  and  so  smooth 
springtide;  vast  beds  of  reed  and  sedge  and  that  there  is  naught  to  trip  the  foot  of  him 
fern;  vast  copses  of  willow,  alder,  and  gray  who  runs  through  it.  Neither  is  there  any 
poplar,  rooted  in  the  floating  peat,  which  was  waste  place;  for  in  some  parts  are  apples,  in 
swallowing  up  slowly,  all-devouring,  yet  all- 40  others  vines,  which  are  either  spread  on  the 
preserving,  the  forests  of  fir  and  oak,  ash  and  ground,  or  raised  on  poles.  A  mutual  strife 
poplar,  hazel  and  yew,  which  had  once  grown  there  is  between  Nature  and  Art;  so  that  what 
on  that  low  rank  soil,  sinking  slowly  (so  geol-  one  produces  not  the  other  supplies.  What 
ogists  assure  us)  beneath  the  sea  from  age  to  shall  I  say  of  those  fair  buildings,  which  'tis 
age.  Trees,  torn  down  by  flood  and  storm,  45  so  wonderful  to  see  the  ground  among  those 
floated  and  lodged  in  rafts,  damming  the  waters      fens  upbear?  " 

back  upon  the  land.  Streams,  bewildered  in  So  wrote  William  of  Malmesbury,  after  the 
the  flats,  changed  their  channels,  mingling  wisdom  and  industry  of  the  monks,  for  more 
'  silt  and  sand  with  the  peat-moss.  Nature,  than  four  centuries,  had  been  at  work  to  civilize 
left  to  herself,  ran  into  wild  riot  and  chaos  50  and  cultivate  the  wilderness.  Yet  even  then 
more  and  more,  till  the  whole  fen  became  one  there  was  another  side  to  the  picture;  and 
"Dismal  Swamp," i  in  which  at  the  time  of  Thomey,  Ramsey,  or  Crowland  would  have 
the  Norman  Conquest,  the  "Last  of  the  Eng-  seemed,  for  nine  months  every  year,  sad  places 
lish,"2  like  Dred  in  Mrs.  Stowe's  tale,  took  enough  to  us  comfortable  folk  of  the  nineteenth 
refuge  from  their  tyrants,  and  lived,  like  him,  55  century.  But  men  lived  hard  in  those  days, 
a  free  and  joyous  life  awhile.  even  the  most  high-bom,  and  luxurious  nobles 

1  In  Mrs.  Stowe's  novel  Dred,  the  hero,  a  runaway  slave,  ^  Ramsey  Abbey,  near  Peterborough  in  the  Fen  Country. 

Uvea  in  the  Dismal  Swamp.                                 .         .  ,.  *  V.  p.  45,  supra.         ,    ^       ,     ^     .,,          ,          .        , 

«  Hereward  the  Wake,  one  of  the  last  to  resist  William  »  Thorney    Abbey    and    Crowland    Abbey    (mentioned 

the  Conqueror.  later)  are  short  distances  from  Peterborough. 


IJ  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

ixnA  ladiee;  under  dark  skies,  in  houses  which  especial  fondness  for  old  heathen  barrows  with 
we  should  think,  from  darkness,  draught,  and  their  fancied  treasure-hoards;  how  they  "filled 
want  of  space,  unfit  for  felons'  cells.  Hardly  the  house  with  their  coming,  and  poured  in  on 
they  lived;  and  easily  were  they  pleased;  and  every  side,  from  above,  and  from  beneath, 
thanked  God  for  the  least  gleam  of  sunshine,  5  and  everywhere.  They  were  in  countenance 
the  least  patch  of  green,  after  the  terrible  and  horrible,  and  they  had  great  heads,  and  a  long 
long  winters  of  the  Middle  Ages.  And  ugly  neck,  and  a  lean  visage;  they  were  filthy  and 
enough  thoee  winters  must  have  been,  what  squalid  in  their  beards,  and  they  had  rough 
with  snow  and  darkness,  flood  and  ice,  ague  ears,  and  crooked  "nebs,"  and  fierce  eyes,  and 
and  rheumatism;  while  through  the  dreary  10 foul  mouths;  and  their  teeth  were  like  horses' 
winter's  night  the  whistle  of  the  wind  and  the  tusks;  and  their  throats  were  filled  with  flame, 
wild  cries  of  the  waterfowl  were  translated  into  and  they  were  grating  in  their  voice;  they  had 
the  howls  of  witches  and  demons;  and  (as  in  crooked  shanks,  and  knees  big  and  great  be- 
St.  Guthlac's  case)  the  dehrious  fancies  of  hind,  and  distorted  toes,  and  cried  hoarsely  with 
marsh  fever  made  those  fiends  take  hideous  15  their  voices.  .  .  .  And  they  tugged  and  led 
shapes  before  the  inner  eye,  and  act  fantastic  him  out  of  the  cot,  and  led  him  to  the  swart 
horrors  round  the  fen-man's  bed  of  sedge.  fen,  and  threw  and  sunk  him  in  the  muddy 

Concerning  this  St.  Guthlac«  full  details  waters.  After  that  they  brought  him  into  the 
remain,  both  in  Latin  and  Anglo-Saxon;  the  wild  places  of  the  wilderness,  among  the  thick 
author  of  the  original  document  professing  to  20  beds  of  brambles  that  all  his  body  was  torn.  .  .  . 
be  one  Felix,  a  monk  of  Ramsey,  near  by,  who  After  that  they  took  him  and  beat  him  with 
wrote  possibly  as  early  as  the  eighth  century.         iron  whips,  and  after  that  they  brought  him 

There  we  may  read  how  the  young  warrior —  on  their  creaking  wings  between  the  cold  re- 
noble  Guthlac  ("The  Battle-Play,"  the  "Sport     gions  of  the  air." 

of  War,")  tired  of  slaying  and  sinning,  be- 25  But  there  are  gentler  and  more  human 
thought  him  to  fulfil  the  prodigies  seen  at  his  touches  in  that  old  legend.  You  may  read  in 
birth;  how  he  wandered  into  the  fen,  where  it  how  all  the  wild  birds  of  the  fen  came  to  St. 
one  Tatwin  (who  after  became  a  saint  hkewise)  Guthlac,  and  he  fed  them  after  their  kind; 
took  him  in  his  canoe  to  a  spot  so  lonely  as  to  how  the  ravens  tormented  him,  stealing  let- 
be  almost  unknown,  buried  in  reeds  and  alders  30  ters,  gloves,  and  what  not,  from  his  visitors; 
and  how  he  found  among  the  trees  naught  but  and  then,  seized  with  compunction  at  his 
an  old  "law,"  as  the  Scots  still  call  a  mound,  reproofs,  brought  them  back,  or  hanged  them 
which  men  of  old  had  broken  into,  seeking  for  on  the  reeds;  and  how,  as  Wilfred,  a  holy  visit- 
treaaure,  and  a  httle  pond;  and  how  he  built  ant,  was  sitting  with  him,  discoursing  of  the 
himself  a  hermit's  cell  thereon,  and  saw  visions  35  contemplative  life,  two  swallows  came  flying 
and  wrought  miracles;  and  how  men  came  to  in,  and  lifted  up  their  song,  sitting  now  on  the 
him,  as  to  a  faku-  or  shaman^  of  the  East;  saint's  hand,  now  on  his  shoulder,  now  on  his 
notably  one  Beccd,  who  acted  as  his  servant;  knee;  and  how,  when  Wilfrid  wondered  thereat, 
and  how  as  Beccel  was  shaving  the  samt  one  Guthlac  made  answer,  "Know  you  not  that 
day  there  feu  on  him  a  great  temptation:  40  he  who  hath  led  his  life  according  to  God's 
Why  should  he  not  cut  St.  Guthlac's  throat,  wiU,  to  him  the  wild  beasts  and  the  wild  birds 
and  instal  himself  m  his  cell,  that  he  might     draw  the  more  near? " 

sf'^M'ljM^T'"  ^if ^?7  -^  sainthood?  But  After  fifteen  years  of  such  a  life,  in  fever, 
fihSh^^iriT??  the  inward  temptation  ague,  and  starvation,  no  wonder  St.  Guthlac 
h!lf  tv^^f;n?  J'^T^^'ft^  of  those45died.  They  buried  him  in  a  leaden  coffin  (a 
^n^^nf^nn  «^H  1?     ^^^uked  the  ofTender     grand  and  expensive  luxury  in  the  seventh 

^?.^!^,^;r     J  7'"'  ""f /m^5'  '°^-  '^"^"^y)  ^bi^^  ^^  been  sent  to  him  during 

of  The  F^na  now^'htn^  ^  detailed  account  his  life  by  a  Saxon  princess;  and  then  over  hi! 
or  the  I<auna  now  happily  extinct  m  the  fens;     sacred   and  wonder-workine  cornse    as  over 

fut'oVS^'h!^  d^^^^^hro'^^'^.^r^^^*^^^  ^'  ^  ^-^^^-^  saTntthLTo::'  a^haM 
^  him  aloft  th,^.^^^  ^^'  T^°^''      ""'^^  ^  community  of  monks,  companies  of  pill 

rLSTuttl^r^?^^^^^^^^^         i:zi^,  ^::^;r^£t  ^'^  tt 

likewise  St.  BotolDh  ffrom  whom  Rnf„lf=f Sl„_^f  /  *'^}  ^\  ^^^'  founded  on  great  piles 

Boston, 
to  haunt 


Vs    KoM^it^'lZT^'Tf  "     ^/■^''^'^■-  «"  ^'  '^t.  founded  on  great  pile^ 


A/oWrM.religioua  mendicant,  especially  amone  the         rr       •'   ^^  PiOUgWands,   from  which  in   time 

A^«^.^   A  .. :,  .  _..= ._ .       y         «  of  famine,  the  monks  of  Crowland  fed  all  people 

of  the  neighbouring  fens;  with  its  tower  with 


JSSSriS;2rS<te  iib^'* "  *  °»e<ii<:'°e-man  or  sorcerer!     ^f  famine,  the  monks  of  Crowland  fed  all  people 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  743 

seven  bolls,  which  had  not  their  like  in  Eng-  wooden  abbey,  destroyed  by  fire,  was  being 
land;  Its  twelve  altars  rich  with  the  gifts  of  replaced  by  that  noble  pile  of  stone  whose 
the  Danish  vikmgs  and  princes,  and  even  with  ruins  are  still  standing,  the  French  Abbot  of 
twelve  white  bear-skins,  the  gift  of  Canute's  Crowland  (so  runs  the  legend)  sent  French 
self;  while  all  around  were  the  cottages  of  the  5  monks  to  open  a  school  under  the  new  French 
corrodiers,  or  folk,  who  for  corrody,  or  Hfe  donjon,  in  the  little  Roman  town  of  Grante- 
pittance  from  the  abbey,  had  given  away  their  brigge;  whereby— so  does  all  earnest  work, 
lands,  to  the  wrong  and  detriment  of  their  however  mistaken,  grow  and  spread  in  this 
^^^i^'  •  u-  u  world,  infinitely  and  for  ever— St.  Guthlac,  by 
But  withm  those  four  rivers,  at  least,  were  10  his  canoe  voyage  into  Crowland  Island,  be- 
neither  tyranny  nor  slavery.  Those  who  took  came  the  spiritual  father  of  the  University  of 
refuge  in  St.  Guthlac's  place  from  cruel  lords  Cambridge  in  the  old  world;  and  therefore  of 
must  keep  his  peace  toward  each  other,  and  her  noble  daughter,  the  University  of  Cam- 
earn  their  living  like  honest  men,  safe  while  bridge,  in  the  new  world,  which  fen-men  sailing 
they  so  did:  for  between  those  four  rivers  15  from  Boston  deeps  colonized  and  Christianized 
St.  Guthlac  and  his  abbot  were  the  only  lords;  800  years  after  St.  Guthlac's  death, 
and  neither  summoner,  nor  sheriff  of  the  king, 

nor  armed  forces  of  knight  or  earl,  could  enter—  ©atth^iO    j^molD 
"the  inheritance  of  the  Lord,  the  soil  of  St. 

Mary  and  St.   Bartholomew,  the  most  holy  20  1822-1888 
sanctuary  of  St.  Guthlac  and  his  monks;  the 

ministerfreefrom  worldly  servitude;  the  special  THE  GRAND  STYLE 

^w^of  °^  '"'"'■  "'"^t7°"%kings;  the  sole  (p^„^  0„  Tramlating  Homer,  1861) 

refuge  of  anyone  m  worldly  tnbulation;  the  -t/  >  / 

perpetual  abode  of  the  saints;  the  possession  25  So  deeply  seated  is  the  difference  between 
of  religious  men,  especially  set  apart  by  the  the  ballad-manner  and  Homer's  that  even  a 
common  council  of  the  realm;  by  reason  of  man  of  the  highest  powers,  even  a  man  of  the 
the  frequent  miracles  of  the  holy  confessor  St.  greatest  vigour  of  spirit  and  of  true  genius, — 
Guthlac,  an  ever  fruitful  mother  of  camphire  the  Coryphseus^  of  balladists.  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
in  the  vineyards  of  Engadi;^  and,  by  reason  30 —fails  with  a  manner  of  this  kind  to  produce 
of  the  privileges  granted  by  the  kings,  a  city  an  effect  at  all  like  the  effect  of  Homer.  "I 
of  grace  and  safety  to  all  who  repent."  am  not  so  rash,"  declares  Mr.  Newman,  "as 

Does  not  all  this  sound  like  a  voice  from  to  say  that  if  freedom  be  given  to  rhyme  as  in 
another  planet?  It  is  all  gone;  and  it -was  Walter  Scott's  poetry,"— Walter  Scott,  "by 
good  and  right  that  it  should  go  when  it  had  35  far  the  most  Homeric  of  our  poets,"  as  in  an- 
done  its  work,  and  that  the  civilisation  of  the  other  place  he  calls  him, — "a  genius  may  not 
fen  should  be  taken  up  and  carried  out  by  arise  who  will  translate  Homer  into  the  melo- 
men  like  the  good  knight,  Richard  of  Rulos,  dies  of  Marmion."  "The  truly  classical  and 
who  two  generations  after  the  Conquest,  marry-      the  truly  romantic,"  says  Dr.  Maginn,  "are 

i  ing  Hereward's  granddaughter,  and  becoming  40  one;  the  moss-troopmg  Nestor  reappears  in  the 
Lord  of  Deeping  (the  deep  meadow),  thought  moss-trooping  heroes  of  Percy's  Reliques;" 
that  he  could  do  the  same  work  from  the  and  a  description  by  Scott,  which  he  quotes, 
hall  of  Bourne  as  the  monks  did  from  their      he   calls   "graphic,   and   therefore  Homeric." 

j  cloisters;  got  permission  from  the  Crowland      He  forgets  our  fourth  axiom, — that  Homer  is 

monks,  for  twenty  marks  of  silver,  to  drain  as  45  not  only  graphic;  he  is  also  noble,  and  has 

much  as  he  could  of  the  common  marshes;  and      the  grand  style.     Human  nature  under  like 

then  shut  out  the  Welland  by  strong  dykes,      circumstances  is  probably  in  all  ages  much  the 

built  cottages,  marked  out  gardens,  and  tilled      same;  and  so  far  it  may  be  said  that  "the  truly 

fields,  till  "out  of  slough  and  bogs  accursed,      classical,  and  the  truly  romantic  are  one;" 

he  made  a  garden  of  pleasure."  50  but  it  is  of  little  use  to  tell  us  this,  because  we 

Yet  one  lasting  work  those  monks  of  Crow-      know  the  human  nature  of  other  ages  only 

land  seem  to  have  done  besides  those  firm      through   the  representations  of   them   which 

dykes  and  rich  cornlands  of  Porsand  which      have  come  down  to  us,  and  the  classical  and 

^  endure  unto  this  day.    For  within  two  genera-      romantic  modes  of  representation  are  so  far 

lions  of  the  Norman  conquest,  while  the  old  55  from  being  "one,"  that  they  remain  eternally 

,^,  „        .  „  -  .  1^   ..Tv/r    K  i^„^^  ja  „T,t«  rr,o     dlstluct,  BX16.  hfxwQ  created  for  us  a  separation 

8Cf.  Song  of  Solomon,  i.  14:  "My  beloved  la  unto  me  \-,      ,                u        u*  u  xu                    x-      i 

aa  a  cluster  of  camphire  in  the  vineyards  of  En-gedi."  between  the  twO  WOrldS  WhlCh  they  respectively 
The  vineyards  of  En-gedi  were  watered  by  a  spring,  the 

region  about  being  desolate,  on  the  west  shore  of  the  i  The  leader  and  speaker  of  the  chorus  in  Greek  drama 

Dead  Sea.  The  phrase  is  analogous  to  "prince  of  balladists." 


744  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

represent.    Therefore  to  call  Nestor  the  "moss-  style,  and  to  put  them  side  by  side  with  this! 

trooping^  Nestor"  is  absurd,  because,  though  of  Scott.    For  example,  when  Homer  says : — 

Nestor  may  possibly  have  been  much  the  same  ,^  ^  ,     ,>       „,         ,    ,      ,    ,^ 

sort  of  man  as  many  a  moss-trooper,  he  has  yet  '^^^J  ^^°^'  ?^r'  """l  ''^'/^^  o\v<i>vpeaL  ofJrajs,'^    I 

come  to  us  through  a  mode  of  representation  5                              r        ,       r                             ,J 

so  unlike  that  of  Percy's  Reliques,  that  instead  that  is  in  the  grand  style.    When  Virgil  says:" 

of  "reappearing  in  the  moss-trooping  heroes"  ,,^. 

of  these  poems,  he  exists  in  our  imagination  as  ^' borem  ^''^  vuiiutem  ex  me  verumque  li 

something  utterly  unlike  them^  and  as  belong-  poj-tunl^ex  aliis," 

mg  to  another  world.    So  the  Greeks  m  Shake-  10 

speare's  Troilus  and  Cressida  are  no  longer  the  that  is  in  the  grand  style.    When  Dante  says:^ 

Greeks  whom  we  have  known  in  Homer,  be-  .    i    /.  i      ^           ■  j  ^  •         •-, 

cause  they  come  to  us  through  a  mode  of  repre-  La^cio  lo  fele,  et  vo  pei  dolci  pomi^ 

^  .•        c  ±.^.               i-          ij      r>4-Ti.  Promessi  a  me  per  lo  verace  Duca; 

sentation  of  the  romantic  world.    But  I  must  ^^  g^^  ^j  ^^^^^^     ^^  ^^^^.^^  ^^,  \^  ^^^i , 

not  forget  Scott.  15 

I  suppose  that  when  Scott  is  in  what  may      that  is  in  the  grand  style.   When  Milton  says  :- 
be  called  full  ballad  swing,  no  one  will  hesitate 

to  pronounce  his  manner  neither  Homeric  nor       ^„  ,         "His  form  had  yet  not  lost 
the  grand  manner.      When   he  says,  for  in-      All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
,      ^  r.,^  Less  than  an  archangel  ruined,  and  the  exce 

"I  do  not  rhyme  to  that  dull  elf'  ,        ^     „    .    .      ,  ^       ^      ^t      ^  . 

Who  cannot  ipage  to  himself,"  that,  finally  is  m  the  grand  style.    Now  let  ^nf 

one,  after  repeating  to  himself  these  four  pas- 

and  so  on,  any  scholar  will  feel  that  this  is  not      sages,  repeat  again  the  passage  of  Scott,  and 

Homer's   manner.      But   let  us   take   Scott's  25  he  will  perceive  that  there  is  something  In 

poetry  at  its  best;  and  when  it  is  at  its  best,  it      style  which  the  four  first  have  in  common,  ;     ' 

is  undoubtedly  very  good  indeed: —  which  the  last  is  without;  and  this  somethr  g 

"Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field,^  i«  precisely  the  grand  manner.     It  is  no  dis- 

His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield;  respect  to  Scott  to  say  that  he  does  not  attain 

Edmund  is  down,— my  life  is  reft,—  30  to  this  manner  in  his  poetry;  to  say  so,  is 

The  Admiral  alone  is  left.  merely  to  say  that  he  is  not  among  the  five 

Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire, —  or  six  supreme  poets  of  the  world.     Among 

With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire,  these  he  is  not;  but,  being  a  man  of  far  greater 

FuU  upon  Scotland's  central  host,  powers  than  the  ballad-poets,  he  has  tried 

Or  victory  and  England  s  lost.  35  gj^^  ^^  ^^^^^  instrument  a  compass  and    .  , 

That  is,  no  doubt,  as  vigorous  as  possible,  as      elevation  which  it  does  not  nat-urally  possess, 

spirited  as  possible;  it  is  exceedingly  fine  poe-      in  order  to  enable  him  to  come  nearer  to  the 

try.    Now,  how  shall  I  make  him  who  doubts      effects  of  the  instrument  used  by  the  gre 

this  feel  that  I  say  true;  that  these  lines  of      epic  poets, — an  instrument  which  he  felt 

Scott  are  essentially  neither  in  Homer's  style  40  could  not  truly  use, — and  in  this  attempt 

nor  in  the  grand  style?    I  may  point  out  to     has  but  imperfectly  succeeded.     The  poetij 

him  that  the  movement  of  Scott's  fines,  while     style  of  Scott  is — (it  becomes  necessary  to  say 

it  is  fapid,  is  also  at  the  same  time  what  the     so  when  it  is  proposed  to  "translate  Homer 

French  call  saccade,  its  rapidity  is  "jerky;"      into  the  melodies  of  Marmion") — it  is,  tried 

whereas  Homer's  rapidity  is  a  flowing  rapidity.  45  by  the  highest  standards,  a  bastard  epic  style; 

But  this  is  something  external  and  material;      and  that  is  why,  out  of  his  own  powerful  hands, 

it  is  but  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  an      it  has  had  so  little  success.     It  is  a  less  nat- 

inward  and  spiritual  diversity.    I  may  discuss     ural,  and  therefore  a  less  good  style,  than  the 

what,  in  the  abstract,  constitutes  the  grand     original  ballad  style;  while  it  shares  with  the 

style;  but  that  sort  of  general  discussion  never  50  ballad  style  the  inherent  incapacity  of  rising! 

much  helps  our  judgment  of  particular  in-      into  the  grand  style,  of  adequately  rendering) 

stances.    I  may  say  that  the  presence  or  ab-      Homer.    Scott  is  certainly  at  his  best  in  his 

sence  of  the  grand  style  can  only  be  spiritually  ^ 

discerned;  and  this  is  true,  but  to  plead  this         '';^^?.°°*?k*'  ^^"^^^IT^'-^'I  pf?Ji}°"'*^^^;i^ 

,      ,        ,.     '  -.  ,,         ,.'         ,.  Ti-^       1       ,        mentest  thou  thyself  on  thiswise?    Patroclus,  too,  ai^«| 

looks    like    evading    the    dlinculty.       My    best  65  who  was  a  far  better  than  thou."    Iliad,  xxi.  106.  \l 

way  is  to  take  eminent  specimens  of  the  grand      ,^ ''J--  r^^^rji  "?"om  X?a"S'^Se«.  Z'/aT 

'The  marauders  between  England  and  Scotland  were  ^  "I  leave  the  gall  of  bitterness,  and  I  go  for  the  apples' 

called  7woss-iJrooper«  because  of  their  constant  riding  over  of  sweetness  promised  unto  me  by  my  faithful  Guii 

the  moss  or  bogs.  but  far  as  the  centre  it  behoaves  me  first  to  fall."    ii' 

*  Marmion,  c  vi.  38.  *  Marmion,  c.  vi.  29.  xvi.  61. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  745 


attles.    Of  Homer  you  could  not  say  this;  merits  of  the  Middle  Age,  who  will  deny  that 

e  13  not  better  in  his  battles  than  elsewhere;  Oxford,   by  her  ineffable  charm,   keeps  ever 

ut  even  between  the  battle-pieces  of  the  two  calling  us  nearer  to  the  true  goal  of  all  of  us, 

here  exists  all  the  difference  which  there  is  to  the  ideal,  to  perfection,— to  beauty,  in  a 

ctween  an  able  work  and  a  masterpiece.  sword,  which  is  only  truth  seen  from  another 

"Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field,  Tnt-~°^r''AT'^t?''  f'^''  ^"  the^ science  of 

His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield;  Tubingen.^     Adorable  dreamer,  whose  heart 

Edmund  is  down,— my  life  is  reft,—  ^^^  ^^^"  ^^  romantic!  who  hast  given  thyself 

The  Admiral  alone  is  left."  ^^  prodigally,  given  thyself  to  sides  and  to 

10  heroes  not  mine;  only  never  to  the  Philistines! 
"For  not  in  the  hands  of  Diomede  the  son  home  of  lost  causes,  and  forsaken  beliefs,  and 
f  Tydeus  rages  the  spear,  to  ward  off  destruc-  unpopular  names,  and  impossible  loyalties! 
ion  from  the  Danaans;  neither  as  yet  have  I  what  example  could  ever  so  inspire  us  to  keep 
card  the  voice  of  the  son  of  Atreus,  shouting  down  the  Philistine^  in  ourselves,  what  teacher 
ut  of  his  hated  mouth;  but  the  voice  of  Hector  15  could  ever  so  save  us  from  that  bondage  which 
he  slayer  of  men  bursts  round  me,  as  he  cheers  Goethe,  in  his  incomparable  lines  on  the  death 
n  the  Trojans;  and  they  with  their  yellings  of  Schiller,  makes  it  his  friend's  highest  praise 
II  all  the  plain,  overcoming  the  Achaians  in  (and  nobly  did  Schiller  deserve  the  praise)  to 
he  battle." — I  protest  that,  to  my  feeling,  have  left  miles  out  of  sight  behind  him;— the 
Tomer's  performance,  even  through  that  pale  20 bondage  of  "was  uns  alle  bdndigt,*  das  Ge- 
nd  far-off  shadow  of  a  prose  translation,  still  meine!"  She  will  forgive  me,  even  if  I  have 
as  a  hundred  times  more  of  the  grand  manner  unwittingly  drawn  upon  her  a  shot  or  two 
bout  it,  than  the  original  poetry  of  Scott.  aimed  at  her  unworthy  son;  for  she  is  generous. 

Well,  then,  the  ballad  manner  and  the  and  the  cause  in  which  I  fight  is,  after  all,  hers. 
•aJlad-measure,  whether  in  the  hands  of  the  25  Apparitions  of  a  day,  what  is  our  puny  warfare 
Id  ballad  poets,  or  arranged  by  Chapman,  or  which  this  queen  of  romance  has  been  waging 
rranged  by  Mr.  Newman,  or,  even  arranged  against  them  for  centuries,  and  will  wage  after 
y  Sir  Walter  Scott,  cannot  worthily  render  we  are  gone? 
lomer.    And  for  one  reason:  Homer  is  plain, 

0  are  they;  Homer  is  natural,  so  are  they;  30  rTTTTTP  qptrtt 

ut  Homer  is  sustainedly  noble,  and  they  are  ^^^  ^h^hliK^  bFlKll 

ot.    Homer  and  they  are  both  of  them  natural,  (^j.^^^  j,f^^  ^^^y  ^j  (j^^^  Literature,  1867) 

nd  therefore  touching  and  stirring;  but  the 

rand  style,  which  is  Homer's,  is  something  Let  me  repeat  what  I  have  often  said  of  the 
lore  than  touching  and  stirring;  it  can  form  35  characteristics  which  mark  the  English  spirit, 
be  character,  it  is  edifying.  The  old  English  the  English  genius.  This  spirit,  this  genius, 
alladist  may  stir  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  heart  judged  to  be  sure,  rather  from  a  friend's  than 
ke  a  trumpet,  and  this  is  much;  but  Homer,  an  enemy's  point  of  view,  yet  judged  on  the 
ut  the  few  artists  in  the  grand  style,  can  do  whole  fairly,  is  characterised,  I  have  repeat- 
lore;  they  can  refine  the  raw  natural  man,  40edly  said,  by  energy  with  honesty.  Take  away 
hey  can  transmute  him.  some  of  the  energy  which  comes  to  us,  as  I 

believe,  in  part  from  Celtic  and  Roman  sources; 

instead  of  energy,  say  rather  steadiness;  and 

OXFORD  you  have  the  Germanic  genius:  steadiness  wiih 

From  Preface  to  Essays  in  Cnticism,  First  ^5 /^^nesfy.     It  is  evident  how  nearly  the  twc 

ixuiii  xiciauc  "^  y  characterisations  approach  one  another;  and 

'  -^  yet  they  leave,  as  we  shall  see,  a  great  deal  of 

No,  we  are  all  seekers  still!  seekers  often     room  for  difference.    Steadiness  with  honesty; 

lake  mistakes  and  I  wish  mine  to  redound      the  danger  for  a  national  spirit  thus  composed 

o  my  own  discredit  only,  and  not  to  touch  50  is  the  humdrum,  the  plain  and  ugly,  the  ig- 

)xford.    Beautiful  city!  so  venerable,  so  lovely,      noble:  in  a  word,  das  Gemeine,  die  Gemeinheit,^ 

o  unravaged  by  the  fierce  intellectual  life  of     that  curse  of  Germany,  against  which  Goethe 

ur  century,  so  serene!  was  all  his  life  fighting.    The  excellence  of  a 

,     .  1,   ^    ,     fin      national  spirit  thus  composed  is  freedom  from 

There  are  our  young  barbarians,  all  at  play  I     ^^ 

,        ..  a  Tubingen  University,  which  had  a  faculty  on  natural 

^nd  yet,   steeped  in  sentiment  as  she  lies,      acience.  ,  ..  .     . 

preaxiing  her  gardens  to  the  moonlight,  and     ^p'JJ^J focS' "re"^  '^"  "^^'^      ''*^''    '°''*  *  °^ 

whispering  from  her  towers  the  last  enchant-  <  "That  which  binds  us  all,  the  commonplace." 

1  Byron,  Childe  Harold,  o.  iv.  at.  141.  » The  ordinary,  the  commonplace. 


746  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

whim,  flightiness,  perverseness;  patient  fidelity  however  well  it  may  do  for  the  Cymri,  wil 
to  Nature, — in  a  word,  science, — leading  it  at  never  do  for  the  Gael,  never  do  for  the  typical 
last,  though  slowly,  and  not  by  the  most  bril-  Irishman  of  Donnybrook  fair.  Again,  M 
liant  road,  out  of  the  bondage  of  the  hum-  Hen&n'sinfiniedelicatessede  sentiment  qui  carac- 
drum  and  common,  into  the  better  life.  The  5  terise  la  race  Celtique;^  how  little  that  accords 
universal  dead-level  of  plainness  and  homeli-  with  the  popular  conception  of  an  Irishmar 
ness,  the  lack  of  all  beauty  and  distinction  in  who  wants  to  borrow  money.  Sentiment  is 
form  and  feature,  the  slowness  and  clumsiness  however,  the  word  which  marks  where  the 
of  the  language,  the  eternal  beer,  sausages,  and  Celtic  races  really  touch  and  are  one;  senti- 
bad  tobacco,  the  blank  commonness  every-  10  mental,  if  the  Celtic  nature  is  to  be  charac- 
where,  pressing  at  last  like  a  weight  on  the  terised  by  a  single  term,  is  the  best  term  to  take 
spirits  of  the  traveller  in  Northern  Germany,  An  organisation  quick  to  feel  impressions,  anc 
and  making  him  impatient  to  be  gone, — this  feeling  them  very  strongly;  a  lively  personality 
is  the  weak  side;  the  industry,  the  well-doing,  therefore,  keenly  sensitive  to  joy  and  to  sor- 
the  patient  steady  elaboration  of  things,  the  15  row;  this  is  the  main  point.  If  the  downs  ol 
idea  of  science  governing  all  departments  of  life  too  much  outnumber  the  ups,  this  tempera- 
human  activity, — this  is  the  strong  side;  and  ment,  just  because  it  is  so  quickly  and  nearl> 
through  this  side  of  her  genius,  Germany  has  conscious  of  all  impressions,  may  no  doubt  be 
already  obtained  excellent  results,  and  is  des-  seen  shy  and  wounded;  it  may  be  seen  in  wist- 
tined,  we  may  depend  upon  it,  however  her  20  ful  regret,  it  may  be  seen  in  passionate,  pene- 
pedantry,  her  slowness,  her  fumbling,  her  inef-  trating  melancholy;  but  its  essence  is  to  aspire 
fectiveness,  her  bad  government,  may  at  times  ardently  after  life,  light,  and  emotion,  to  be 
make  us  cry  out,  to  an  immense  development.  expansive,  adventurous,  and  gay.  Our  wore; 
For  didness,  the  creeping  Saxons, — says  an  gay,  it  is  said,  is  itself  Celtic.  It  is  not  frorr 
old  Irish  poem,  assigning  the  characteristics  25  (/aMc/zum,  but  from  the  Celtic  gair,  to  laugh 
for  which  different  nations  are  celebrated: —         and   the   impressionable   Celt,    soon   up   ane: 

soon  down,  is  the  more  down  because  it  is  sc 
For  acuteness  and  valour^  the  Greeks,  j^jg  ^^^^^^  to  be  ^      ^^  ^e  sociable,  hospi- 

For  excessive  pride,  the  Romans,  ^^1     eloquent,   admired,  figuring  away  bril- 

For  dulness,  the  creepmg  Saxons,  „„,.     .,'       tt    i         u  •  ui.      i  \,         -i     u 

For  beauty  anei  amorousness,  the  Gaedhils.  ^0  liantly.  He  loves  bright  colours,  he  easily  be- 
comes audacious,  overcrowing,  full  of  fan- 
We  have  seen  in  what  sense,  and  with  what  faronade.  The  German,  say  the  physiologists, 
explanation,  this  characterisation  of  the  Ger-  has  the  larger  volume  of  intestines  (and  whc 
man  may  be  allowed  to  stand;  now  let  us  come  that  has  ever  seen  a  German  at  a  table-d'h6te 
to  the  beautiful  and  amorous  Gaedhil.  Or  35  will  not  readily  believe  this?),  the  Frencbmar 
rather,  let  us  find  a  definition  which  may  suit  has  the  more  developed  organs  of  respiration, 
both  branches  of  the  Celtic  family,  the  Cymri  That  is  just  the  expansive,  eager,  Celtic  nature 
as  well  as  the  Gael.  It  is  clear  that  special  the  head  in  the  air,  snuffing  and  snorting;  c 
circumstances  may  have  developed  some  one  proud  look  and  a  high  stomach,^  as  the  Psalmisi 
side  in  the  national  character  of  the  Cymri  40  says,  but  without  any  such  settled  savage 
or  Gael,  Welshman  or  Irishman,  so  that  the  temper  as  the  Psalmist  seems  to  impute  b\ 
observer's  notice  shall  be  readily  caught  by  those  words.  For  good  and  for  bad,  the  Celtic 
this  side,  and  yet  it  may  be  impossible  to  adopt  genius  is  more  airy  and  unsubstantial,  goes  less 
it  as  characteristic  of  the  Celtic  nature  gener-  near  the  ground,  than  the  German.  The  CcH 
ally.  For  instance,  in  his  beautiful  essay  on  45  is  often  called  sensual;  but  it  is  not  so  much 
the  poetry  of  the  Celtic  races,  M.  Renan,^  with  the  vulgar  satisfactions  of  sense  that  attraci 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  Bretons  and  the  Welsh,  him  as  emotion  and  excitement;  he  is  truly 
is  struck  with  the  timidity,  the  shyness,  the  as  I  began  by  saying,  sentimental, 
delicacy  of  the  Celtic  nature,  its  preference  for  Sentimental, — always  ready  to  react  agains 
a  retired  fife,  its  embarrassment  at  having  to  50  the  despotism  of  fact;  that  is  the  description  i 
deal  with  the  great  world.  He  talks  of  the  great  friend  of  the  Celt^  gives  of  him;  and  it  h 
douce  petite  race  naturellement  chrkienne,^  his  not  a  bad  description  of  the  sentimental  tem^ 
race  fiire  et  timide,  d  Vexterieur  gav/^he  et  em-  perament;  it  lets  us  into  the  secret  of  its  dan- 
harrassee.*    It  is  evident  that  this  description,      gers  and  of  its  habitual  want  of  success.    Bal- 

6  In6nlte   delicacy  of   sentiment   which   characteriza 

*  A  religious  historian  of  France.     His  essay  on  The       the  Celtic  race.  > 
Poetry  of  the  Celtic  Races  was  Arnold's  chief  inspiration           ^Psalms,  ci.  7.     <Prayer-Book  version)  "Whoso  ha^* 
for  his  Study  of  Celtic  Literature.                                                 also  a  proud  look  and  high  stomach,  I  will  not  suffer  him. 

»  Gentle  little  race,  naturally  Christian.  '  "  Monsieur  Henri  Martin,  whose  chapters  on  the  Celt! 

*  Proud  and  shy,  outwardly   awkward   and   embar-       in  his  Histoire  de  France,  are  full  of  information  and  in 
rassed.  terest."    Arnold. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  747 

f,iice,  measure,  and  patience,  these  are  the  has  not  patience  for.  So  he  runs  off  into  technic 
eternal  conditions,  even  supposing  the  hap-  where  he  employs  the  utmost  elaboration,  and 
piest  temperament  to  start  with,  of  high  sue-  attains  astonishing  skill;  but  in  the  contents 
cess;  and  balance,  measure,  and  patience  are  of  his  poetry  you  have  only  so  much  interpreta- 
just  what  the  Celt  has  never  had.  Even  in  5tion  of  the  world  as  the  first  dash  of  a  quick, 
the  world  of  spiritual  creation,  he  has  never,  in  strong  perception,  and  then  sentiment,  in- 
spite  of  his  admirable  gifts  of  quick  perception  finite  sentiment,  can  bring  you.  Here,  too, 
and  warm  emotion,  succeeded  perfectly,  be-  his  want  of  sanity  and  steadfastness  has  kept 
cause  he  has  never  had  steadiness,  patience,  the  Celt  back  from  the  highest  success, 
sanity  enough  to  comply  with  the  conditions  lo  If  his  rebellion  against  fact  has  thus  lamed 
under  which  alone  can  expression  be  given  the  Celt  even  in  spiritual  work,  how  much  more 
to  the  finest  perceptions  and  emotions.  The  must  it  have  lamed  him  in  the  world  of  business 
Greek  has  the  same  perceptive,  emotional  and  poHtics!  The  skilful  and  resolute  appli- 
temperament  as  the  Celt;  but  he  adds  to  this  ance  of  means  to  ends  which  is  needed  both  to 
temperament  the  sense  of  measure;  hence  his  15  make  progress  in  material  civilisation,  and  also 
admirable  success  in  the  plastic  arts,  in  which  to  form  powerful  states,  is  just  what  the  Celt 
the  Celtic  genius,  with  its  chafing  against  the  has  least  turn  for.  He  is  sensual,  as  I  have 
despotism  of  fact,  its  perpetual  straining  after  said,  or  at  least  sensuous;  and  here  he  is  Hke 
raere  emotion,  has  accomplished  nothing.  In  the  Greek  and  Latin  races;  but  compare  the 
the  comparatively  petty  art  of  ornamentation,  20  talent  the  Greek  and  Latin  (or  Latinised)  races 
iQ  rings,  brooches,  crosiers,  relic-cases,  and  have  shown  for  gratifying  their  senses,  for 
bo  on,  he  has  done  just  enough  to  show  his  procuring  an  outward  life,  rich,  luxurious, 
ehcacy  of  taste,  his  happy  temperament;  splendid,  with  the  Celt's  failure  to  reach  any 
but  the  grand  difficulties  of  painting  and  sculp-  material  civilisation  sound  and  satisfying,  and 
ture,  the  prolonged  deahngs  of  spirit  with  25  not  out  at  elbows,  poor,  slovenly,  and  half- 
matter,  he  has  never  had  patience  for.  Take  barbarous.  The  sensuousness  of  the  Greek 
the  more  spiritual  arts  of  music  and  poetry,  made  Sybaris  and  Corinth,  the  sensuousness 
^Ul  that  emotion  alone  can  do  in  music  the  of  the  Latin  made  Rome  and  Baiae,  the  sensu- 
(^elt  has  done;  the  very  soul  of  emotion  breathes  ousness  of  the  Latinised  Frenchman  makes 
in  the  Scotch  and  Irish  airs;  but  with  all  this  30  Paris;  the  sensuousness  of  the  Celt  proper  has 
power  of  musical  feeling,  what  has  the  Celt,  made  Ireland.  Even  in  his  ideal,  heroic  times, 
so  eager  for  emotion  that  he  has  not  patience  his  gay  and  sensuous  nature  cannot  carry  him, 
for  science,  effected  in  music,  to  be  compared  in  the  appliances  of  his  favorite  life  of  socia- 
wiih  what  the  less  emotional  German,  steadily  bility  and  pleasure,  beyond  the  gross  and 
developing  his  musical  feeling  with  the  science  35  creeping  Saxon  whom  he  despises;  the  regent 
of  a  Sebastian  Bach  or  a  Beethoven,  has  ef-  Breas,  we  are  told  in  the  Battle  of  Moytura  of 
fected?  In  poetry,  again, — poetry  which  the  the  Fomorians,  became  unpopular  because 
Celt  has  so  passionately,  so  nobly  loved;  poetry  "the  knives  of  his  people  were  not  greased  at 
where  emotion  counts  for  so  much,  but  where  his  table,  nor  did  their  breath  smell  of  ale  at 
reason,  too,  reason,  measure,  sanity,  also40  the  banquet."  In  its  grossness  and  barbarous- 
count  for  so  much, — the  Celt  has  shown  genius;  ness  is  not  that  Saxon,  as  Saxon  as  it  can  be? 
but  even  here  his  faults  have  clung  to  him,  and  just  what  the  Latinised  Norman,  sensuous 
hindered  him  from  producing  great  works,  and  sociable  like  the  Celt,  but  with  the  talent 
such  as  other  nations  with  a  genius  for  poetry,  to  make  this  bent  of  his  serve  to  a  practical 
— the  Greeks,  say,  or  the  Itahans, — have  pro-  45  embeUishment  of  his  mode  of  living,  found  so 
duced.      The    Celt   has   not   produced    great      disgusting  in  the  Saxon. 

poetical  works,  he  has  only  produced  poetry  And  as  in  material  civilisation  he  has  been 

with  an  air  of  greatness  investing  it  all,  and  ineffectual,  so  has  the  Celt  been  ineffectual 
sometimes  giving  moreover,  to  short  pieces,  in  politics.  The  colossal,  impetuous,  adventur- 
er to  passages,  lines,  and  snatches  of  long50ous  wanderer,  the  Titan  of  the  early  world, 
pieces,  singular  beauty  and  power.  And  yet  who  in  primitive  times  fills  so  large  a  place 
he  loved  poetry  so  much  that  he  grudged  no  on  earth's  scene,  dwindles  and  dwindles  as 
pains  to  it;  but  the  true  art,  the  architectonice^  history  goes  on,  and  at  last  is  shrunk  to  what 
which  shapes  great  works,  such  as  the  A  gamem-  we  now  see  him.  For  ages  and  ages  the  world 
non  or  the  Divine  Comedy,  comes  only  after  a  55  has  been  constantly  sHpping,  ever  more  and 
steady,  deep-searching  survey,  a  firm  concep-  more,  out  of  the  Celt's  grasp.  "They  went 
tion  of  the  facts  of  human  life,  which  the  Celt      forth  to  war,"  Ossian  says  most  truly,  '^but 

8  The  art  of  the  master-builder  which  enables  him  to       ^^^^  always  fell." 
Man  and  execute  great  works. 


748  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

CULTURE  but  always  in  machinery,  as  if  it  had  a  value  in 

(From  Culture  and  Anarchy,  1869)  ^f  J°'  '^^^^'  ,^.^^*  is /reedom  but  machinery? 

*"  '  what  IS  population  but  machmery?  what  is 

If  culture,  then,  is  a  study  of  perfection,  and  coal  but  machinery?  what  are  railroads  but 
of  harmonious  perfection,  general  perfection  5  machinery?  what  is  wealth  but  machinery? 
and  perfection  which  consists  in  becoming  what  are,  even,  religious  organisations  but 
something  rather  than  in  having  something,  machinery?  Now  almost  every  voice  in  Eng- 
in  an  inward  condition  of  the  mind  and  spirit,  land  is  accustomed  to  speak  of  these  things  as 
not  in  an  outward  set  of  circumstances, — it  is  if  they  were  precious  ends  in  themselves,  and 
clear  that  culture,  instead  of  being  the  frivolous  10  therefore  had  some  of  the  characters  of  perfec- 
and  useless  thing  which  Mr.  Bright,  and  Mr.  tion  indisputably  joined  to  them.  I  have 
Frederic  Harrison,  and  many  other  Liberals  before  now  noticed  Mr.  Roebuck's  stock  argu- 
are  apt  to  call  it,  has  a  very  important  func-  ment  for  proving  the  greatness  and  happiness 
tion  to  fulfil  for  mankind.  And  this  function  is  of  England  as  she  is,  and  for  quite  stopping 
particularly  important  in  our  modem  world,  15  the  mouths  of  all  gainsayers.  Mr.  Roebuck  is 
of  which  the  whole  civilisation  is,  to  a  much  never  weary  of  reiterating  this  argument  of 
greater  degree  than  the  civilisation  of  Greece  his,  so  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  be  weary 
and  Rome,  mechanical  and  external,  and  tends  of  noticing  it.  ''May  not  every  man  in  Eng- 
constantly  to  become  more  and  more  so.  But  land  say  what  he  likes?" — Mr.  Roebuck  per- 
above  all  in  our  own  country  has  culture  a  20  petually  asks;  and  that,  he  thinks,  is  quite 
weighty  part  to  perform,  because  here  that  sufficient,  and  when  every  man  may  say  what 
mechanical  character,  which  civilisation  tends  he  likes,  our  aspirations  ought  to  be  satisfied, 
to  take  everywhere,  is  shown  in  the  most  But  the  aspirations  of  culture,  which  is  the 
eminent  degree.  Indeed  nearly  all  the  charac-  study  of  perfection,  are  not  satisfied,  unless 
ters  of  perfection,  as  culture  teaches  us  to  fix  25  what  men  say,  when  they  may  say  what  they 
them,  meet  in  this  country  with  some  powerful  like,  is  worth  saying, — has  good  in  it,  and  more 
tendency  which  thwarts  them  and  sets  them  good  than  bad.  In  the  same  way  the  Times,  re- 
at  defiance.  The  idea  of  perfection  as  an  in-  plying  to  some  foreign  strictures  on  the  dress, 
ward  condition  of  the  mind  and  spirit  is  at  looks,  and  behaviour  of  the  English  abroad, 
variance  with  the  mechanical  and  material  30  urges  that  the  English  ideal  is  that  everyone 
civilisation  in  esteem  with  us.  The  idea  of  should  be  free  to  do  and  to  look  just  as  he  likes, 
perfection  as  a  general  expansion  of  the  human  But  culture  indefatigably  tries,  not  to  make 
family  is  at  variance  with  our  strong  individ-  what  each  raw  person  may  like,  the  rule  by 
ualism,  our  hatred  of  all  limits  to  the  unre-  which  he  fashions  himself;  but  to  draw  ever 
strained  swing  of  the  individual's  personality,  35  nearer  to  a  sense  of  what  is  indeed  beautiful, 
our  maxim  of  "every  man  for  himself."  Above  graceful,  and  becoming,  and  to  get  the  raw 
all,  the  idea  of  perfection  as  a  harmonious  ex-      person  to  Hke  that. 

pansion  of  human  nature  is  at  variance  with  And  in  the  same  way  with  respect  to  rail- 
our  want  of  flexibility,  with  our  inaptitude  roads  and  coal.  Everyone  must  have  ob- 
for  seeing  more  than  one  side  of  a  thing,  with  40  served  the  strange  language  current  during  the 
our  intense  energetic  absorption  in  the  par-  late  discussions  as  to  the  possible  failures  of 
ticular  pursuit  we  happen  to  be  following.  So  our  supplies  of  coal.  Our  coal,  thousands 
culture  has  a  rough  task  to  achieve  in  this  of  people  were  saying,  is  the  real  basis  of  our 
country.  Its  preachers  have,  and  are  likely  national  greatness;  if  our  coal  runs  short,  there 
long  to  have,  a  hard  time  of  it,  and  they  will  45  is  an  end  of  the  greatness  of  England.  But 
much  oftener  be  regarded,  for  a  great  while  to  what  is  greatness? — culture  makes  us  ask. 
come,  as  elegant  or  spurious  Jeremiahs  than  Greatness  is  a  spiritual  condition  worthy  to 
as  friends  and  benefactors.  That,  however,  excite  love,  interest,  and  admiration;  and  the 
will  not  prevent  their  doing  in  the  end  good  outward  proof  of  possessing  greatness  is  that 
service  if  they  persevere.  And,  meanwhile,  50  we  excite  love,  interest  and  admiration.  If 
the  mode  of  action  that  they  have  to  pursue,  England  were  swallowed  up  by  the  sea  to- 
and  the  sort  of  habits  they  must  fight  against,  morrow,  which  of  the  two,  a  hundred  years 
ought  to  be  made  quite  clear  for  everyone  to  hence,  would  most  excite  the  love,  interest, 
see,  who  may  be  willing  to  look  at  the  matter  and  admiration  of  mankind, — would  most, 
attentively  and  dispassionately.  55  therefore,  show  the  evidences  of  having  pos- 

Faith  in  machinery  is,  I  said,  our  besetting      sessed    greatness, — the    England    of    the    last 
danger;   often   in   machinery   most    absurdly      twenty  years,  or  the  England  of  Elizabeth,  of 
disproportioned  to  the  end   which  this  ma-      a  time  of  splendid  spiritual  effort,  but  wheh,,^ 
chinery,  if  it  is  to  do  any  good  at  all,  is  to  serve;     our  coal,  and  our  industrial  operations  depend- 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  749 

ing  on  coal,  were  very  little  developed?  Well,  him  forever.  No  such'  voices  as  those  which 
then,  what  an  unsound  habit  of  mind  it  must  we  heard  in  our  youth  at  Oxford  are  sounding 
be  which  makes  us  talk  of  things  like  coal  or  there  now.  Oxford  has  more  criticism  now, 
iron  as  constituting  the  greatness  of  England,  more  knowledge,  more  light;  but  such  voices 
and  how  salutary  a  friend  is  culture,  bent  on  5  as  those  of  our  youth  it  has  no  longer.  The 
seeing  things  as  they  are,  and  thus  dissipating  name  of  Cardinal  Newman^  is  a  great  name 
delusions  of  this  kind  and  fixing  standards  of  to  the  imagination  still;  his  genius  and  his 
perfection  that  are  real!  style  are  still  things  of  power.    But  he  is  over 

Wealth,  again,  that  end  to  which  our  pro-  eighty  years  old,  he  is  in  the  Oratory  at  Bir- 
digious  works  for  material  advantage  are  lomingham;  he  has  adopted,  for  the  doubts  and 
directed, — the  commonest  of  commonplace  difficulties  which  beset  men's  minds  to-day, 
tells  us  how  men  are  always  apt  to  regard  a  solution  which,  to  speak  frankly,  is  impos- 
wealth  as  a  precious  end  in  itself;  and  certainly  sible.  Forty  years  ago  he  was  in  the  very 
they  have  never  been  so  apt  thus  to  regard  it  prime  of  Ufe;  he  was  close  at  hand  to  us  at 
as  they  are  in  England  at  the  present  time.  15  Oxford;  he  was  preaching  in  St.  Mary's  pulpit^ 
Never  did  people  believe  anything  more  firmly  every  Sunday;  he  seemed  about  to  transform 
than  nine  Englishmen  out  of  ten  at  the  present  and  to  renew  what  was  for  us  the  most  na- 
day  believe  that  our  greatness  and  welfare  are  tional  and  natural  institution  in  the  world, 
proved  by  our  being  so  very  rich.  Now,  the  the  Church  of  England.  Who  could  resist  the 
use  of  culture  is  that  it  helps  us,  by  means  of  20  charm  of  that  spiritual  apparition,  gliding  in 
its  spiritual  standard  of  perfection,  to  regard  the  dim  afternoon  fight  through  the  aisles  of 
wealth  as  but  machinery,  and  not  only  to  say  St.  Mary's,  rising  into  the  pulpit,  and  then,  in 
as  a  matter  of  words  that  we  regard  wealth  as  the  most  entrancing  of  voices,  breaking  the 
but  machinery,  but  really  to  perceive  and  feel  silence  with  words  and  thoughts  which  were 
that  it  is  so.  If  it  were  not  for  this  purging  25  a  refigious  music, — subtle,  sweet,  mournful? 
effect  wrought  upon  our  minds  by  culture,  the  I  seem  to  hear  him  still,  saying:  "After  the  fever 
whole  world,  the  future  as  well  as  the  present,  of  life,  after  wearinesses  and  sicknesses,  fight- 
would  inevitably  belong  to  the  Philistines,  ings  and  despondings,  languor  and  fretfulness, 
The  people  who  befieve  most  that  our  greatness  struggling  and  succeeding;  after  all  the  changes 
and  welfare  are  proved  by  our  being  very  30  and  chances  of  this  troubled,  unhealthy  state, 
rich,  and  who  most  give  their  fives  and  thoughts  — at  length  comes  death,  at  length  the  white 
to  becoming  rich,  are  just  the  very  people  whom  throne  of  God,  at  length  the  beatific  vision." 
we  call  Phifistines.  Culture  says:  "Consider  Or,  if  we  followed  him  back  to  his  seclusion  at 
these  people,  then,  their  way  of  life,  their  habits,  Littlemore,'  that  dreary  village  by  th^  London 
their  manners,  the  very  tones  of  voice;  look  at  35  road,  and  to  the  house  of  retreat  and  the  church 
them  attentively;  observe  the  literature  they  which  he  built  there, — a  mean  house  such  as 
read,  the  things  which  give  them  pleasure,  the  Paul  might  have  fived  in  when  he  was  tent- 
words  which  come  forth  out  of  their  mouths,  making  at  Ephesus,  a  church  plain  and  thinly 
the  thoughts  which  make  the  furniture  of  their  sown  with  worshippers, — who  could  resist  him 
minds;  would  any  amount  of  wealth  be  worth  40  there  either,  welcoming  back  to  the  severe 
having  with  the  condition  that  one  was  to  be-  joys  of  church-fellowship,  and  of  daily  worship 
come  just  like  these  people  by  having  it?"  and  prayer,  the  firstfings  of  a  generation  which 
And  thus  culture  begets  a  dissatisfaction  which  had  well-nigh  forgot  them?  Again  I  seem  to 
is  of  the  highest  possible  value  in  stemming  the  hear  him:  "The  season  is  chifi  and  dark,  and 
common  tide  of  men's  thoughts  in  a  wealthy  45  the  breath  of  the  morning  is  damp,  and  wor- 
and  industrial  community,  and  which  saves  shippers  are  few;  but  all  this  befits  those  who 
the  future,  as  one  may  hope,  from  being  vul-  are  by  their  profession  penitents  and  mourners, 
garised,  even  if  it  cannot  save  the  present.  watcher^  and  pilgrims.     More  dear  to  them 

that  loneliness,   more  cheerful  that  severity, 

IMH.    VUlCl^.b  Ui^    YUUIH  ^jjg  ^^^  appliances  of  luxury  by  which  men 

(From  "Emerson,"  in  Discourses  in  America,      nowadays  attempt  to  make  prayer  less  dis- 

jggg)  agreeable  to  them.    True  faith  does  not  covet 

comforts;  they  who  realise  that  awful  day, 

Forty  years  ago,  when  I  was  an  undergradu-  55 

ate  at  Oxford,  voices  were  in  the  air  there         '^^^  "^  *^e  ^^^^^  leaders  of  the  Oxford  movement. 

,  .  ,     ,           ,     '                                ,.,,        T-T               ,,  iVerf;man  became  a  convert  to  the  Romsm  Catholic  Churob 

wnicn    haunt    my    memory    still.       ilappy    the  in  1845,  and  thereafter  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life 

man  who  in  that  susceptible  season  of  youth  at  the  Oratory  at  Birmingham     He  died  in  1890. 

1                    1          •        I    ^i_                                       •         X  2  The  University  Church  at  Oxford. 

nears   such    voices!    tney    are   a    possession    to  s  Newman's  residence  just  outside  of  Oxford. 


750  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE    • 

when  they  shall  see  Him  face  to  face  whose  a  present  object  for  your  heart  and  imagine 
eyes  are  as  a  flame  of  fire,  will  as  little  bargain  tion.  That  is  surely  the  most  potent  of  a 
to  pray  pleasantly  now,  as  they  will  think  of  influences!  nothing  can  come  up  to  it.  To  i 
doing  so  then."  at  Oxford  Emerson  was  but  a  voice  speakin 

Somewhere  or  other  I  have  spoken  of  those  5  from  three  thousand  miles  away.  But  so  we 
"last  enchantments  of  the  Middle  Age"-*  he  spoke,  that  from  that  time  forth  Bosto 
which  Oxford  sheds  around  us,  and  here  they  Bay  and  Concord  were  names  invested  t 
were!  But  there  were  other  voices  sounding  my  ear  with  a  sentiment  akin  to  that  whic 
in  our  ear  besides  Newman's.  There  was  the  invests  for  me  the  names  of  Oxford  and  c 
puissant  voice  of  Carlyle;  so  sorely  strained,  lo  Weimar;  and  snatches  of  Emerson's  strai 
over-used,  and  misused  since,  but  then  fresh,  fixed  themselves  in  my  mind  as  imperishabl 
comparatively  sound,  and  reaching  our  hearts  as  any  of  the  eloquent  words  which  I  hav 
with  true,  pathetic  eloquence.  Who  can  forget  been  just  now  quoting.  "Then  dies  the  ma 
the  emotion  of  receiving  in  its  first  freshness  in  you;  then  once  more  perish  the  buds  of  an 
such  a  sentence  as  that  sentence  of  Carlyle  15  poetry,  and  science,  as  they  have  died  alread 
upon  Edward  Irving,  then  just  dead:  "Scot-  in  a  thousand  thousand  men."  "What  Plat 
land  sent  him  forth  a  herculean  man;  our  mad  has  thought,  he  may  think;  what  a  saint  ha 
Babylon  wore  and  wasted  him  with  all  her  felt,  he  may  feel;  what  at  any  time  has  bf 
engines, — and  it  took  her  twelve  years!"  A  fallen  any  man,  he  can  understand."  "Trui 
greater  voice  still, — the  greatest  voice  of  that  20  thyself!  every  heart  vibrates  to  that  iron  string 
century, — came  to  us  in  those  youthful  years  Accept  the  place  the  Divine  Providence  ha 
through  Carlyle:  the  voice  of  Goethe.  To  this  found  for  you,  the  society  of  your  contempor 
day, — such  is  the  force  of  youthful  associa-  aries,  the  connexion  of  events.  Great  mei 
tions, — I  read  the  WUhelm  Meister  with  more  have  always  done  so,  and  confided  themselve 
pleasure  in  Carlyle's  translation  than  in  the  25  childhke  to  the  genius  of  their  age;  betray  in 
original.  The  large,  liberal  view  of  human  fife  their  perception  that  the  Eternal  was  stirrinj 
in  WUhelm  Meister,  how  novel  it  was  to  the  at  their  heart,  working  through  their  hands 
Englishman  in  those  days!  and  it  was  salutary,  predominating  in  all  their  being.  And  we  ar 
too,  and  educative  for  him,  doubtless,  as  well  now  men,  and  must  accept  in  the  highes 
as  novel.  But  what  moved  us  most  in  WUhelm  30 spirit  the  same  transcendent  destiny;  and  no 
Meister  was  that  which,  after  all,  will  always  pinched  in  a  corner,  not  cowards  fleeing  be 
move  the  young  most, — the  poetry,  the  elo-  fore  a  revolution,  but  redeemers  and  bene 
quence.  Never,  surely,  was  Carlyle's  prose  so  factors,  pious  aspirants  to  be  noble  clay  plasti( 
beautiful  and  pure  as  in  the  rendering  of  the  under  the  Almighty  effort,  let  us  advance  anci 
Youth's  dirge  over  Mignon! — "Well  is  our  35  advance  on  chaos  and  the  dark ! "  These  loft j 
treasure  now  laid  up,  the  fair  image  of  the  past,  sentences  of  Emerson,  and  a'  hundred  othen 
Here  sleeps  it  in  the  marble,  undecaying;  in  of  hke  strain,  I  have  never  lost  out  of  mj 
your  hearts,  also,  it  fives,  it  works.     Travel,      memory;  I  never  can  lose  them.  { 

travel,  back  into  life!    Take  along  with  you 
this  holy  earnestness,   for  earnestness  alone  40 

makes  fife  eternity."    Here  we  had  the  voice  WORDSWORTH 

of  the  great  Goethe; — not  the  stiff,  and  hin-  .     „  .     .        ^         ,  n.    • 

dered,  and  frigid,  and  factitious  Goethe  who         (From  Essays  m  Cnttcism,  Second  Series, 
speaks  to  us  too  often  from  those  sixty  volumes  1888) 

of  his,  but  of  the  great  Goethe,  and  the  true  45     Long  ago,  in  speaking  of  Homer,  I  said  that 
one.  the  noble  and  profound  application  of  ideas 

And  besides  those  voices,  there  came  to  us  to  fife*  is  the  most  essential  part  of  poetic  great- 
in  that  old  Oxford  time  a  voice  also  from  this  ness.  I  said  that  a  great  poet  receives  his  dis- 
side  of  the  Atlantic, — a  clear  and  pure  voice,  tinctive  character  of  superiority  from  his 
which  for  my  ear,  at  any  rate,  brought  a  strain  50  application,  under  the  conditions  immutably 
as  new,  and  moving,  and  unforgettable,  as  fixed  by  the  laws  of  poetic  beauty  and  poetic 
the  strain  of  Newman,  or  Carlyle,  or  Goethe,  truth,  from  his  application,  I  say,  to  his  sub- 
Mr.  Lowell  has  well  described  the  apparition  ject,  whatever  it  may  be,  of  the  ideas 
of  Emerson  to  your  young  generation  here,  in         ,.^^  ^^  ^  ^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^   „ 

that  distant  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  and  55  ' 

of  his  workings  upon  them.    He  was  your  New-      which  he  has  acquired  for  himself.     The  fine 

man,  your  man  of  soul  and  genius  visible  to      quoted    is   Wordsworth's   own;    and    his    su- 

you  in  the  flesh,  speaking  to  your  bodily  ears,      periority  arises  from  his  powerful  use;  in  hie 

«7.  p.  745.  best  pieces,   his  powerful  application  to  Ma 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  751 

biect,  of  ideas  "on  man,  on  nature,  and  on      makes  hardly  any  difference,  because  human 
lianlife."  li^e  itself   is  in   so   preponderatmg  a  degree 

Voltaire   with   his   signal,  acuteness,    most     moral.  x     u  ij  r    ^  4 

ily  remarked  that  "no  nation  has  treated         It  is  important,  therefore,  to  hold  last  to 

poetry  moral  ideas  with  more  energy  and  5  this:  that  poetry  is  at  bottom  a  criticism  ot 
^jth  than  the  English  nation."  And  he  adds:  life;  that  the  greatness  of  a  poet  lies  m  his 
There,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  great  merit  of  powerful  and  beautiful  application  of  ideas  to 
II  English  poets."  Voltaire  does  not  mean,  life,— to  the  question:  How  to  live.  Morals 
.'    "treating   in   poetry   moral   ideas,"    the     are  often  treated  in  a  narrow  and  false  fashion; 

Tiposing  moral  and  didactic  poems;— that  lo  they  are  bound  up  with  systems  of  thought 
rings  us  but  a  very  little  way  in  poetry.  He  and  beUef  which  have  had  their  day;  they  are 
(^ans  just  the  same  thing  as  was  meant  when  fallen  into  the  hands  of  pedants  and  profes- 
spoke  above  "of  the  noble  and  profound  ap-  sional  dealers;  they  grow  tiresome  to  some  ot 
lication  of  ideas  to  hfe;"  and  he  means  the  us.  We  find  attraction,  at  times,  even  m  a 
pplication  of  these  ideas  under  the  conditions  15  poetry  of  revolt  against  them ;  m  a  poetry  which 
xed  for  us  by  the  laws  of  poetic  beauty  and  might  take  for  its  motto  Omar  Khayydm  s 
oetic  truth  If  it  is  said  to  call  these  ideas  words:  "Let  us  make  up  in  the  tavern  for  the 
loral  ideas  is  to  introduce  a  strong  and  in-  time  which  we  have  wasted  m  the  mosque, 
irious  Umitation,  I  answer  that  it  is  to  do  Or  we  find  attractions  m  a  poetry  indifferent 
.thing  of  the  kind,  because  moral  ideas  are 20 to  them;  in  a  poetry  where  the  contents  may 
ally  so  main  a  part  of  human  life.  The  ques-  be  what  they  will,  but  where  the  form  is  studied 
m  how  to  live,  is  itself  a  moral  idea;  and  it  is     and  exquisite.    We  delude  ourselves  in  either 

e  question  which  most  interests  every  man,  case;  and  the  best  cure  for  our  delusion  is  to 
id  with  which,  in  some  way  or  other,  he  is  let  our  minds  rest  upon  that  great  and  inex- 
'rpetually  occupied.  A  large  sense  is  of  course  25  haustible  word  life,  until  we  learn  to  enter  into 
,'  be  given  to  the  term  moral.  Whatever  bears  its  meaning.  A  poetry  of  revolt  agamst  moral 
oon  the  question,  "how  to  Hve,"  comes  under  ideas  is  a  poetry  of  revolt  against  life;  of  indif- 
ference towards  moral  ideas  is  a  poetry  ot  m- 
1  u  X  xu  difference  towards  life. 

Nor  love  thy  life,  nor  hate;  but,  what  thoUgg     Epictetus  had  a  happy  figure  for  things  like 

^^^'f.*V      1  u    *  •^f^i.oo^An"     the  play  of  the  senses,  or  hterary  form  and 

ive  well;  how  long  or  short,  permit  to  heaven.        ^^^^^^  ^^  argumentative  mgenuity ,  in  compan- 

^a  those  fine  lines  Milton  utters,  as  every  one  son  with  "the  best  and  master  thing"  for  us, 
tt  once  perceives,  a  moral  idea.  Yes,  but  so  as  he  called  it,  the  concern,  how  to  live,  feome 
.00  when  Keats  consoles  the  forward-bending  35  people  were  afraid  of  them,  he  said,  or  tney 
over  on  the  Grecian  Urn,  the  lover  arrested  disliked  and  undervalued  them  Such  people 
and  presented  in  immortal  relief  by  the  sculp-  were  wrong;  they  were  unthankful  or  cowardly 
:or's  hand  before  he  can  kiss,  with  the  fine.         But  the  things  might  also  be  over-prized,  and 

,    ,     ,      .  .  „         treated  as  final  when  they  are  not.    They  bear 
"For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  tair  —  ^^^^  Uf^  ^^le  relation  which  inns  bear  to  home, 
be  utters  a  moral  idea.     When  Shakespeare      "As  if  a  man,  journeying  home  and  finding  a 
■^^„  that  nice  inn  on  the  road,  and  likmg  it,  were  to  stay 

'^^  '  for  ever  at  the  inn!    Man,  thou  hast  forgotten 

"We  are  such  stuff  t,hine  object;  thy  journey  was  not  to  this,  but 

As  dreams  are  made  of ,  and  our  little  life       4^5  through  this.    *  But  this  mn  is  taking.'     And 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep,  j^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^^  ijj^g^  too,  are  taking,  and 

he  utters  a  moral  idea  how  many  fields  and  meadows!  but  as  place^ 

Voltaire  was  right  m  thinking  that  th^  ener-  of  passage  merely.  You  have  an  object  which 
getic  and  profound  treatment  of  moral  ideas,  is  this:  to  get  home,  to  do  y^^^  ^uty  to  your 
in  this  large  sense,  is  what  distinguishes  the  50  family,  friends,  and  fellow-countrymen,  to 
English  poetry.  He  sincerely  meant  praise,  attain  inward  freedom,  seremty,  happiness 
not  dispraise  or  hint  of  limitation;  and  they  contentment  Style  takes  your  fancy  arguing 
err  who  suppose  that  poetic  hmitation  is  a  takes  your  fancy,  and  you  ^^/gf^  ^^^^^^^^^^ 
necessary  consequence  of  the  fact,  the  fact  and  want  to  make  your  abode  with  them  and 
being  granted  as  Voltaire  states  it.  If  what  55  to  stay  with  them,  on  the  plea  that  they  are 
disting^shes  the  greatest  poets  is  their  power-  taking.  Who  demes  that  they  are  taking?  but 
ful  and  profound  appUcation  of  ideas  to  life,  as  places  of  passa,ge,  as  inns  And  when  i 
which  surely  no  good  critic  will  deny,  then  to  say  this,  you  suppose  me  to  be  attacking  the 
prefix  to  the  term  ideas  here  the  term  moral      care  for  style,  the  care  for  argument.     I  am 


752  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

not;  I  attack  the  resting  in  them,   the  not      that  his  poetry  is  informed  by  ideas  which ''fal 
looking  to  the  end  which  is  beyond  them."  spontaneously    into    a    scientific    system    oi 

Now,  when  we  come  across  a  poet  like  Th^o-  thought."  But  we  must  be  on  our  guarc 
phile  Gautier,  we  have  a  poet  who  has  taken  against  the  Wordsworthians,  if  we  want  tc 
up  his  abode  at  an  inn,  and  never  got  farther.  5  secure  for  Wordsworth  his  due  rank  as  a  poet 
There  may  be  inducements  to  this  or  to  that  The  Wordsworthians  are  apt  to  praise  him  foi 
one  of  us,  at  this  or  that  moment,  to  find  de-  the  wrong  things,  and  to  lay  far  too  much  stress 
light  in  him,  to  cleave  to  him, — we  only  stay  upon  what  they  call  his  philosophy.  His 
ourselves  in  his  inn  along  with  him.  And  when  poetry  is  the  reality,  his  philosophy, — so  far, 
we  come  across  a  poet  like  Wordsworth,  who  lo  at  least,  as  it  may  put  on  the  form  and  hal^it 
sings  of  "a  scientific  system  of  thought,"  and  the 

11  11  more  that  it  puts  them  on, — is  the  illusion. 

Of  truth,  of  grandeur,  beauty,  love  and  hope.      Perhaps  we  shaU  one  day  learn  to  make  this 
rbirsK^^olS^r ^^^^^  portion  general   and  to  say :  Poetry  is  the 

Of  moral  strength  and  intellectual  power,  ^^  reality,  philosophy  the  illusion.    But  m  Words- 

Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread"—  worth's  case,  at  any  rate,  we  cannot  do  him 

justice  until  we  dismiss  his  formal  philosophy. 
Then  we  have  a  poet  intent  on  "the  best  and  The   Excursion   abounds   with    philosophy, 

master  thing,"  and  who  prosecutes  his  journey  and  therefore  the  Excursion  is  to  the  Words- 
home.  We  say,  for  brevity's  sake,  that  he  deals  20  worthian  what  it  can  never  be  to  the  disinter- 
with  life,  because  he  deals  with  that  in  which  ested  lover  of  poetry, — a  satisfactory  work, 
life  really  consists.  This  is  what  Voltaire  "Duty  exists,"  says  Wordsworth,  in  the  ^xcwr- 
means  to  praise  in  the  English  poets, — this  sion;  and  then  he  proceeds  thus — 
dealing  with  what  is  really  life.     But  always 

it  is  the  mark  of  the  greatest  poets  that  they  25  ^  "Immutably  survive, 

deal  with  it;  and  to  say  that  the  English  poets      l^T  '""Pi^T*'  f  f  measures  and  the  forms, 

1    ui     f       A    r  -^v,    -T    ;o  \.^i,r      Which  an  abstract  intelligence  supplies, 

are  remarkable  for  dealing  with  it,  is  only  ^^^^  Kingdom  is,  where  time  and  space  are 
another  way  of  saying,  what  is  true,  that  in  not." 

poetry,  the  English  genius  has  especially  shown 
its  power.  30  And    the    Wordsworthian    is    delighted,    and 

Wordsworth  deals  with  it,  and  his  greatness  thinks  that  here  is  a  sweet  union  of  philosophy 
lies  in  his  dealing  with  it  so  powerfully.  I  have  and  poetry.  But  the  disinterested  lover  of 
named  a  number  of  celebrated  poets  above  all  poetry  will  feel  that  the  lines  carry  us  really 
of  whom  he,  in  my  opinion,  deserves  to  be  not  a  step  farther  than  the  proposition  which 
placed.  He  is  to  be  placed  above  poets  like  35  they  would  intei-pret;  that  they  are  a  tissue 
Voltaire,  Dryden,  Pope,  Lessing,  Schiller,  be-  of  elevated  but  abstract  verbiage,  alien  to  the 
cause  these  famous  personages  with  a  thousand      very  nature  of  poetry. 

gifts  and  merits,  never,  or  scarcely  ever,  attain  Or  let  us  come  direct  to  the  centre  of  Words- 
the  distinctive  accent  and  utterance  of  the  worth's  philosophy,  as  "an  ethical  system,  as 
high  and  genuine  poets —  40  distinctive  and  capable  of  systematical  exposi- 

"Quiqui  pii  vates  et  Phoebo  digna  locuti,"^       ^^^^  ^  ^^«^«P  Butler's"- 

at  all.    Bums,  Keats,  Heine,  not  to  speak  of  "...  One  adequate  support 

others  in  our  list,  have  this  accent;— who  can  For  the  calamities  of  mortal  life 

doubt  it?     And  at  the  same  tim^  they  have  45       Exists  one  only  ;-an  assured  belief 
uuuuu  ^iiv^  c  r  r  •.  •         r  That  the  procession  of  our  fate,  howe'er 

treasures    of    humour,    felicity,    passion,    for  Sad  or  disturbed,  is  ordered  by  a  Being 

which  m  Wordsworth  we  shall  look  m  vain.  q£  infinite  benevolence  and  power; 

Where,    then,    is    Wordsworth's    supenonty?  Whose  everlasting  purposes  embrace 

It  is  here;  he  deals  with  more  of  life  than  they  All  accidents,  converting  them  to  good. ' 

do;  he  deals  with  life,  as  a  whole,  more  power-  50 
fuHv.  That  is  doctrine  such  as  we  hear  in  church. 

No  Wordsworthian  will  doubt  this.  Nay,  too,  religious  and  philosophic  doctrine;  and 
the  fervent  Wordsworthian  will  add,  as  Mr.  the  attached  Wordsworthian  loves  passages 
Leslie  Stephen  does,  that  Wordsworth's  poetry  of  such  doctrine,  and  brings  them  forward  in 
is  precious  because  his  philosophy  is  sound ;  55  proof  of  his  poet's  excellence.  But  however 
that  his  "ethical  system  is  as  distinctive  and  true  the  doctrine  may  be,  it  has,  as  here  pre- 
capable   of   exposition    as    Bishop    Butler's;"      sented,  none  of  the  characters  of  poetic  truth, 

the  kind  of  truth  which  we  require  from  a 

'r;i,t"ofAnoiio.'^  poet-prophets.  who  spoke   thmgs     p^et,  and  in  which  Wordsworth  is  really  Strong. 


worthy  of  Apollo." 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  753 

Even  the  "intimations"  of  the  famous  Ode,^  of  a  "scientific  system  of  thought"  in  Words- 

those  corner-stones  of  the  supposed  philosophic  worth's  poetry.    The  poetry  will  never  be  seen 

system  of  Wordsworth, — the  idea  of  the  high  aright  while  they  thus  exhibit  it.     The  cause 

iostincts  and  affections  coming  out  in  child-  of  its  greatness  is  simple,  and  may  be  told 

hood,    testifying   of   a  divine   home   recently  5  quite  simply.     Wordsworth's  poetry  is  great 

left,  and  fading  away  as  our  life  proceeds, —  because  of  the  extraordinary  power  with  which 

this  idea,  of  undeniable  beauty  as  a  play  of  Wordsworth  feels  the  joy  offered  to  us  in  na- 

f  ancy,  has  itself  not  the  character  of  poetic  ture,  the  joy  offered  to  us  in  the  simple  primary 

truth  of  the  best  kind;  it  has  no  real  solidity,  affections  and  duties;  and  because  of  the  ex- 
rhe  instinct  of   delight   in   Nature  and  her  lo  traordinary  power  with  which,  in  case  after  case, 

beauty  had  no  doubt  extraordinary  strength  he  shows  us  this  joy,  and  renders  it  so  as  to 

in  Wordsworth  himself  as  a  child.    But  to  say  make  us  share  it. 
that   universally   this   instinct   is   mighty   in 
childhood,  and  tends  to  die  away  afterwards, 

is  to  say  what  is  extremely  doubtful.    In  many  15  uTI^Omafl?    ^tXtt^    ^XlXlC^ 
people,  perhaps  with  the  majority  of  educated  1825-1895 
persons,  the  love  of  nature  is  nearly  imper- 
ceptible at  ten  years  old,  but  strong  and  opera-  ON  THE  ADVISABLENESS  OF  IMPROV- 
tive  at  thirty.    In  general  we  may  say  of  these  ING  NATURAL  KNOWLEDGE 
high  instincts  of  early  childhood,  the  base  of  20  .-,  to                ,477                  j  t^    • 
the  alleged  systematic  philosophy  of  Words-  (^rom  Lay  Sermons    Addresses,  and  Reviews, 

worth,  what  Thucydides  says  of  the  earliest  -^ 

achievements  of  the  Greek  race:  "It  is  im-  This  time  two  hundred  y°ars  ago^  in  the 
possible  to  speak  with  certainty  of  what  is  so  beginning  of  January,  1666 — those  of  our  fore- 
remote;  but  from  all  that  we  can  really  investi-  25  fathers  who  inhabited  this  great  and  ancient 
gate,  I  should  say  that  they  were  no  very  great  city,  took  breath  between  the  shocks  of  two 
things."  fearful  calamities:  one  not  quite  past,  although 

Finally,  the  "scientific  system  of  thought"      its  fury  had  abated;  the  other  to  come, 
in  Wordsworth  gives  us  at  last  such  poetry  as  Within  a  few  yards  of  the  very  spot^  on 

this,  which  the  devout  Wordsworthian  accepts:  30  which  we  are  assembled,  so  the  tradition  runs, 
"O  for  the  coming  of  that  glorious  time  *^^*  ^^f¥  and  deadly  malady    the  Plague, 

When  prizing  knowledge  as  her  noblest  wealth  appeared  m  the  latter  months  of  1664,  and 
And  best  protection,  this  Imperial  Realm,  though  no  new  visitor,  smote  the  people  of 

While  she  exacts  allegiance,  shall  admit  England  and  especially  of  her  capital,  with  a 

An  obligation,  on  her  part,  to  teach  35  violence  unknown  before,  in  the  course  of  the 

Them  who  are  born  to  serve  her  and  obey;  following  year.    The  hand  of  a  master  has  pic- 

Binding  herself  by  statute  to  secure,  tured  what  happened  in  those  dismal  months; 

For  all  the  children  whom  her  soil  maintains,  ^^^  ^^  the  truest  of  fictions,  "The  History  of 
The  rudiments  of  letters  and  inform  ^^    pj  Year,"3  Defoe  shows  death,  with 

The  mind  with  moral  and  religious  truth."         ^^  ^  •        i.      r        •  j    i^„„^„ 

'^  40  every    accompaniment    of    pam    and    terror, 

Wordsworth  calls  Voltaire  dull,  and  surely  the  stalking  through  the  narrow  streets  of  old  Lon- 
production  of  these  unVoltarian  Unes  must  have  don,  and  changing  their  busy  hum  into  a 
been  imposed  on  him  as  a  judgment!  One  can  silence  broken  only  by  the  wailing  of  the  moum- 
hear  them  being  quoted  at  a  Social  Science  ers  of  fifty  thousand  dead;  by  the  woful  de- 
Congress;  one  can  call  up  the  whole  scene.  A  45  nunciations  and  mad  prayers  of  fanatics;  and 
great  room  in  one  of  our  dismal  provincial  by  the  madder  yells  of  despairing  profligates, 
towns;  dusty  air  and  jaded  afternoon  daylight;  But,  about  this  time  in  1666,  the  death-rate 

benches  full  of  men  with  bald  heads  and  women  had  sunk  to  nearly  its  ordinary  amount;  a  case 
in  spectacles;  an  orator  lifting  up  his  face  from  of  plague  occurred  only  here  and  there,  and 
a  manuscript  written  within  and  without  to  50  the  richer  citizens  who  had  flown  from  the 
declaim  these  lines  of  Wordsworth;  and  in  the  pest  had  returned  to  their  dwellings.  The 
soul  of  any  poor  child  of  nature  who  may  have  remnant  of  the  people  began  to  toil  at  the  ac- 
wandered  in  thither,  an  unutterable  sense  of  customed  round  of  duty,  or  of  pleasure;  and 
lamentation,  and  mourning,  and  woe!  the  stream  of  city  life  bid  fair  to  flow  back 

"But  turn  we,"  as  Wordsworth  says,  "from  55  along  its  old  bed,  with  renewed  and  uninter- 
these  bold,  bad  men,"  the  haunters  of  Social      rupted  vigour. 

Science    Congresses.      And    let    us    be    on    our  1  Huxley's  Address  was  delivered  in  1866. 

guard,  too,  against  the  exhibitors  and  extoUers     xrlfa^g^r^stul'e^ lSou!^^'  ^""^  ^"^"'  ^^'^'^'  ''^*' 

2  V.  p.  478,  supra.  »  V.  p.  316,  supra. 


754  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

The  newly  kindled  hope  was  deceitful.  The  knowledge."  The  ends  they  proposed  to  attain 
KTcat  pla^e,  indeed,  returned  no  more;  but  cannot  be  stated  more  clearly  than  in  the 
what  it  hati  done  for  the  Londoners,  the  great  words  of  one  of  the  founders  of  the  organiza- 
firc,  which  broke  out  in  the  autumn  of  1666,     tion:—  ,       ,    ,. 

did  for  London;  and,  in  September  of  that  year,  5  "Our  busmess  was  (precludmg  matters  of 
a  heap  of  aahes  and  the  indestructible  energy  theology  and  state  affairs)  to  discourse  and 
of  the  people  were  all  that  remained  of  the  consider  of  philosophical  enquiries,  and  such 
glory  of  five-sixtlis  of  the  city  withm  the  walls,      as  related  thereunto:— as  Physic,   Anatomy, 

Our  forefathers  had  their  own  ways  of  ac-  Geometry,  Astronomy,  Navigation,  Staticks, 
counting  for  each  of  these  calamities.  They  10  Magneticks,  Chymicks,  Mechanicks,  and  Nat- 
submitted  to  the  plague  in  humility  and  in  ural  Experiments;  with  the  state  of  these 
penitence,  for  they  beUeved  it  to  be  the  judg-  studies  and  their  cultivation  at  home  and 
ment  of  God.  But,  towards  the  fire  they  were  abroad.  We  then  discoursed  of  the  circulation 
furiously  indignant,  interpreting  it  as  the  effect  of  the  blood,  the  valves  in  the  veins,  the  veni© 
of  the  malice  of  man, — as  the  work  of  the  15  lacteae,  the  lymphatic  vessels,  the  Copernican 
Republicans,  or  of  the  Papists,  according  as  hypothesis,  the  nature  of  comets  and  new 
their  prepoeseesions  ran  in  favour  of  loyalty  stars,  the  satellites  of  Jupiter,  the  oval  shape 
or  Puritanism.  (as  it  then  appeared)  of  Saturn,  the  spots  on 

It  would,  I  fancy,  have  fared  but  ill  with  one  the  sun  and  its  turning  on  its  own  axis,  the 
who,  standing  where  I  now  stand,  m  what  was  20  inequalities  and  selenography"  of  the  moon, 
then  a  thickly  peopled  and  fashionable  part  the  several  phases  of  Venus  and  Mercury,  the 
of  London,  should  have  broached  to  our  ances-  improvement  of  telescopes  and  grinding  of 
tors  the  doctrine  which  I  now  propound  to  glasses  for  that  purpose,  the  weight  of  air,  the 
you — that  all  their  hypotheses  were  alike  possibility  or  impossibiUty  of  vacuities  and 
wrong;  that  the  plague  was  no  more,  in  their  25  nature's  abhorrence  thereof,  the  Torricellian 
sense,  Divine  judgment,  than  the  fire  was  the  experiment'  in  quicksilver,  the  descent  of 
work  of  any  political,  or  of  any  religious,  sect;  heavy  bodies  and  the  degree  of  acceleration 
but  that  they  were  themselves  the  authors  of  therein,  with  divers  other  things  of  hke  nature, 
both  plague  and  fire,  and  that  they  must  look  some  of  which  were  then  new  discoveries,  and 
to  themselves  to  prevent  the  recurrence  of  30  others  not  so  generally  known  and  embraced 
calamities,  to  all  appearance  so  pecuUarly  as  now  they  are;  with  other  things  appertain- 
beyond  the  reach  of  human  control — so  evi-  ing  to  what  hath  been  called  the  New  Philos- 
dently  the  result  of  the  wrath  of  God,  or  of  the  ophy,  which,  from  the  times  of  Galileo  at 
craft  and  subtlety  of  an  enemy.  Florence,  and  Sir  Francis  Bacon  (Lord  Verulam) 

And  one  may  picture  to  oneself  how  har-35in  England,  hath  been  much  cultivated  in 
monioualy  the  holy  cursing  of  the  Puritan  of  Italy,  France,  Germany,  and  other  parts 
that  day  would  have  chimed  in  with  the  unholy  abroad,  as  well  as  with  us  in  England." 
cursing  and  the  cracklmg  wit  of  the  Rochesters  The  learned  Dr.  WaUis,^  writing  in  1696, 
and  Sedleys,*  and  with  the  revilings  of  the  narrates,  in  these  words,  what  happened  half 
political  fanatics,  if  my  imaginary  plain  dealer  40  a  century  before,  or  about  1645.  The  asso- 
had  gone  on  to  say  that,  if  the  return  of  such  ciates  met  at  Oxford,  in  the  rooms  of  Dr.  Wil- 
misfortunes  were  ever  rendered  impossible,  kins,  who  was  destined  to  become  a  bishop; 
it  would  not  be  in  virtue  of  the  victory  of  the  and  subsequently  coming  together  in  London, 
faith  of  Laud,'  or  of  that  of  Milton;  and,  as  they  attracted  the  notice  of  the  king.  And  it 
little,  by  the  triumph  of  republicanism,  as  by  45  is  a  strange  evidence  of  the  taste  for  knowledge 
that  of  monarchy.  But  that  the  one  thing  which  the  most  obviously  worthless  of  the 
needful  for  the  compassing  this  end  was,  that  Stuarts  shared  with  his  father  and  grandfather, 
the  people  of  England  should  second  the  efforts  that  Charies  the  Second  was  not  content  with 
of  an  insignificant  corporation,  the  estabhsh-  saying  witty  things  about  his  philosophers, 
ment  of  which,  a  few  years  before  the  epoch  50  but  did  wise  things  with  regard  to  them.  For 
of  the  great  plague  and  the  great  fire,  had  been  he  not  only  bestowed  upon  them  such  atten- 
as  litUe  noticed,  as  they  were  conspicuous.  tion  as  he  could  spare  from  his  poodles  and 

Borne  twenty  years  before  the  outbreak  of  his  mistresses,  but,  being  in  his  usual  state  of 
i.  frP?^  *  ,  ^™  ^°^  thoughtful  students  impecuniosity,  begged  for  them  of  the  Duke 
banded  themselves  together  for  the  purpose,  55  of  Ormond;  and,  that  step  being  without 
as  they  phrased   it,   of   "improving  natural 

•  The  study  of  the  physical  condition  of  the  moon. 
JO^m  of  Charles  Il'a  time,  noted  for  their  wit  and       the  WoSrtS  mts'  ^^^^^^''^'^  °^  '^^  P"^«iP'«  °^ 
"ySSLhop  of  Canterbury.  JtheL'ticf  SlllTOS)?"''  ^'^''''^''  ^  *^«  ^^^^  f ; 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  755 

3lect,  gave  them  Chelsea  College,  a  charter,  Royal  Society  stands  without  a  parallel  in  the 

ind  a  mace;  crowning  his  favours  in  the  best  history  of  mankind. 

A'ay  they   could  be  crowned,   by  burdening  A  series  of  volumes  as  bulky  as  the  Transac- 

ihem  no  further  with  royal  patronage  or  state  tions  of  the  Royal  Society  might  possibly  be 

iiterference.  5 filled  with  the  speculations  of  the  Schoolmen; 

Thus  it  was  that  the  half-dozen  young  men,  not  improbably,  the  obtaining  a  mastery  over 

tudious  of  the  "New  Philosophy,"^  who  met  the  products  of  mediaeval  thought  might  neces- 

1  one  another's  lodgings  in  Oxford  or  in  Lon-  sitate  an  even  greater  expenditure  of  time  and 

[on,  in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  of  energy  than  the  acquirement  of  the  "New 


2,Tew  in  numerical  and  in  real  strength,  until,  lo Philosophy;"  but  though  such  work  en£. 
a  its  latter  part,  the  "Royal  Society  for  the  the  best  intellects  of  Europe  for  a  longer  time 
Improvement  of  Natural  Knowledge"  had  than  has  elapsed  since  the  great  fire,  its  effects 
already   become  famous,    and   had    acquired     were  "writ  In  water,"  so  far  as  our  social  state 

claim  upon  the  veneration  of  Englishmen,     is  concerned, 
orhich  it  has  ever  since  retained,  as  the  principal  15     On  the  other  hand,  if  the  noble  first  Presi- 
focus  of  scientific  activity  in  our  islands,  and     dent^^  of  the  Royal  Society  could  revisit  the 
the  chief  champion  of  the  cause  it  was  formed     upper  air  and  once  more  gladden  his  eyes  with 
to  support.  the  sight  of  the  familiar  mace,  he  would  find 

It  was  by  the  aid  of  the  Royal  Society  that  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  material  civilization 
Newton^"  published  his  "Principia."  If  all  20  more  different  from  that  of  his  day,  than  that 
be  books  in  the  world,  except  the  Philosophical  of  the  seventeenth,  was  from  that  of  the  first, 
Transactions,^^  were  destroyed,  it  is  safe  to  century.  And  if  Lord  Brouncker's  native 
say  that  the  foundations  of  physical  science  sagacity  had  not  deserted  his  ghost,  he  would 
would  remain  unshaken,  and  the  vast  intel-  need  no  long  reflection  to  discover  that  all 
lectual  progress  of  the  last  two  centuries  would  25  these  great  ships,  these  railways,  these  tele- 
be  largely,  though  incompletely,  recorded,  graphs,  these  factories,  these  printing-presses, 
Nor  have  any  signs  of  halting  or  of  decrepitude  without  which  the  whole  fabric  of  modem 
manifested  themselves  in  our  own  times.  As  English  society  would  collapse  into  a  mass  of 
in  Dr.  Wallis's  days,  so  in  these,  "our  business  stagnant  and  starving  pauperism,— that  all 
is,  precluding  theology  and  state  affairs,  to  30  these  pillars  of  our  State  are  but  the  ripples 
discourse  and  consider  of  philosophical  en-  and  the  bubbles  upon  the  surface  of  that  great 
quiries."  But  our  "Mathematick"  is  one  spiritual  stream,  the  springs  of  which,  only, 
which  Newton  would  have  to  go  to  school  to  he  and  his  fellows  were  privileged  to  see;  and 
learn;  our  "Staticks,  Mechanicks,  Magneticks,  seeing,  to  recognise  as  that  which  it  behoved 
Chymicks,  and  Natural  Experiments"  con- 35  them  above  all  things  to  keep  pure  and  unde- 
stitute  a  mass  of  physical  and  chemical  knowl-     filed. 

edge,  a  gUmpse  at  which  would  compensate  It  may  not  be  too  great  a  flight  of  imagma- 
Galileo  for  the  doings  of  a  score  of  inquisitorial  tion  to  conceive  our  noble  revenant''^  not  for- 
cardinals;i2  our  "Physick"  and  "Anatomy"  getful  of  the  troubles  of  his  ovv-n  «ay,  and 
have  embraced  such  infinite  varieties  of  being,  40  anxious  to  know  how  often  London  had  been 
have  laid  open  such  new  worlds  in  time  and  burned  down  since  his  time,  and  how  olten 
space,  have  grappled,  not  unsucessfully,  with  the  plague  had  carried  off  its  thousands.  He 
such  complex  problems,  that  the  eyes  of  Vesa-  would  have  to  learn  that,  although  London 
liusi3  and  of  Haxveyi*  niight  be  dazzled  by  the  contains  tenfold  the  inflammable  matter  that 
sight  of  the  tree  that  has  grown  out  of  their  45  it  did  in  1666;  though,  not  co"^,^"^^^^^  filling 
grain  of  mustard  seed.  our  rooms  with  woodwork  ^-"^  light  draF^ru^. 

The  fact  is  perhaps  rather  too  much,  than  we  must  needs  lead  inflammable  and  explosive 
too  Httle,  forced  upon  one's  notice,  nowadays,  gases  into  every  comer  of  ^^J  f^^^\^"^ 
that  all  this  marveUous  inteUectual  growth  has  houses,  we  never  allow  even  a  street  to  bum 
a  no  less  wonderful  expression  in  practical  life;  50  down.  And  if  he  asked  ^^o^  this  ha^  c^"^e 
and  that,  in  this  respect,  if  in  no  other,  the  about,  we  should  have  to  ex^ain  that  the 
movement  symbolized  by  the  progress  of  the     STufw^Lzerol  nrcSor  ThrLw- 

» The  principles  set  forth  in  Bacon's  Novum  Or g^um        jng  water  upon  fires,  any  one  of  whlch  WOuld 
w  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who  was  elected  to  the  Royal  ^^  ^^^^  fumishcd  the  ingeniOUS  Mr.   Hooke,  the 

^^^TKipublications  of  the  Royal  Society.  first  "curator  and  experimenter"  of  the  Royal 

12  Galileo's  views  of  the  Copernican  theory  were  con- 
demned by  the  Pope.  .  w,=i.  i=R4^  nLord  Brouncker,  the  first  president  of  the  Royal 

Circulation  of  the  blood. 


756  THE   VICTORIAN  AGE 

Society,  with  ample  materials  for  discourse  Surely,  the  principles  involved  in  them  are 
before  half  a  dozen  meetings  of  that  body;  and  now  admitted  among  the  fixed  beliefs  of  all' 
that,  to  say  truth,  except  for  the  progress  of  thinking  men?  Surely,  it  is  true  that  our 
natural  knowletlge,  we  should  not  have  been  countrymen  are  less  subject  to  fire,  famine, 
able  to  make  even  the  tools  by  which  these  5  pestilence,  and  all  the  evils  which  result  from 
machines  are  constructed.  And,  further,  it  a  want  of  command  over  and  due  anticipation 
would  be  necessary  to  add,  that  although  of  the  course  of  Nature,  than  were  the  country- 
severe  fires  sometimes  occur^and  inflict  great  men  of  Milton;  and  health,  wealth,  and  well- 
damage,  the  loss  is  very  generally  compensated  being  are  more  abundant  with  us  than  with 
by  societies,  the  operations  of  which  have  been  lO  them?  But  no  less  certainly  is  the  difference 
rendered  possible  only  by  the  progress  of  nat-  due  to  the  improvement  of  our  knowledge  of 
ural  knowledge  in  the  direction  of  mathe-  Nature,  and  the  extent  to  which  that  improved 
matics,  and  the  accumulation  of  wealth  in  knowledge  has  been  incorporated  with  the 
virtue  of  other  natural  knowledge.  household  words  of  men,   and  has  supplied 

But  the  plague?  My  Lord  Brouncker's  ob-  15  the  springs  of  their  daily  actions. 
servation  would  not,  I  fear,  lead  him  to  think  Granting  for  a  moment,  then,  the  truth  of 
that  Englishmen  of  the  nineteenth  century  are  that  which  the  depreciators  of  natural  knowl- 
purer  in  life,  or  more  fervent  in  religious  faith,  edge  are  so  fond  of  urging,  that  its  improve-' 
.  than  the  generation  which  could  produce  a  ment  can  only  add  to  the  resources  of  our  ma- 
Boyle,"  an  Evelyn,"  and  a  Milton.  He  might  20  terial  civilization;  admitting  it  to  be  possibly 
find  the  mud  of  society  at  the  bottom,  instead  that  the  founders  of  the  Royal  Society  thera- 
of  at  the  top,  but  I  fear  that  the  sum  total  selves  looked  for  no  other  reward  than  this,  I 
would  be  as  deserving  of  swift  judgment  as  at  cannot  confess  that  I  was  so  guilty  of  exaggerft- 
the  time  of  the  Restoration.  And  it  would  be  tion  when  I  hinted,  that  to  him  who  had  the 
our  duty  to  explain  once  more,  and  this  time  25  gift  of  distinguishing  between  prominent  events 
not  without  shame,  that  we  have  no  reason  to  and  important  events,  the  origin  of  a  com- 
believe  that  it  is  the  improvement  of  our  faith,  bined  effort  on  the  part  of  mankind  to  improve 
nor  that  of  our  morals,  which  keeps  the  plague  natural  knowledge  might  have  loomed  larger 
fromourcity;but,  again,  that  it  is  the  improve-  than  the  Plague  and  have  outshone  the  glare 
ment  of  our  natural  knowledge.  30  of  the  Fire;  as  a  something  fraught  with  the 

We  have  learned  that  pestilences  will  only  wealth  of  beneficence  to  mankind,  in  compari- 
take  up  their  abode  among  those  who  have  son  with  which  the  damage  done  by  those 
prepared  unswept  and  ungamished  residences  ghastly  evils  would  shrink  into  insignificance. 
for  them.  Their  cities  must  have  narrow,  un-  It  is  very  certain  that  for  every  victim  slain 
watered  streets,  foul  with  accumulated  gar-  35  by  the  plague,  hundreds  of  mankind  exist  and 
bage.  Their  houses  must  be  ill-drained,  ill-  find  a  fair  share  of  happiness  in  the  world,  by 
lighted,  ill-ventilated.  Their  subjects  must  be  the  aid  of  the  spinning  jenny.  And  the  great 
ill-washed,  ill-fed,  ill-clothed.  The  London  of  fire,  at  its  worst,  could  not  have  burned  the 
1665  was  such  a  city.  The  cities  of  the  East,  supply  of  coal,  the  daily  working  of  which, 
where  plague  has  an  enduring  dwelling,  are  40  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  made  possible  by 
such  cities.  We,  in  later  time,  have  learned  the  steam  pump,  gives  rise  to  an  amount  of 
somewhat  of  nature,  and  partly  obey  her.  wealth  to  which  the  millions  lost  in  old  London 
Because  of  this  partial  improvement  of  our     are  but  as  an  old  song. 

natural  knowledge  and  of  that  fractional  obedi-  But  spinning  jenny  and  steam  pump  are, 
ence,  we  have  no  plague;  because  that  knowl-  45  after  all,  but  toys,  possessing  an  accidental 
edge  is  still  very  imperfect  and  that  obedience  value;  and  natural  knowledge  creates  multi- 
yet  mcomplete,  typhus  is  our  companion  and  tudes  of  more  subtle  contrivances,  the  praises 
cholera  our  visitor.  But  it  is  not  presumptuous  of  which  do  not  happen  to  be  sung  because 
to  express  the  belief  that,  when  our  knowledge  they  are  not  directly  convertible  into  instru- 
w  more  complete  and  our  obedience  the  expres-  50  ments  for  creating  wealth.  When  I  contera- 
sion  of  our  knowledge,  London  will  count  her  plate  natural  knowledge  squandering  such 
centuries  of  freedom  from  typhus  and  cholera,  gifts  among  men,  the  only  appropriate  com- 
as sue  now  gratefuUy  reckons  her  two  hundred  parison  I  can  find  for  her  is,  to  liken  her  to 
years  of  ignorance  of  that  plague  which  swooped  such  a  peasant  woman  as  one  sees  in  the  Alps, 
upon  her  thnce  m  the  first  half  of  the  seven- 55  striding  ever  upward,  heavily  burdened,  and 

Rntr^'^u^'-         t-.      .      ,  ^^^^  "^^"d  bent  only  on  her  home;  but  yet, 

-,»>;^r  •  '  ^*^^/®  »s  °o\t^»°«  ^  tliese  explanations     without  effort  and  without  thought,  knitting 

Which  is  not  fully  borne  out  by  the  facts?      for  her  children.    Now  stockings  are  good  and 

' iMmtBoyU, unEugluixchtwiBi.    " F. p. 280, supra.        comfortable  things,  and  the  children  will  un- 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  757 

doubtedly  be  much  the  better  for  them;  but         Let  us  take  these  points  separately;  and, 
surely  it  would  be  short-sighted,  to  say  the      first,  what  great  ideas  has  natural  knowledge 
least  of  it,  to  depreciate  this  toiling  mother  as      introduced  into  men's  minds? 
a   mere    stocking-machine— a   mere   provider         I  cannot  but  think  that  the  foundations  of 
of  physical  comforts?  5  all   natural   knowledge   were   laid    when   the 

However,  there  are  blind  leaders  of  the  blind,  reason  of  man  first  came  face  to  face  with  the 
and  not  a  few  of  them,  who  take  this  view  of  facts  of  Nature;  when  the  savage  first  learned 
natural  knowledge,  and  can  see  nothing  in  the  that  the  fingers  of  one  hand  are  fewer  than  those 
bountiful  mother  of  humanity  but  a  sort  of  of  both;  that  it  is  shorter  to  cross  a  stream  than 
comfort-grinding  machine.  According  to  them,  lo  to  head  it;  that  a  stone  stops  where  it  is  unless 
the  improvement  in  natural  knowledge  always  it  be  moved,  and  that  it  drops  from  the  hand 
has  been,  and  always  must  be,  synonymous  which  lets  it  go;  that  light  and  heat  come  and 
with  no  more  than  the  improvement  of  the  go  with  the  sun;  that  sticks  burn  away  in  a 
material  resources  and  the  increase  of  the  fire;  that  plants  and  animals  grow  and  die; 
gratifications  of  men.  15  that  if  he  struck  his  fellow-savage  a  blow  he 

Natural  knowledge  is,  in  their  eyes,  no  real  would  make  him  angry,  and  perhaps  get  a  blow 
mother  of  mankind,  bringing  them  up  with  in  return,  while  if  he  offered  him  a  fruit  he 
kindness,  and,  if  need  be,  with  sternness,  in  the  would  please  him,  and  perhaps  receive  a  fish 
way  they  should  go,  and  instructing  them  in  in  exchange.  When  men  had  acquired  this 
all  things  needful  for  their  welfare;  but  a  sort  20  much  knowledge,  the  outlines,  rude  though 
of  fairy  godmother,  ready  to  furnish  her  pets  they  were,  of  mathematics,  of  physics,  of 
with  shoes  of  swiftness,  swords  of  sharpness,  chemistry,  of  biology,  of  moral,  economical, 
and  omnipotent  Aladdin's  lamps,  so  that  they  and  political  science,  were  sketched.  Nor  did 
may  have  telegraphs  to  Saturn,  and  see  the  the  germ  of  religion  fail  when  science  began  to 
other  side  of  the  moon,  and  thank  God  they  25  bud.  Listen  to  words  which,  though  new,  are 
are  better  than  their  benighted  ancestors.  yet  three  thousand  years  old: — 

If  this  talk  were  true,  I,  for  one,  should  not 
greatly  care  to  toil  in  the  service  of  natural         "  •  •  •  When  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the 

knowledge.     I  think  I  would  just  as  soon  be      ^  ^P^P^     ...  t      ,         n +u^^;r,^.,  or.«io;^ 
.  ,,     \.     .  «•„+'    ^„    „r. ^„  +1,^  „^  Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  wmds  are  laid, 

quietly  chipping  my  own  flmt  axe,  after  theso^^^^^^^yj^^jg'j^^^Q^^^g  out,  and  jutting  peak 
manner  of  my  forefathers  a  few  thousand  years      j^^^  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens 
back,  as  be  troubled  with  the  endless  malady      Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the  stars 
of  thought  which  now  infests  us  all,  for  such     Shine,  and  the  shepherd  gladdens  in  his  heart."" 
reward.    But  I  venture  to  say  that  such  views 

are  contrary  alike  to  reason  and  to  feet.  Those  35  If  the  half-savage  Greek  could  share  our  feel- 
who  discourse  in  such  fashion  seem  to  me  to  ings  thus  far,  is  it  irrational  to  doubt  that  he 
be  so  intent  upon  trying  to  see  what  is  above  went  further,  to  find,  as  we  do,  that  upon  that 
Nature,  or  what  is  behind  her,  that  they  are  brief  gladness  there  follows  a  certain  sorrow,— 
blind  to  what  stares  them  in  the  face  of  her.  the  little  light  of  awakened  human  intelligence 

I  should  not  venture  to  speak  thus  strongly  40  shines  so  mere  a  spark  amidst  the  abyss  of 
if  my  justification  were  not  to  be  found  in  the  the  unknown  and  unknowable;  seems  so  in- 
simplest  and  most  obvious  facts,— if  it  needed  sufficient  to  do  more  than  illuminate  the  im- 
more  than  an  appeal  to  the  most  notorious  perfections  that  cannot  be  remedied,  the  as- 
truths  to  justify  my  assertion,  that  the  improve-  pirations  that  cannot  be  realized,  of  man  s  own 
ment  of  natural  knowledge,  whatever  direction  45  nature.  But  in  this  sadness,  this  consciousness 
it  has  taken,  and  however  low  the  aims  of  of  the  limitation  of  man,  this  sense  of  an  open 
those  who  may  have  commenced  it-has  not  secret  which  he  cannot  penetrate,  hes  the  es- 
only  conferred  practical  benefits  on  men,  but  sence  of  all  religion;  and  ^he  attempt  to  em- 
in  so  doing,  has  effected  a  revolution  in  their  body  it  in  the  forms  furnished  by  the  mteUect 
conceptions  of  the  universe  and  of  themselves,  50  is  the  origin  of  the  higher  theologies, 
and  has  profoundly  altered  their  modes  of  Thus  it  seems  impossible  to  imagine  but 
thinking  and  their  views  of  right  and  wrong,  that  the  foundations  of  a"  knowledg^^^^^^^ 
I  say  that  natural  knowledge,  seeking  to  satisfy  or  sacred-were  laid  when  mteUig^nce  dawned 
natural  wants,  has  found  the  idea^  which  can  though  the  superstructure  J^^^^^^^'J^^^l 
alone  still  spiritual  cravings.  I  say  that  nat.55ages  so  sligh  and  feeble  ^  1^^"  3  tfew 
ural  knowledge  in  desiring  to  ascertain  the  with  the  existence  of  almost  any  general  view 
Taws  of  comfort,  ha.  been  driven  to  discover     respecting  the  mode  of  governance  of  the  urn- 

those  of  conduct,  and  to  lay  foundations  of  a  „  p^.^^^  Tennyson's  Specimens  of  a  Translation  of  the 

new  morality.  -f"«<^ »"  ^^«"*  ^'^''- 


768         ^  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

Terae.  No  doubt,  from  the  first,  there  were  us  to  contemplate  phenomena  the  very  nature 
oertain  phenomena  which,  to  the  rudest  mind,  of  which  demonstrates  that  they  must  have 
preeented  a  constancy  of  occurrence,  and  sug-  had  a  beginning,  and  that  they  must  have  an 
Rested  that  a  fixed  order  ruled,  at  any  rate,  end,  but  the  very  nature  of  which  also  proves 
among  them.  I  doubt  if  the  grossest  of  Fetish  5  that  the  beginning  was,  to  our  conceptions  of 
worshippers  ever  imagined  that  a  stone  must  time,  infinitely  remote,  and  that  the  end  is  as 
have  a  god  within  it  to  make  it  fall,  or  that  a     immeasurably  distant. 

fruit  had  a  god  within  it  to  make  it  taste  sweet.  But  it  is  not  alone  those  who  pursue  as- 
With  regard  to  such  matters  as  these,  it  is  tronomy  who  ask  for  bread  and  receive  ideas. 
hardly  questionable  that  mankind  from  the  lo  What  more  harmless  than  the  attempt  to  lift 
first  took  strictly  positive  and  scientific  views,      and  distribute  water  by  pumping  it;  what  more 

But,  with  respect  to  all  the  less  familiar  absolutely  and  grossly  utilitarian?  But  out 
occurrences  which  present  themselves,  uncul-  of  pumps  grew  the  discussions  about  Nature's 
turtjd  man,  no  doubt,  has  always  taken  himself  abhorrence  of  a  vacuum;  and  then  it  was  dis- 
ss the  standard  of  comparison,  as  the  centre  15  covered  that  Nature  does  not  abhor  a  vacuum, 
and  measure  of  the  world;  nor  could  he  well  but  that  air  has  weight;  and  that  notion  paved 
avoid  doing  so.  And  finding  that  his  appar-  the  way  for  the  doctrine  that  all  matter  has 
ently  uncaused  will  has  a  powerful  effect  in  weight,  and  that  the  force  which  produces 
giving  rise  to  many  occurrences,  he  naturally  weight  is  co-extensive  with  the  universe, — in 
enough  ascribed  other  and  greater  events  to  20  short,  to  the  theory  of  universal  gravitation 
other  and  greater  voUtions,  and  came  to  look  and  endless  force.  While  learning  how  to 
upon  the  world  and  all  that  therein  is,  as  the  handle  gases  led  to  the  discovery  of  oxygen,  and 
product  of  the  volitions  of  persons  like  him-  to  modem  chemistry,  and  to  the  notion  of  tlio 
self,  but  stronger,  and  capable  of  being  ap-  indestructibility  of  matter. 
peased  or  angered,  as  he  himself  might  be  25  Again,  what  simpler,  or  more  absolutely 
soothed  or  irritated.  Through  such  conceptions  practical,  than  the  attempt  to  keep  the  axle 
of  the  plan  and  working  of  the  universe  all  of  a  wheel  from  heating  when  the  wheel  turns 
mankind  have  passed,  or  are  passing.  And  we  round  very  fast?  How  useful  for  carters  and 
may  now  consider,  what  has  been  the  effect  gig  drivers  to  know  something  about  this;  and 
of  the  improvement  of  natural  knowledge  on  30  how  good  were  it,  if  any  ingenious  person  would 
the  views  of  men  who  have  reached  this  stage,  find  out  the  cause  of  such  phenomena,  and 
and  who  have  begun  to  cultivate  natural  thence  educe  a  general  remedy  for  them.  Such 
knowledge  with  no  desire  but  that  of  "increas-  an  ingenious  person  was  Count  Rumford;-*^ 
ing  God's  honour  and  bettering  man's  estate."      and  he  and  his  successors  have  landed  us  in  the 

For  example:  what  could  seem  wiser,  from  35  theory  of  the  persistence,  or  indestructibility, 
a  mere  material  point  of  view,  more  innocent,  of  force.  And  in  the  infinitely  minute,  as  i'l 
from  a  theological  one,  to  an  ancient  people,  the  infinitely  great,  the  seekers  after  natural 
than  that  they  should  learn  the  exact  succes-  knowledge,  of  the  kinds  called  physical  and 
sion  of  the  seasons,  as  warnings  for  their  hus-  chemical,  have  everywhere  found  a  definite 
bandmen;orthepositionof  the  stars,  as  guides  40  order  and  succession  of  events  which  never 
to  their  rude  navigators?    But  what  has  grown     seemed  to  be  infringed. 

out  of  this  search  for  natural  knowledge  of  And  how  has  it  fared  with  "Physick"  and 
so  merely  useful  a  character?  You  all  know  the  Anatomy?  Have  the  anatomist,  the  physiol- 
reply.  Astronomy, — which  of  all  sciences  has  ogist,  or  the  physician,  whose  business  it  has 
filled  men's  minds  with  general  ideas  of  a  45  been  to  devote  themselves  assiduously  to  that 
character  most  foreign  to  their  daily  experience,  eminently  practical  and  direct  end,  the  al- 
and has,  more  than  any  other,  rendered  it  leviation  of  the  sufferings  of  mankind,— have 
impossible  for  them  to  accept  the  beliefs  of  they  been  able  to  confine  their  vision  more 
their  fathers.  Astronomy,— which  tells  them  absolutely  to  the  strictly  useful?  I  fear  that 
that  this  so  vast  and  seemingly  sohd  earth  is  50  they  are  the  worst  offenders  of  all.  For  if  the 
but  an  atom  among  atoms,  whirhng,  no  man  astronomer  has  set  before  us  the  infinite  mag- 
knows  whither,  through  inimitable  space;  which  nitude  of  space,  and  the  practical  eternity  of 
demonstrates  that  what  we  call  the  peaceful  the  duration  of  the  universe;  if  the  physical 
heavOT  above  us,  is  but  that  space,  filled  by  and  chemical  philosophers  have  demonstrated 
an  infinitely  subtle  matter  whose  particles  are  55  the  infinite  minuteness  of  its  constituent  parts,  j 
seethmg  and  surgmg,  like  the  waves  of  an  and  the  practical  eternity  of  matter  and  of 
angry  sea;  which  opens  up  to  us  infinite  regions  force;  and  if  both  have  alike  proclaimed  the 
where  nothing  is  known,  but  matter  and  force,  1 

operating  according  to  rijdd  rules*  which  lpad««  »  A  distinguished  scientist  of  American  birth,  chiefly  \| 

r  p,  »v**"6  w  iij^u  luiCB,  wiucn  ieaas       remembered  for  his  experiments  on  the  nature  of  heat.        ^ 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  759 

laiversality  of  a  definite  and  predicable  order  made  in  natural  knowledge  has  tended  to  ex- 
iQd  succession  of  events,  the  workers  in  biology  tend  and  rivet  in  their  minds  the  conception 
lave  not  only  accepted  all  these,  but  have  of  a  definite  order  of  the  universe— which  is 
idded  more  startling  theses  of  their  own.  For,  embodied  in  what  are  called,  by  an  unhappy 
IS  the  astronomers  discover  in  the  earth  no  5  metaphor,  the  laws  of  Nature — and  to  nar- 
:entre  of  the  universe,  but  an  eccentric  speck,  row  the  range  and  loosen  the  force  of  men's 
?o  the  naturalists  find  man  to  be  no  centre  of  belief  in  spontaneity,  or  in  changes  other  than 
he  living  world,  but  one  amidst  endless  modi-  such  as  arise  out  of  that  definite  order  itself, 
ications  of  life;  and  as  the  astronomer  ob-  Whether  these  ideas  are  well  or  ill  founded 
serves  the  mark  of  practically  endless  time  set  lo  is  not  the  question.  No  one  can  deny  that 
ipon  the  arrangements  of  the  solar  system  so  they  exist,  and  have  been  the  inevitable  out- 
the  student  of  life  finds  the  records  of  ancient  growth  of  the  improvement  of  natural  knowl- 
[orms  of  existence  peopling  the  world  for  ages,  edge.  And  if  so,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that 
which,  in  relation  to  human  experience,  are  they  are  changing  the  form  of  men's  most 
infinite  l^  cherished  and  most  important  convictions. 

Furthermore,  the  physiologist  finds  life  to  And  as  regards  the  second  point— the  extent 
be  as  dependent  for  its  manifestation  on  par-  to  which  the  improvement  of  natural  knowl- 
ticular  molecular  arrangements  as  any  phys-  edge  has  remodelled  and  altered  what  may  be 
ical  or  chemical  phenomenon;  and,  wherever  termed  the  intellectual  ethics  of  men,— what 
he  extends  his  researches,  fixed  order  and  un-  20  are  among  the  moral  convictions  most  fondly 
changing  causation  reveal  themselves,  as  held  by  barbarous  and  semi-barbarous  people/ 
plainly  as  in  the  rest  of  Nature.  They  are  the  convictions  that  authority  is 

Nor  can  I  find  that  any  other  fate  has  the  soundest  basis  of  belief ;  that  merit  attaches 
awaited  the  germ  of  Religion.  Arising,  like  to  a  readiness  to  believe;  that  the  doubtmg 
all  other  kinds  of  knowledge,  out  of  the  action  25  disposition  is  a  bad  one,  and  scepticism  a  sm 
and  interaction  of  man's  mind,  with  that  which  that  when  good  authority  has  Pronounced 
^s  not  man's  mind,  it  has  taken  the  intellectua  what  is  to  be  believed,  and  fai  h  has  accepted 
coverings  of  Fetishism  or  Polytheism;  of  it,  reason  haa  no  further  duty  Jfre^re 
ThTm  or  Atheism;  of  Superstition  or  Ra.  many  excellent  persons  who  yet  hold  by  these 
tionalSm  With  these,  and  their  relative  30  principles,  and  it  is  not  my  present  bu^^^^^^^^^ 
merits  and  demerits,  I  have  nothing  to  do;  or  intention,  to  discuss  their  views  All  I  wish 
Sit  this^t  is  n^edfu  for  my  purpose  to  say,  clearly  to  bring  before  your  mmd  is  the  un- 
that^therSof  theprese^^  questionable  fact,   that  t^e  improvement  of 

that  of  the  past,Tt  is  because  the  theology  of  natural  knowledge  is  effected  by  methods 
the  present^  become  more  scientific  than  35  which  directly  give  the  he  to  all  these  convic- 
thatTthe  p^t;  because  it  has  not  only  re-  tions,  and  assume  the  exact  reverse  of  each  to 
nnnnred  idols  of  wood  and  idols  of  stone,  but      be  true.  ,      ,    1         1  ^„«    oK 

ideas  of  the  practically  infinite  extent  of  the  not  be<^"f«/"°  "T  their  verity  is  tested  by 
universe  and  of  its  practical  eternity;  they  are  them;  not  because  ^^\l^"^ ^  his  ex- 
faS'th  the  conception  that  our  earth  ij^^Porten^f  ^^  wo^^e^.  but  be^^^^^ 

but  an  infinitesimal  fragment  of  that  Part  of  ^™°««  t^^*f  ,^'„^S^^  contact  with 
the  universe  which  can  be  seen;  and  that  '» ji™^  *°!^^^°°;es,  Nature-whenever  he 
nevertheless,  its  duration  is  a^  compared  vnth     «^e.r  Pnmary  «)urc^,  i  ^^ 

Tthl  S2"::^1hrtL°;itnT:x=     fr  inli^Siotlt  by  faith,  but  by  ver- 


700  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

despise  the  practical  results  of  the  improve-  theum/  pronounce  Fielding  to  be  low,  and 
ment  of  natural  knowledge,  and  its  beneficial  Mozart  to  be  passe.  As  boys  love  lollipops, 
influence  on  material  civilization  it  must,  I  so  these  juvenile  fops  love  to  roll  phrases  about 
think,  be  admitted  that  the  great  ideas,  some  under  the  tongue,  as  if  phrases  in  themselves 
of  which  1  have  indicated,  and  the  ethical  shad  a  value  apart  from  thoughts,  feelings, 
spirit  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  sketch,  in  great  conceptions,  or  human  sympathy.  For 
the  few  moments  which  remained  at  my  dis-  Scott  is  just  one  of  the  poets  (we  may  call 
poeal,  constitute  the  real  and  permanent  sig-  poets  all  the  great  creators  in  prose  or  in  verse) 
nificance  of  natural  knowledge.  of  whom  one  never  wearies,  just  as  one  can 

If  these  ideas  be  destined,  as  I  beUeve  they  lo  listen  to  Beethoven,  or  watch  the  sunrise  or 
are,  to  be  more  and  more  firmly  established  the  sunset  day  by  day  with  new  delight.  I 
as  the  world  grows  older;  if  that  spirit  be  think  I  can  read  the  Antiquary,  or  the  Bride 
fated,  as  I  believe  it  is,  to  extend  itself  into  all  of  Lammermoor,  Ivanhoe,  Quentin  Durivard, 
departments  of  human  thought,  and  to  become  and  Old  Mortality,  at  least  once  a  year  afresh. 
co-extendve  with  the  range  of  knowledge;  if,  is  Scott  is  a  perfect  library  in  himself.  A  con- 
as  our  race  approaches  its  maturity,  it  dis-  stant  reader  of  romances  would  find  that  it 
covers,  as  I  believe  it  will,  that  there  is  but  needed  months  to  go  through  even  the  best 
one  kind  of  knowledge  and  but  one  method  of  pieces  of  the  inexhaustible  painter  of  eight 
acquiring  it;  then  we,  who  are  still  children,  full  centuries  and  every  type  of  man;  and 
may  justly  feel  it  our  highest  duty  to  recognize  20  he  might  repeat  the  process  of  reading  him 
the  advisableness  of  improving  natural  knowl-  ten  times  in  a  lifetime  without  a  sense  of 
edge,  and  so  to  aid  ourselves  and  our  successors  fatigue  or  sameness.  The  poetic  beauty  of 
in  their  course  towards  the  noble  goal  which  Scott's  creations  is  almost  the  least  of  his  great 
lies  before  mankind.  qualities.     It  is  the  universality  of  his  sym- 

25pathy  that  is  so  truly  great,  the  justice  of  his 

estimates,  the  insight  into  the  spirit  of  each 

age,  his  intense  absorption  of  self  in  the  vast 

ifr^Dfricfe   ^dXtiiOXl  epic  of  human  civilisation.    What  are  the  old 

-Q„,  almanacs  that  they  so  often  give  us  as  his- 

30  tones  beside  these  living  pictures  of  the  ordered 

WALTFR  SrOTT  succession  of  ages?    As  in  Homer  himself,  we 

see  in  this  prose  Iliad  of  modern  history,  the 
(Prom  The  Choice  of  Books,  1880)  battle  of  the  old  and  the  new,  the  heroic  de- 

fence of  ancient  strongholds,  the  long  impend- 
In  Europe,  as  in  England,  Walter  Scott  re-  35  ing  and  inevitable  doom  of  mediaeval  life. 
mains  as  yet  the  last  in  the  series  of  the  great  Strong  men  and  proud  women  struggle  against 
creative  spirits  of  the  human  race.  No  one  the  destiny  of  modern  society,  unconsciously 
of  his  successors,  however  clear  be  the  genius  working  out  its  ways,  undauntedly  defying 
and  the  partial  success  of  some  of  them,  be-  its  power.  How  just  is  our  island  Homer! 
longs  to  the  same  grand  type  of  mind,  or  has  40  Neither  Greek  nor  Trojan  sways  him;  Achilles 
now  a  lasting  place  in  the  roU  of  the  immortals,  is  his  hero;  Hector  is  his  favorite;  he  loves  the 
It  should  make  us  sad  to  reflect  that  a  genera-  councils  of  chiefs,  and  the  palace  of  Priam;  but 
tion,  which  already  has  begun  to  treat  Scott  the  swine-herd,  the  charioteer,  the  slave-girl, 
with  the  indifference  that  is  the  lot  of  a  "clas-  the  hound,  the  beggar,  and  the  herds-man,  all 
SIC,  should  be  ready  to  fill  its  insatiable  maw  45  glow  alike  in  the  harmonious  colouring  of  his 
with  the  ephemeral  wares  of  the  booksellers,  peopled  epic.  We  see  the  dawn  of  our  English 
and  the  reeking  garbage  of  the  boulevard.  nation,  the  defence  of  Christendom  against  the 

We  aU  read^  Scott  s  romances,  as  we  have  Koran,  the  grace  and  terror  of  feudalism,  the 
all  read  Hume  s  History  of  England;  but  how  rise  of  monarchy  out  of  baronies,  the  rise  of 
often  do  we  read  them,  how  zealously,  with  50  parliaments  out  of  monarchy,  the  rise  of  indus- 
)lwtKTr^^.^°  understanding?  I  am  try  out  of  serfage,  the  pathetic  ruin  of  chivalry, 
UfK^ti^^'  '''''''^'^°^T^^'°'"^^"'^     *^«   «Pl^°did   death-struggle   of   Catholicism, 

vnln.  f^    f  ^"^^  •'  ^°7;["°°P^^««;  tba^  the      the  sylvan  tribes  of  the  mountain  (remnants 
\ZZ  ?ZfrT  ""r^^^^^f  ^'^  ^^'}^^  '?^     of  our  pre-historic  forefathers)  beating  them- 

d^ArZll     tI  f^'^Z^^f^^^  *°  Pi^^^«  ^g^i^st  the  hard  advance  of 

descnptions.      They    prefer    Mr.    Swinburne, 

Mr.  Mallock,  and  the  Euphuism  of  VOUne  Ox-  .k^  u  *®™?'t^°  Athens,  (so  named  because  it  contained 

ford     iuat   J   anmA   r.n^r.\a    ZTr^J        rT     V  ?^  ^"'*  °    Erectheus),  generaUy  regarded  as  one  of  the 

lora,    JUSl    as    some    people    prefer    a    Dresden  finest  specimens  of  Greek  architecture.    The  Caryatides 

ObepberdeaS   to    the   Caryatides    of    the   Erer-  ^^^/^^  robed  female  figures  which  support  the  Erecthewm, 

J  y,     uuc   A^ico  and  are  choice  examples  of  architectural  sculpture. 


FREDERICK  HARRISON  761 

modern  industry;  we  see  the  grim  heroism  of  dreadful  an  abortion  of  a  book  the  rare  volume 
the  Bible-martyrs,  the  catastrophe  of  feudalism  may  be,  the  more  desperate  is  the  struggle  of 
overwhelmed  by  a  practical  age  which  knew  libraries  to  possess  it.  Civilisation  in  fact  has 
little  of  its  graces,  and  almost  nothing  of  its  evolved  a  complete  apparatus,  an  order  of 
virtues.  Such  is  Scott,  who,  we  may  say,  has  5  men,  and  a  code  of  ideas,  for  the  express  pur- 
done  for  the  various  phases  of  modern  history,  pose  one  may  say  of  degrading  the  great  books, 
what  Shakespeare  has  done  for  the  manifold  and  gives  the  place  of  honour  to  that  which  is 
types  of  human  character.    And  this  glorious      plainly  literary  carrion. 

and  most  human  and  most  historical  of  poets,  Now  I  suppose,  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  lies 

without  whom  our  very  conception  of  human  lo  that  rattle  and  restlessness  of  life  which  belongs 
development  would  have  ever  been  imperfect,  to  the  industrial  Maelstrom  wherein  we  ever 
this  manliest,  and  truest,  and  widest  of  ro-  revolve.  And  connected  therewith  comes  also 
mancers  we  neglect  for  some  hothouse  hybrid  that  literary  dandyism,  which  results  from  the 
of  psychological  analysis,  for  the  wretched  pursuit  of  letters  without  any  social  purpose 
imitators  of  Balzac,  and  the  jackanapes  phrase- 15  or  any  systematic  faith.  To  read  from  the 
mongering  of  some  Osric'^  of  the  day,  who  pricking  of  some  cerebral  itch  rather  than  from 
assures  us  that  Scott  is  an  absolute  Philistine,      a  desire  of  forming  judgments;  to  get,  like  an 

Alpine  club  striphng,  to  the  top  of  some  un- 
sealed pinnacle  of  culture;  to  use  books  as  a 
ON  READING  20  sedative,  as  a  means  of  exciting  a  mild  intellec- 

(From  the  same)  *^^^  titillation,  instead  of  as  a  means  of  ele- 

vating the  nature;  to  dribble  on  in  a  perpetual 
Collecting  rare  books  and  forgotten  authors  literary  gossip,  in  order  to  avoid  the  effort  of 
is  perhaps  of  all  the  collecting  manias  the  most  bracing  the  mind  to  think — such  is  our  habit 
foolish  in  our  day.  There  is  much  to  be  said  25  in  an  age  of  utterly  chaotic  education.  We 
for  rare  china  and  curious  beetles.  The  china  read,  as  the  bereaved  poet  made  rhymes — 
is  occasionally  beautiful;  and  the  beetles  at  ,,^^^  ^^^  ^  ^^^^^  ^^^ 

least  are  droll.     But  rare  books  now  are,  by  ^  ^^^  in  measured  language  lies; 

the  nature  of  the  case,  worthless  books;  and  rpj^^  ^^^  mechanic  exercise, 

their  rarity  usually  consists  in  this,  that  the  30         Like  dull  narcotics  numbing  pain."* 
printer  made  a  blunder  in  the  text,  or  that 

they  contain  something  exceptionally  nasty  or  We,  to  whom  steam  and  electricity  have  given 
silly.  To  affect  a  profound  interest  in  neg-  almost  everything  excepting  bigger  brains  and 
lected  authors  and  uncommon  books,  is  a  sign  hearts,  who  have  a  new  invention  ready  for 
for  the  most  part— not  that  a  man  has  ex-  35  every  meeting  of  the  Royal  Institution,^  who 
hausted  the  resources  of  ordinary  hterature—  want  new  things  to  talk  about  faster  than 
but  that  he  has  no  real  respect  for  the  greatest  children  want  new  toys  to  break,  we  cannot 
productions  of  the  greatest  men  of  the  worid.  take  up  the  books  we  have  seen  about  us  smce 
This  bibliomania  seizes  hold  of  rational  beings  our  childhood:  Milton,  or  MoliSre,  or  Scott, 
and  so  perverts  them,  that  in  the  sufferer's  40  It  feels  like  donning  knee-breeches  and  buckles, 
mind  the  human  race  exists  for  the  sake  of  the  to  read  what  everybody  has  read,  what  every- 
books  and  not  the  books  for  the  sake  of  the  body  can  read,  and  which  our  very  fathers 
human  race.  There  is  one  book  they  might  thought  good  entertainment  scores  of  years 
read  to  good  purpose,  the  doings  of  a  great  ago.  Hard-worked  men  and  overwrought 
book  collector— who  once  lived  in  La  Mancha.i  45  women  ^rave  an  occupation  which  shall  Iree 
To  the  collector,  and  sometimes  to  the  scholar,  them  from  their  thoughts  and  yet  not  take 
the  book  becomes  a  fetich  or  idol,  and  is  worthy  them  from  their  world.  And  thus  it  comes 
of  the  worship  of  mankind,  even  if  it  be  not  of  that  we  need  at  least  a  thousand  new  books 
the  slightest  use  to  anybody.  As  the  book  every  season,  whilst  we  have  rarely  a  spare 
exists  it  must  have  the  compliment  paid  it  50  hour  left  for  the  greatest  of  all.  Butlamget- 
of  being  invited  to  the  shelves.  The  "library  ting  into  a  vein  too  serious  for  our  purpose; 
is  imperfect  without  it,"  although  the  library  education  is  a  long  and  thorny  topic  i  will 
will,  so  to  speak  stink,  when  it  is  there.  The  cite  but  the  words  on  this  hea.1  of  the  great 
great  books  are  of  course  the  common  books;  Bishop  Butler.  "The  great  number  of  books 
and  these  are  treated  by  collectors  and  li-55and  papers  of  amusement  which,  of  one  kind 
brarians  with  sovereign  contempt.    The  more      or  another,  daily  come  in  ones  way,  have  in 

.  .  „  2  Tennyson's /"n  Meworwm.  V.  5.  .     ,,r.n   * 

8  An  affected  courtier  in  Hamlet,  noted  for  his  high  flown  3  Founded  by  Count  Ruinford  and  othera  in  1799,  for 

phrases  the  furthering  of  mechanical  inventions  and  the  teaching 

1  Don  Quixote  in  the  romance  of  Cervantes.  of  applied  science. 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

■       I   and  moflt  perfectly  fall  in     The  greatest  men  amongst  them,  Swift  or  a 

ir  this  idle  way  of  reading  and     Johnson,  have  indeed  a  sense — perhaps  a  really 

::s.    By  this  means  time,  even     stronger  sense  than  Browne  or  Taylor — of  the 

ippily  got  rid  of,  without  the     pettiness  of  our  lives  and  the  narrow  limits  of 

:  neither  is  any  part  of  it  more  5  our  knowledge.     No  great  man  could  ever  be 

:!it  of  idleness,  one  can  scarce     without  it.    But  the  awe  of  the  infinite  and  the 

spent  with  less  thought,  than     unseen  does  not  induce  them  to  brood  over 

It  which  is  spent  in  reading."      the  mysterious,  and  find  utterance  for  bewil- 

. '  wntten  a  century  and  a  half  ago,      dered  musings  on  the  inscrutable  enigma. 

lice  which  date,  let  us  trust,  the  10     It  is  only  felt  in  a  certain  habitual  sadness 

may  of  print  and  the  habits  of  desul-     which   clouds  their  whole   tone   of   thought. 

v:uiing  have  considerably  abated.  .  .  .         They  turn  their  backs  upon  the  infinite  and 

U .    need  to  be  reminded  every  day,  how     abandon  the  efifort  at  a  solution.    Their  eyes 

;iny  are  the  books  of  inimitable  glory,  which,      are  fixed  upon  the  world  around  them,  and  they 

•wlh  all  our  eagerness  after  reading,  we  have  15  regard  as  foolish  and  presumptuous  any  one 

never  taken  in  our  hands.     It  will  astonish     who  dares  to  contemplate  the  great  darkness. 

tnott  of  us  to  find  how  much  of  our  verj'  Indus-     The  expression  of  this  sentiment  in  literature 

t  ry  k  giTtn  to  the  books  which  leave  no  mark,      is  a  marked  disposition  to  turn  aside  from 

^^ow  often  we  rake  in  the  litter  of  the  printing-     pure  speculation,  combined  with  a  deep  in- 

r»"ss,  whilst  a  crown  of  gold  and  rubies  is20terest  in  social  and  moral  laws.    The  absence 

iTered  us  in  vain.  of  any  deeper  speculative  ground  makes  the 

immediate  practical  questions  of  life  all  the 

more  interesting.    We  know  not  what  we  are, 

j&ir    iltfi^   &ttp})ttl  nor  whither  we  are  going,   nor  whence  we 

lRS2-iqru  25  come;  but  we  can,  by  the  help  of  common 

1N5^  iyu4  sense,   discover  a   suflScient   share   of   moral 

WIFT'  ANH  THF  <5PTPTT  nv  TTTQ  TTiUT?     ^^xims  for  our  guidance  in  life;  and  we  can 

\N  IFT  AND  THE  SPIRIT  OF  HIS  TIME     analyse  human  passions,  and  discover  what  are 

i  rom  History  of  English  Thought  in  the  Eight-     *^®  moving  forces  of  society,  without  going 
eenth  Century,  1876)  30  back  to  first  principles.    Knowledge  of  human 

nature,  as  it  actually  presented  itself  in  the 

A  hatred  for  enthusiasm  was  as  strongly     shifting  scene  before  them,  and  a  vivid  appre- 

impreased  upon  the  whole  character  of  con-     ciation  of  the  importance  of  the  moral  law, 

rnporary  thought  aa  a  hatrefl  of  scepticism,      are  the  staple  of  the  best  literature  of  the  time. 

•id  thus  the  hterary  expression  of  the feeUng  is  35  As  ethical  speculation  was  prominent  in  the 

.'her  a  dislike  to  all  speculation  than  a  dislike     philosophy,  the  enforcement  of  ethical  prin- 

a  particular  school  of  speculatists.  The  whole     ciples  is  the  task  of  those  who  were  inclined 

bject  was  dangerous,  and  should  be  avoided     to  despise  philosophy.    When  a  creed  is  dying, 

reasonable  men.   A  good  common-sense  reU-     the  importance  of  preserving  the  moral  law 

".  Ji      tr    1°^°^^^"^^'^"^"^^"^'^^°^*"''^^   becomes   a   pressing   consideration 
u^ked.     If  the  philosophy  of  the  time     with  all  strong  natures. 

^'^^J^  ^^^^''  '^  '^^'  ^""'^  ^^^  ^^®  ^  ^^^^  ^^"Pl^  Swift  and  Johnson  as  the  two 

unhtted   to   stimulate   the  emotions,  most  vigorous  representatives  of  this  tendency. 

r..f<,rf.  for  prm^tical  hfe.    With  Shake-  Between  them  there  is  a  curious  analogy  as 

^      .'Mr  I  homas  Browne,  or  Jeremy  Taylor,  45  well  as  a  striking  contrast.    They  are  alike  in 

Milton,  man  is  contemplated  m  his  rela-  that  shrewd  humorous  common  sense  which 

M^fi'^l^'Tr'  ^^  "^u"?  ?'?^"'^  ""^  ^^^'-  '^^°"'  ^  b^  the  special  endowment  of  the  Eng- 

rf^'Z\^^  '"  %r     "^"T"'  ""^  ^'5  ^?^  '^'^-     ^^^y  ^^^  ^lik«'  too,  m  this;  that 

w^h^^fv.       -w    u'^""^' ^^''^^  ^^  *^^y  ^^P^^«^  t^^  reaction  against  the   com- 

r  fripnl  vol?!''-  ?^^^^^^  optimism  of  the  Pope-Shaftesbury  va- 

i^rnvst^      T^n'^'fVf^V^  ""'y-    They  illustrate  the  incapacity  of  that 

.r«  of  the  S^htlntf  T^  *^°"^^':?  '^''^'^  ^^  *^°"S^t  t«  ^^tisfy  men  of  powerful 

"  ?r  evL^^       .T^""^  '^?I!f^  emotional  nature.    The  writings  of  each  might 

Uk'e  Sir  Thomt^^  ""  T^t  ^'  '"°^°^^  ^^  ^^  ^  P^^^«^  embodying  the  most 

'    '     s  b  ^X  ATtT';-^1;^^^''''?'rP;°°'^^^^^  P^^test  against  the  optimist 

n   i^  ?^n.     h  """^-S^-    °'  f^'^^^P^y-     Swift  says,   with  unrivalled  in- 

'    L  r^tn  tl  ^-  fi  T'  *'°'!y'  *^^^  ^^'  °^tural  man  is  not,  as  theorists 

'    gaze  into  the  mfimte.  would  maintain,    a  reasonable  and   virtuous 

'•  '^^  ^-  ^'  «^^^J  but,  for  the  most  part,  a  knave  and  a 


rni 


SIR  LESLIE  STEPHEN  763 

tion  in  liigh  places,  of  starvation  and  nakedness         You  who  through  Frailty  stopt  aside 
amongst  the  low,   of  wars,   and  pestilences,  And  you  who  never  fell— from  pride; 

and  famines,  of  selfish  ambition  trampling  on         ^ou  who  in  different  sects  were  shammed, 
thousands,  and  wasted  heroism  strengthening         4?^  ^°°^®  *^  see  each  other  damned 
oppression  by  its  failure,  of  oetty  domestic  15     1?°  ^^^  ^^^^  told  you,  but  they  knew 
tyranny,  of  lying,  hypocrisy,  and  treachery,  ¥hpTnrlH'«  r^Lll.    • '^"^  than  you-) 

which  run  through  all  the  sokl  organism  ^e         I^I  Yr^n\^hle'=  nol^^^' 
a  malignant  ulcer,  and  see  how  far  your  specious         I  to  such  blockheads  set  my  witi 
maxim  will  take  you.  I  damn  such  fools!    Go,  go,  you're  bit. 

That  is  the  melancholy  burden  of  the  teach-  20 
ing  of  each  of  these  great  men;  and  it  was      That  is  genuine  feeling.     The  orthodox  phrases 
echoed  m  various  tones  by  many  who  felt  that     are  no  more  part  of  Swift  than  his  bands  and 
the    grain    of   a   sham    philosophy    consisted      cassock. 

chiefly  of  unprofitable  husks.  Between  Swift  Swift's  idiosyncrasy  would  doubtless  have 
and  Johnson,  indeed,  there  was  a  wide  dif-  25  made  itself  felt  at  any  time.  The  special  direc- 
ference;  and  the  sturdy  moralist  had  a  hearty  tion  of  his  haughty  passions  and  intense  in- 
dislike  for  the  misanthropist  whose  teaching  tellect  is  determined  by  the  conditions  of  th. 
was  so  far  at  one  with  his  own.  The  strong  time.  In  a  time  of  strong  beliefs  he  would  hav. 
sense  of  evil  which,  in  Johnson's  generous  na-  been  a  vehement  partisan.  .  .  .  He  felt  to 
ture,  produced  rather  sadness  than  anger,  had  30  the  depths  of  his  soul  the  want  of  any  of  the 
driven  Swift  to  moody  hatred  of  his  species,  principles  which  in  trj'ing  times  take  concrete 
He  is  the  most  tragic  figure  in  our  literature,  shape  in  heroic  natures;  and  he  assumed  that 
Beside  the  deep  agony  of  his  soul,  all  other  the  whole  race  of  the  courtiers  of  kings  and 
suffering,  and  especially  that  which  takes  a  mobs  in  all  ages  were  such  vile  crawling  crea- 
morbid  delight  in  contemplating  itself,  is  pale35tures  as  could  sell  England  or  starve  Ireland 
and  colourless.  He  resembles  a  victim  tied  to  put  a  few  thousands  in  their  pockets.  He 
to  the  stake  and  slowly  tortured  to  madness  felt  the  want  of  some  religion,  and  therefore 
and  death;  whilst  from  his  proudly  compressed  scalped  poor  Collins,*  and  argued  with  his 
lips  there  issue  no  weak  lamentations  but  the  marvellous  ingenuity  of  irony  against  "the 
deep  curses  of  which  one  syllable  is  more  effec- 40 abolition  of  Christianity;"'  but  the  dogmas 
tive  than  a  volume  of  shrieks.  Through  the  of  theologians  were  mere  matter  for  the  Ho- 
more  petty  feelings  of  mere  personal  spite  and  meric  laughter  of  the  "Tale  of  a  Tub."  He  had 
disappointed  ambition  we  feel  the  glow  of  not  the  unselfish  qualities  or  the  indomitable 
generous  passions  doomed  to  express  them-  belief  in  the  potential  excellence  of  human  nu- 
selves  only  in  the  language  of  defiant  hatred.  45  ture  to  become  a  reformer  of  manners,  or  the 
The  total  impression  made  by  Swift's  writings  speculative  power  to  endeavour  to  remould 
is  unique  and  almost  appaUing;  for  even  the  the  ancient  creeds.  He  stands  in  fierce  isola- 
sheer  brutahty  suggests  some  strange  disease,  tion  amongst  the  calmer  or  shallower  intellect.^ 
and  the  elaborate  triflings  remind  us  of  a  of  his  time,  with  insight  enough  to  see  th( 
statesman  amusing  himself  with  spiders  in  a  50  hollowness  of  their  beliefs,  with  moral  depth 
Bastille.  If  we  ask  what  were  the  genuine  enough  to  give  such  forcible  utterance  to  hi> 
creeds  of  this  singular  intellect,  the  answer  feelings  as  has  scarcely  been  rimlled  in  oui 
must  be  a  blank.  The  "Tale  of  a  Tub"  is  the  literature.  But  he  had  not  the  power  or  the 
keenest  of  satire  against  all  theologians;  "Gul-  ,  j  ^  ^^^^  thirty-niM  articUt  in  the  Prayer-book, 
liver's  Travels"   expresses    the   concentrated  55     »  r.  p  295.  ««pra.      ^,.  ^  ,  .    ,_,,       _. 

%                       ^                    ^i.u^^    ^loQcoc.    r»f  *  Anthony  Collins,  publinhed   m    1713.  a  Dtscourse  ■ 

essence    of    contempt    for    all    other    classes    Ol  preethinkino.m^Khich  he  ridiculed  the  chtfor.  the  Moanu 

mankind;   the  sermons  and   tracts  defend   the  Law.  aud  the  evidences  of  revealed  religion.     Swift  Ht- 

Church    of   England    in    good    set    terms,    and  ^\^^^  SlSion'tJ  Swift's  Argument  Again^  th€  AMi*h- 

prove  beyond  all  question  his  scorn  of  dis-     iny  of  chriatianity,  1708. 


704  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

n.hilitv  of  nature  to  become  a  true  poet  or     ence  of  the  people  itself  lessened  as  they  felt 

■'       ^Mi.her  or  reformer.    When  a  shallow  op-     the  pressure  and  taxation  of  the  war.    Of  old, 

t  he  most  Uving  creed,  a  man  of  strong     men  had  pressed  to  see  the  Queen  as  if  it  were 

.•omee  a  scornful  pessunist.  a  glimpse  of  heaven.     "In  the  year  1588,"  a 

6  Bishop  tells  us  who  was  then  a  country  boy 

fresh  come  to  town,  "I  did  live  at  the  upper 

^aiobn    HicbarD    &tttn  ^nd  of  the  strand  near  St.  Clement's  Church, 

^  ^  ^  when  suddenly  there  came  a  report  to  us  (it 

1837-1883  was  in  December,  much  about  five  o'clock  of 

10  the  night,  very  dark)  that  the  Queen  was  gone 

THE   DEATH   OF   QUEEN   ELIZABETH      ^o  Council,  "and  if  you  would  see  the  Queen 

,,.  .         i.  .L    r.     /•  I.  D.  ^7.  vou  must  come  quickly.    Then  we  all  ran,  when 

(From  ^«tory  ^  '^"^^"^  ^^«P^^'  ihe  Court  gates  were  set  open,  and  no  man  did 

1877  1880;  hinder  us  from  coming  in.     There  w^e  came, 

The  triumph  of  Mountjoy*  flung  its  lustre  15  where  there  was  a  far  greater  company  than 

.vtr  the  last  days  of  Elizabeth,  but  no  outer     was  usually  at  Lenten  sermons;  and  when  we 

triumph  could  break  the  gloom  which  gathered     had  staid  there  an  hour  and  that  the  yard  was 

round  the  dying  Queen.    Lonely  as  she  had     full,   there   being   a   number  of   torches,   the 

alwmys  been,  her  loneliness  deepened  as  she     queen  came  out  in   great   state.    When  we 

drew  towanis  the  grave.    The  statesmen  and  20  cried    'God   save   your    Majesty!    God    save 

warriors  of  her  earlier  days  had  dropped  one     your   Majesty!'    Then  the  Queen  turned  to 

by  one  from  her  Council  board.     Leicester^     us  and  said,   'God   bless   you   all,  my  good 

hid  died  in  the  year  of  the  Armada;  two  years     people!'    Then   we   cried  again,   *God   bless 

later  Walaingham*  followed  him  to  the  grave;      your   Majesty!      God  bless   your   Majesty!' 

in  1.598  Burleigh*  himself  passed  away.    Their 25 Then  the  Queen  said  again  to  us,  'You  may 

i^Mn^eison  were  watching  her  last  moments,      well  have  a  greater  prince,  but  you  shall  never 

and  intriguing  for  favour  in  the  coming  reign,      have  a  more  loving  prince.'     And  so  looking 

Her  favourite,  Lord  Essex,  not  only  courted     one  upon  another  a  while,  the  Queen  departed. 

favour  with  James  of  Scotland,^  but  brought     This  wrought  such  an  impression  on  us,  for 

him  to  suspect  Robert  Cecil,"  who  had  sue- 30  shows  and  pageantry  are  ever  best  seen  by 

ceeded   his   father   at   the   Queen's   Council-      torchlight,  that  all  the  way  long  we  did  noth- 

board,  of  designs  against  his  succession.    The     ing  but  talk  what  an  admirable  Queen  she  was, 

rivalry    between    the    two    ministers   hurried      and  how  we  would  adventure  our  lives  to  do 

Eanex  into  fatal  projects  which  led  to  his  failure     her  service."     But  now,  as  Elizabeth  passed 

in  Ireland  and  to  an  insane  outbreak  of  revolt  35  along  in  her  progresses,  the  people  whose  ap- 

which  brought  him  in  1601  to  the  block.    But      plause  she  courted  remained  cold  and  silent. 

Cecil  had  no  sooner  proved  the  victor  in  this     The  temper  of  the  age  in  fact  was  changing. 

.-truggle  at  court  than  he  himself  entered  into      and  isolating  her  as  it  changed.    Her  own  Eng- 

a  s*>cret  correspondence  with  the  King  of  Scots.      lang,  the  England  which  had  grown  up  around 

His  action  was  wise;  it  brought  James  again  40  her,  serious,  moral,  prosaic,  shrank  coldly  from 

into  friendly  relations  with  the  Queen;  and      this  brilliant,  fanciful,  unscrupulous  child  of 

{.lived  the  way  for  a  peaceful  transfer  of  the      earth  and  the  Renascence. 

cruwn.     But  hidden   as  this  correspondence         But  if  ministers  and  courtiers  were  counting 

was  from  EUzabeth,  the  suspicion  of  it  only     on  her  death,  Elizabeth  had  no  mind  to  die. 

added  to  her  distrust.     The  troubles  of  the  45  She  had  enjoyed  life  as  men  of  her  day  enjoyed 

war  in  Ireland  brought  fresh  cares  to  the  aged      it,  and  now  that  they  were  gone  she  clung  to 

Queen.     It  drained  her  treasury.     The  old      it  with  a  fierce  tenacity.     She  hunted,   she 

^pKn.Iour  of  her  Court  waned  and  disappeared,      danced,  she  jested  with  her  young  favourites, 

"  :v  cfTirmls  remained  about  her,  "the  other     she  coquetted  and  scolded  and  frolicked  at 

imcil  and  nobility  estranged  them- 50 sixty-seven  as  she  had  done  at  thirtv.     "The 

.   aU  occasions."    The  love  and  rever-     Queen,"  wrote  a  courtier  a  few  months  before 

>Ijorrf  Mouidicu.  the  Queen's  Lieutenant  in  Ireland.      ^^^  death,  "was  never  SO  gallant  these  many 

Ud  Just  «ic«^h1«i  after  three  .veairB  of  ruthless  warfare,      years  nor  SO  Set  upon  jollity."     She  persisted 

''•   '  '••'H'liion  in  Irt'Iand  ^ed  bv  Hueh  O  Neil.       ;«  c^u^    e  -i-         •     i. 

'•  ii«!.  and  the  Karl  of  Desmond.    This     ^°  spite  ol  opposition,  in  her  gorgeous  progresses 

"'^Hoi^nu^^^^^^^^^  '?    country-house.      She 

■•<»eofElii»betb*»favoritt.rounciUora.  clung  to  business  as  of  old,  and  rated  in  her 

'^J^''vi%}'Aol'%Von   EHzibe?h';Vath       "'"^^  ^^^^^"  T.^""  Y^^  "^^^^^f,  "«^'  ^«  ^^^^^^ 

(l«03)b«mine  King  James  I  of  England!  "P    some    matter    of    account."      But    death 

•TUtoBorLortTBurieigh.  crept  on.    Her  face  became  haggard,  and  her 


JOHN  RICHARD  GREEN  765 

frame  shrank  almost  to  a  skeleton.  At  last  her  of  government  and  the  wisest  and  most  lasting 
taste  for  finery  disappeared,  and  she  refused  forms  of  rule,  travellers  turned  aside  from  the 
tx)  change  her  dresses  for  a  week  together,  frescoes  of  Giorgione  to  study  the  aristocratic 
-QK  T  M  ^^^^"^^/^^y  ^^^tled  down  on  her.  polity  of  Venice,  and  Jesuits  borrowed  from 
fehe  held  in  her  hand,  says  one  who  saw  5  the  schoolmen  of  the  middle  ages  a  doctrine  of 
her  m  her  last  days  "a  golden  cup  which  she  popular  rights  which  still  forms  the  theory  of 
otten  put  to  her  lips,  but  m  truth  her  heart  modem  democracy.  On  the  other  hand 'the 
seemed  too  full  to  need  more  filling."  Gradu-  nation  was  learning  to  rely  on  itself,  to  believe 
ally  her  mind  gave  way.  She  lost  her  memory,  in  its  own  strength  and  vigour,  to  crave  for  a 
the  violence  of  her  temper  became  unbearable,  lo  share  in  the  guidance  of  its  own  life.  .  .  . 
her  very  courage  seemed  to  forsake  her.  She  The  nation  which  gave  itself  to  the  rule  of 
called  for  a  sword  to  lie  constantly  beside  her  the  Stewarts  was  another  nation  from  the  panio- 
and  thrust  it  from  time  to  time  through  the  struck  people  that  gave  itself  in  the  crash 
arras,  as  if  she  heard  murderers  stirring  there,  of  social  and  rehgious  order  to  the  guidance  of 
Food  and  rest  became  alike  distasteful.  She  15  the  Tudors.  It  was  plain  that  a  new  age  of 
sate  day  and  night  propped  up  with  pillows  our  history  must  open  when  the  lofty  pat  riot- 
on  a  stool,  her  finger  on  her  lip,  her  eyes  fixed  ism,  the  dauntless  energj',  the  overpowering 
on  the  floor,  without  a  word.  If  once  she  broke  sense  of  effort  and  triumph,  which  rose  into 
the  silence,  it  was  with  a  flash  of  her  old  queen-  their  full  grandeur  through  the  war  with 
liness.  When  Robert  Cecil  declared  that  she  20  Spain,  turned  from  the  strife  with  Philip  to 
''must"  go  to  bed,  the  word  roused  her  like  a  seek  a  new  sphere  of  activity  at  home, 
trumpet.  "Must!"  she  exclaimed;  "is  must  What  had  hindered  this  force  from  telling 
a  word  to  be  addressed  to  princes?  Little  man,  as  yet  fully  on  national  affairs  was  the  breadth 
little  man!  thy  father,  if  he  had  been  alive,  and  largeness  which  characterized  the  temper 
durst  not  have  used  that  word."  Then,  as  25  of  the  Renascence.  Through  the  past  half 
her  anger  spent  itself,  she  sank  into  her  old  century  the  aims  of  Englishmen  had  been 
dejection.  "Thou  art  so  presumptuous,"  she  drawn  far  over  the  narrow  bounds  of  England 
said,  "because  thou  knowest  I  shall  die."  itself  to  every  land  and  every  sea;  while  their 
She  rallied  once  more  w-hen  the  ministers  be-  mental  activity  spent  itself  as  freely  on  poetr>* 
side  her  bed  named  Lord  Beauchamp,  the  heir  30  and  science  as  on  religion  and  politics.  But 
to  the  Suffolk  claim,^  as  a  possible  successor,  at  the  moment  which  we  have  reached  the 
"I  will  have  no  rogue's  son,"  she  cried  hoarsely,  whole  of  this  energy  was  seized  upon  and  oon- 
"in  my  seat."  But  she  gave  no  sign  save  a  centrated  by  a  single  force.  For  a  hundred 
motion  of  the  head,  at  the  mention  of  the  King  years  past  men  had  been  living  in  the  midst 
of  Scots.  She  was  in  fact  fast  becoming  insen-  35  of  a  spiritual  revolution.  Not  only  the  world 
sible;  and  early  the  next  morning  on  the  about  them  but  the  world  of  thought  and 
twenty-fourth  of  March,  1603,  the  life  of  feeling  within  every  breast  had  been  utterly 
Elizabeth,  a  life  so  great,  so  strange  and  lonely  transformed.  The  work  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
in  its  greatness,  ebbed  quietly  away.  tury  had  wrecked  that  tradition  of  rehgion,  of 

40  political  and  social  order,  which  ha<l  been  ao- 

^„      cepted  without  question  by  the  Middle  Agra. 

RELIGION   AND  THE  BIBLE  IN   16TH     rj.^^  sudden  freedom  of  the  mind  from  these 

AND     17TH    CENTURY    ENGLAND         ^j^gj.  ^onds  brought  a  consciousness  of  power 

.  such  as  had  never  been  felt  before;  and  the 

(From  the  same)  45  restless  energy,  the  universal  activity  of  the 

The  immense  advance  of  the  people  as  a  Renascence  were  but  outer  expressions  of  the 
whole  in  knowledge  and  in  intelligence  through-  pride,  the  joy,  t^^^,  *™^^"f.  .f  "jf^"^; 
out  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  was  in  itself  a  revolu-  with  which  man  ^'f^^^  I^.'^.i^Hnf  ^th^n 
tion.  The  hold  of  tradition,  the  unquestioning  the  energies  which  ha<l  lain  «JV  "^;>"«^^  >^^ 
awe  which  formed  the  main  strength  of  the  50  him  /ut  his  pride  and  self-rchan^^^ 
Tudor  throne,  had  been  sapped  and  weakened  dashed  by  a  feehrrg  ^f^^^^^Z  ,  ,^'  j^^™^ 
by  the  intellectual  activity  of  the  Renascence,      ening  sense  of  human    "^J^^^"^^^^^^^^^ 

^ri^r^ii^rst^^w^^^^  Kxrr^ijj'porr^'pp 
:rtktrmefreiLdisL^^^^ 

7  Edward  Seymour,  Lord  Beauchamp  ^f  „d««fj°;i^,^      cood  or  for  ill.    the  drama  towercd  into  sub- 

doubt  aa  to  the  legitimacy  of  the  marriage  of  Lord  Beau-       ^jj^Jj^q    q^q  breafits  of   Othcllo   and    MacbetH. 

champ's  parents. 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

.  ;  into  mot aphysicians  as  they  strove  small   Geneva   Bibles^   carried    the   Scripture 
1  111.'  workings  of  conscience  within  into  every  home,  and  wove  it  into  the  life  of 
From  that  hour  one  dominant  in-  every  Enghsh  family, 
told  on  human  action:  and  all  the  Religion  indeed  was  only  one  of  the  causes 
-  zies  that  had  been  called  into  life  5  for  this  sudden  popularity  of  the  Bible.    The 
.;it  was  passing  away  were  seized,  book  was  equally  important  in  its  bearing  on 
and  steadied  to  a  definite  aim  the  intellectual  development  of  the  people. 
,  ,f  reUgion.  All  the  prose  hterature  of  England,  save  the 
.uMc-  temper  of  the  nation  felt  the  forgotten  tracts  of  Wyclif,  has  grown  up  since 
Theology  rules  there;"  said  GrotiusMothe  translation  of  the  Scriptures  by  Tyndale 
ud  only  two  years  after  EUzabeth's  and  Coverdale.*    So  far  as  the  nation  at  large 
ad  when  Casaubon'  was  invited  by  was  concerned,  no  history,  no  romance,  hardly 
ssor  to  his  court  he  found  both  king  any   poetry   save   the   little-known   verse   of 
>le  indifTortmt  to  pure  letters.    "There  Chaucer,  existed  in  the  English  tongue  when 
it  abundance  of  theologians  in  Eng-i5the  Bible  was  ordered  to  be  set  up  in  the 
■  says;  "all  point  their  studies  in  that  Churches.     Sunday  after  Sunday,  day  after 
"     Even  a  country  gentleman,  like  day,    the    crowds    that    gathered    round    the 
hinson,'  felt  the  theological  im-  Bible  in  the  nave  of  St.  Paul's,  or  the  family 
,.  ..  -         .1.   soon  as  he  had  improved  his  nat-  group  that  hung  on  its  words  in  the  devotional 
unil   understanding  with   the   acquisition  of  20  exercises  at  home,  were  leavened  with  a  new 
Icjiming,  the  first  studies  he  exercised  himself  literature.     Legend  and  annal,  war  song  and 
in  were  the  principles  of  religion."    It  was  nat-  psalm.  State  roll  and  biography,  and  the  mighty 
ural  that  literature  should  reflect  the  tendency  voices  of  prophets,  the  parables  of  Evangelists, 
of  the  time;  and  the  dumpy  Uttle  quartos  of  stories  of  mission  journeys,  of  perils  by  the 
controversy  and  piety  which  stiU  crowd  our  25  sea  and  among  the  heathen,  philosophic  argu- 
«>IM<  r  libraries  drove  before  them  the  classical  ments,    apocalyptic    visions,    all    were  flung 
tr.inslations  and  Italian  novelettes  of  the  age  broadcast  over  minds  unoccupied  for  the  most 
(•f  the  Renascence.     But  their  influence  was  part  by  any  rival  learning.    The  disclosure  of 
-fn  ill  hoaide  that  of  the  Bible.    The  popularity  the  stories  of  Greek  literature  had  wrought  the 
"ible  had  been  growing  fast  from  the 30 revolution  of  the  Renascence.    The  disclosure 
:;  Bishop  Bonner*  set  up  the  first  six  of  the  older  mass  of  Hebrew  literature  wrought 
«..|                  I'aul's.    Even  then,  we  are  told,  the  revolution  of  the  Reformation.     But  one 
'III                  iisposed   people  used   much  to  revolution  was  far  deeper  and  wider  in  its 
n-^>rt  lo  the  hearing  thereof,  especially  when  effects  than  the  other.    No  version  could  trans- 
•'i  •'.•  muld  get  any  that  had  an  audible  voice  35  fer  to  another  tongue  the  peculiar  charm  of 
to  them."  .  .  .     "One  John  Porter  language  which  gave  their  value  to  the  authors 
ttimes  to  be  occupied  in  that  goodly  of  Greece  and  Rome.    Classical  letters  there- 
.  \.  rci^,  to  the  edifying  of  himself  as  well  as  fore  remained  m  the  possession  of  the  learned, 
of  l.,.Ts.   This  Porter  was  a  fresh  young  man  and  that  is,  of  the  few;  and  among  these,  with  the 
"!  a  big  stature;  and  great  multitudes  would  40  exception  of  Colet  and  More,'  or  of  the  pedants 
r-ort  thither  to  hear  him,  because  he  could  who  revived  a  Pagan  worship  in  the  gardens 
T      '^^".,*°^  ^^  ^  audible  voice."     But  of  the  Florentine  Academy,8  their  direct  in- 
th.  "goodly  exercise"  of  readers  such  as  Por-  fluence  was  purely  intellectual.    But  the  Ian- 
soon  superseded  by   the  continued  guage  of  the  Hebrew,  the  idiom  of  the  Hellen- 
of  both  Old  Testament  and  New  in  45  istic  Greek,  lent  themselves  with  a  curious 
"  ■                .  rvices  of  the  Church;  while  the  felicity  to  the  purposes  of  translation.     As  a 
,  '.'                   .torian"°"*  ^"^^  theologian,  states-  mere  literary  monument  the  English  version 
>.  a  French  theologian  and  student  of  ^^  *^®  Bible  remains  the  noblest  example  of 

<  oming  to  England  in  1610  he  was  ap- 

'  r^n^'i^esl^msZ^M^y^^^        -  y.  'Coiries  of  the  Bible  prepared  at  Geneva.   1557-60. 

'    (leiSw      o?.P  of  tL  n«m  te  English  refugees  who  had  fled  there  in  Mary's  reign. 

•    e  death^arrant  of  rhlr£T  ^^^^   ^^•'"f   ^°   P^^^^^   ^yp^    divided   into    chapters   and 

>   m^il  ^f  Tk    t  Ki      ^^^^^^^  I-  verses,  with  marginal  notes. 

Mm^    He  JoLbTned"an°inSn^  •  J^t«iam  JT^mtoi^   published    a    New- Testament    at 

'        'ove  of  musir  and  Hp^,?^  S^'"'^'  ^'^^S,  and  in  1530  translations  of  parts  of  the 

-  Lrio,«  fnd  f^P  fm^^o'  ^^^    Testament.      Miles    Coverdale    published    the    first 

atTon  S  fmm  hi«  ^^.'t  ^on^Plfte  English  Bible,  including  the  Apocrypha. 

,.    "'^''"'  "  '™™  ^  ^^®  «  '  -fohn  Colet.  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  and  Sir  Thorrms  Mare, 

H.„„^,    Buihopof   London,   propured   six  -^m^^^I    u    "°der   Henry  VlII,    were  not  only  learned 

'■  Great  BibU  nnd  set  them '  i?™on^nient  ''"tfme  o'?*t^P''\\'  PFe^chei^  and  teachers  as  well. 

P»ur»  cathedral,  shortly  after  the  Kine's  r  Pu!^^;     k^^^^^"^'^-^^  °^  the  new  learmng  formec* 

pr  .-lam^uoa  of  1538.  ordering  a  copy  to  iSput  in  ever^  Ld  iiZ.n^'/f'^  ^*  Florence  in  the  15th  centu^, 

church.                                  — •         H7        "« vut-  "i  «-very  and  attempted  to  harmomze  mythology  and  philosophy 

^  with  Qbnstianity.  ^                  -^         i^          ^          f-v 


WALTER  PATER  767 

the  English  tongue,  while  its  perpetual  use  of  Shakespeare's  day,  pressed  for  an  answer 
made  it  from  the  instant  of  its  appearance  the  not  only  from  noble  and  scholar  but  front 
standard  of  our  language.  farmer  and  shopkeeper  in  the  age  that  followed 

For  the  moment  however  its  literary  effect  him.  The  answer  they  found  was  ahnont  o{ 
was  less  than  its  social.  The  power  of  the  5  necessity  a  Calvinistic  answer.  Unlike  .ts 
book  over  the  mass  of  Englishmen  showed  the  spirit  of  Calvinism  seemed  to  the  spirit  of 
Itself  in  a  thousand  superficial  ways,  and  in  the  Renascence,  both  found  a  point  of  union 
none  more  conspicuously  than  in  the  mfluence  in  their  exaltation  of  the  individual  man.  The 
it  exerted  on  ordinary  speech.  It  formed,  we  mighty  strife  of  good  and  evil  within  the  soul 
must  repeat,  the  whole  hterature  which  was  lo  itself  which  had  overawed  the  imagination  of 
practically  accessible  to  ordinary  Englishmen;  dramatist  and  poet  became  the  one  spiritual 
and  when  we  recall  the  number  of  common  conception  in  the  mind  of  the  Puritan.  The 
phrases  which  we  owe  to  great  authors,  the  Calvinist  looked  on  churches  and  communionH 
bits  of  Shakespeare  or  Milton,  or  Dickens,  or  as  convenient  groupings  of  pious  Christians;  it 
Thackeray,  which  unconsciously  interweave  15  might  be  as  even  indispensable  parte  of  aChri»- 
themselves  in  our  ordinary  talk,  we  shall  better  tian  order.  But  religion  in  its  deepest  and 
understand  the  strange  mosaic  of  Biblical  innermost  sense  had  to  do  not  with  churche« 
words  and  phrases  which  coloured  English  but  with  the  individual  soul.  It  was  each 
talk  two  hundred  years  ago.  The  mass  of  Christian  man  who  held  in  his  power  the  issuetj 
picturesque  allusion  and  illustration  which  we  20  of  life  and  death.  It  was  in  each  Christian 
borrow  from  a  thousand  books,  our  fathers  conscience  that  the  strife  was  waged  between 
were  forced  to  borrow  from  one;  and  the  bor-  Heaven  and  Hell.  Not  as  one  of  a  body,  but 
rowing  was  the  easier  and  the  more  natural  as  a  single  soul,  could  each  Christian  claim  his 
that  the  range  of  the  Hebrew  literature  fitted  part  in  the  mystery  of  redemption.  In  the 
it  for  the  expression  of  every  phase  of  feeling.  25  outer  world  of  worship  and  discipline  the  Cal- 
When  Spenser  poured  forth  his  warmest  love-  vinist  might  call  himself  one  of  many  brethren, 
notes  in  the  "Epithalamion,"  he  adopted  the  but  at  every  moment  of  his  inner  existence, 
very  words  of  the  Psalmist,^  as  he  bade  the  in  the  hour  of  temptation  and  of  struggle,  in 
gates  open  for  the  entrance  of  his  bride.  When  his  dark  and  troubled  wrestlmg  with  sin,  in 
Cromwell  saw  the  mists  break  over  the  hills  30  the  glory  of  conversion,  in  the  peace  of  ac- 
of  Dunbar,  he  hailed  the  sunburst  with  the  ceptance  with  God,  he  stood  utterly  alone, 
cry  of  David:  "Let  God  arise,  and  let  His  With  such  a  conception  of  human  life  Puri- 
enemies  be  scattered.  Like  as  the  smoke  tanism  offered  the  natural  form  for  English 
vanisheth,  so  shalt  Thou  drive  them  away!"^°  religion  at  a  time  when  the  feeUng  with  which 
Even  to  common  minds  this  famiHarity  with  35  rehgion  could  most  easily  ally  ^it^lf  was  the 
grand  poetic  imagery  in  prophet  and  apocalypse  sense  of  individuality.  The  'prentice  who 
gave  a  loftiness  and  ardour  of  expression  that  sate  awed  in  the  pit  of  the  theatre  as  the  storm 
with  all  its  tendency  to  exaggeration  and  bom-  in  the  mmd  of  Lear  outdid  the  storm  among 
bast  we  may  prefer  to  the  sUp-shod  vulgarisms  the  elements  passed  easily  into  the  Calvinist 
of  to-day  40  who  saw  himself  day  by  day  the  theatre  of  a 

But  far  greater  than  its  effect  on  literature     yet  mightier  struggle  between  the  powers  of 
or  social  phrase  was  the  effect  of  the  Bible  on     light  and  the  powers  of  darkness,  and  his  soul 
the  character  of  the  people  at  large.     The     the  prize  of  an  eternal  conflict  between  Heaven 
Bible  was  as  yet  the  one  book  which  was  fa-     and  Hell. 
miliar  to  every  Englishman;  and  everywhere  its  46 

words,  as  they  feU  on  ears  which  custom  had  ^«u^   i««i.#r 

not  deadened  to  their  force  and  beauty,  kindled  Wmtt   \p^in 

a  startling  enthusiasm.    The  whole  moral  effect  1839-1894 

which  is  produced  now-a-days  by  the  reUgious 

newspaper,  the  tract,  the  essay,  the  missionary  50        ^j^  PERCEPTION  OP  BEAUTY 
report,  the  sermon,  was  then  produced  by  the 
Bible  alone;  and  its  effect  in  this  way  however     (prom  the  Preface  to  The  Eenaitaanee,  1873) 

SrrS  wirnSUUra  S.  Many  att^mpU  have  been  made  by  wn^ 
The  problems  oMite  and  death,  whose  ques- »on  art  and  poetry  to  define  b«.uty  m  the^ 
Sl^n^ilLd  no  answer  in  the  higher  minds     --';, -X':::a\\:n:!lTr\rto1X 

•If,  as  appears  probable.  Green  had  in  mind  P«iZm       of  SUch  attempts  has  most  often  been  in  the 

xxiv.  7,  Spenser's  language  ia  similar,  but  not  idenUcai.         sujTcestive  and  penetratmg  thmgs  Sdld  by  the 

w  Psalma,  Ixviii.  1-2.  *^ 


;^is  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

WAV  Such  diflcuasiona  help  us  very  little  to  Gioconda,^  The  hills  of  Carrara,^  Pico  of  Miran- 
cnioV  what  has  been  well  done  in  art  or  poetry,  dola."  are  valuable  for  their  virtues,  as  we  say  in 
to  cii^riminate  between  what  is  more  and  speaking  of  a  herb,  a  wine,  a  gem;  for  the  prop- 
wh-it  is  less  excellent  in  them,  or  to  use  words  erty  each  has  of  affecting  one  with  a  special 
like  Iwauty  excellence,  art,  poetry,  with  more  5  unique  impression  of  pleasure.  Our  education 
moaning "  than  they  would  otherwise  have,  becomes  complete  in  proportion  as  our  suscepti- 
Boauly  like  all  other  qualities  presented  to  bility  to  these  impressions  increases  in  depth 
human 'experience,  is  relative;  and  the  defini-  and  variety.  And  the  function  of  the  aesthetic 
tioQ  of  it  becomes  unmeaning  and  useless  m  critic  is  to  distinguish,  analyse,  and  separate 
proportioD  to  its  abstractness.  To  define  lo  from  its  adjuncts,  the  virtue  by  which  a  pic- 
beauty,  not  in  the  most  abstract,  but  in  the  ture,  a  landscape,  a  fair  personality  in  life  or 
moet  concrete  terms  possible,  to  find,  not  a  in  a  book,  produces  this  special  impression 
universal  formula  for  it,  but  the  formula  which  of  beauty  or  pleasure,  to  indicate  what  the 
expreeses  moet  adequately  this  or  that  special  source  of  that  impression  is,  and  under  what 
manifestation  of  it,  is  the  aim  of  the  true  15  conditions  it  is  experienced.  His  end  is  reached 
student  of  a?8thetics.  when  he  has  disengaged  that  virtue,  and  noted 

"To  see  the  object  as  in  itself  it  really  is,"^  it,  as  a  chemist  notes  some  natural  element, 
has  been  justly  said  to  be  the  aim  of  all  true  for  himself  and  others;  and  the  rule  for  those 
criticism  whatever;  and  in  aesthetic  criticism  who  would  reach  this  end  is  stated  with  great 
the  first  step  towards  seeing  one's  object  as  it  20  exactness  in  the  words  of  a  recent  critic  of 
really  is,  is  to  know  one's  own  impression  as  Sainte-Beuve: — De  se  borner  d  connditre  de 
it  r^dly  is,  to  discriminate,  to  realize  it  dis-  pres  les  belles  choses,  et  d  s'en  nourrir  en  exquis 
tinctly.  The  objects  with  which  aesthetic  amateurs,  en  humanistes  accomplish 
criticism  deals,  music,  poetry,  artistic  and  What  is  important,  then,  is  not  that  the 
accomplished  forms  of  human  life,  are  indeed  25  critic  should  possess  a  correct  abstract  defini- 
reoeptacles  of  so  many  powers  or  forces;  they  tion  of  beauty  for  the  intellect,  but  a  certain 
poflsess,  like  natural  elements  so  many  virtues  kind  of  temperament,  the  power  of  being 
or  qualities.  What  is  this  song  or  picture,  deeply  moved  by  the  presence  of  beautiful 
this  engaging  personality  presented  in  life  or  objects.  He  will  remember  always  that  beauty 
in  a  book,  to  met  What  effect  does  it  really  30  exists  in  many  forms.  To  him  all  periods, 
produce  on  me?  Does  it  give  me  pleasure?  types,  schools  of  taste,  are  in  themselves  equal. 
and  if  so,  what  sort  or  degree  of  pleasure?  In  all  ages  there  have  been  some  excellent 
How  Is  my  nature  modified  by  its  presence,  workmen,  and  some  excellent  work  done, 
an-l  u ruler  its  influence?  The  answers  to  these  The  question  he  asks  is  always — In  whom  did 
(jwcstion.s  are  the  original  facts  with  which  the  35  the  stir,  the  genius,  the  sentiment  of  the  period 
asthetic  critic  has  to  do;  and,  as  in  the  study  find  itself?  who  was  the  receptacle  of  its  refine- 
of  light,  of  morals,  of  number,  one  must  realise  ment,  its  elevation,  its  taste?  *'The  ages  are 
such  primary  data  for  one's  self,  or  not  at  all.  all  equal,"  says  William  Blake,  "but  genius  is 
And   he   who   experiences   these   impressions     always  above  its  age." 

8lrongly,  and  drives  directly  at  the  discrimina- 40  Often  it  will  require  great  nicety  to  disen- 
tion  and  analysis  of  them,  need  not  trouble  gage  this  virtue  from  the  commoner  elements 
himself  with  the  abstract  question  what  beauty  with  which  it  may  be  found  in  combination. 
is  in  itself,  or  what  its  exact  relation  to  truth  Few  artists,  not  Goethe  or  Byron  even,  work 
or  ,^  experience— metaphysical  questions,  as  quite  cleanly,  casting  off  all  dthris,  and  leaving 
unprofitable  as  metaphysical  questions  else-  45  us  only  what  the  heat  of  their  imagination  has 

'^*!!!!!Lu?®  °^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^  ^  ^®^°S'  wholly  fused  and  transformed.  Take  for  in- 
answcrable  or  not,  of  no  interest  to  him.  stance  the  writings  of  Wordsworth.    The  heat 

The  esthetic  ^  cntic,  then,  regards  all  the  of  his  genius,  entering  into  the  substance  of  his 
object*  with  which  he  has  to  do,  all  works  of  work,  has  crystallised  a  part,  but  only  a  part, 
art,  aod  the  fairer  forms  of  nature  and  human  so  of  it;  and  in  that  great  mass  of  verse  there  is 
life,  as  powers  or  forces  producing  pleasurable  much  which  might  well  be  forgotten.  But 
senations,  each  of  a  more  or  less  pecuHar  and  scattered  up  and  down  it,  sometimes  fusing 
unique  kind.  This  influence  he  feels,  and  wishes  and  transforming  entire  compositions,  like  the 
to  explain,  analysing  it,  and  reducing  it  to  its 

.To  him.  the  picture,  the  landscape,  65  Vil'irbS  k^ow^as  mThTS"'""  ^^  '^'°""'''°  ^^ 

engaging  personaUty  in  hfe  or  in  a  book,  La  \  Carrara  in  northern  Italy  is  famous  for  its  marble. 

«  An  Italian  philosopher  and  theologian  (1463-94),  one 


__     Anjold  In  his  eaaav  "On  thft  Fnnnfi^r,  ^f      of  the  most  astonishingly  facile  scholars  of  the  renaissance. 
CHtW«D  at  iSb  PreaeSt  TiiSJ^'^in  SLJ.  ZcrJ^.^^  ■\''  '^^J'^^  P.^*^^  «^'^  ^i^h  beautiful  things,  and  to 

n^  a-i-    ""  '^"*eo'  iimc.     m  JSaaauo  in  Crtltctam,      nourish  one's  self  as  an  exquisite  amateur  and  accom- 
plished humanist." 


WALTER  PATER  769 

Stanzas  on  Resolution  and  Independence  and  the  And  the  mixture  in  his  work,  as  it  actually 
Ode  on  the  Recollections  of  Childhood,^  sometimes,  stands,  is  so  perplexed,  that  one  fears  to  miss 
as  if  at  random,  turning  a  fine  crystal  here  the  least  promising  composition,  lest  some 
and  there,  in  a  matter  it  does  not  wholly  search  precious  morsel  should  be  lying  hidden  within 
through  and  transform,  we  trace  the  action  5  the  few  perfect  lines,  the  phrase,  the  single 
of  his  unique,  incommunicable  faculty,  that  word  perhaps,  to  which  he  often  works  up 
strange,  mystical  sense  of  life  in  natural  things,  mechanically  through  a  poem,  ahnost  the 
and  of  man's  Ufe  as  a  part  of  nature,  drawing  whole  of  which  may  be  tame  enough.  He  who 
strength  and  colour  and  character  from  local  thought  that  in  all  creative  work  the  larger 
influences,  from  the  hills  and  streams,  and  lo  part  was  given  passively,  to  the  recipient  mind, 
from  natural  sights  and  sounds.  Well!  that  who  waited  so  dutifully  upon  the  gift,  to  whom 
is  the  virtue,  the  active  principle  in  Words-  so  large  a  measure  was  sometimes  given,  had 
worth's  poetry;  and  then  the  function  of  the  his  times  also  of  desertion  and  relapse;  and  he 
critic  of  Wordsworth  is  to  trace  that  active  has  permitted  the  impress  of  these  too  to  re- 
principle,  to  disengage  it,  to  mark  the  degree  15  main  in  his  work.  And  this  duality  there — the 
in  which  it  penetrates  his  verse.  fitfulness  with  which  the  higher  qualities  mani- 

fest themselves  in  it,  gives  the  effect  in  his 
WORn^^WORTTT  poetry  of  a  power  not  altogether  his  own,  or 

wuriuowu«,iJi  under  his  control,  which  comes  and  goes  when 

(From  "Wordsworth"  in  Appreciations,  1889)  20  it  will,  lifting  or  lowering  a  matter,  poor  in 

itself;  so  that  that  old  fancy  which  made  the 
Nowhere  is  there  so  perplexed  a  mixture  as      poet's  art  an  enthusiasm,  a  form  of  divine  pos- 
in  Wordsworth's  own  poetry,  of  work  touched      session,  seems  almost  literally  true  of  him.  .  .  . 
with  intense  and  individual  power,  with  work  But  although  the  necessity  of  selecting  these 

of  almost  no  character  at  all.  He  has  much  25  precious  morsels  for  oneself  is  an  opportunity 
conventional  sentiment,  and  some  of  that  in-  for  the  exercise  of  Wordsworth's  peculiar  in- 
sincere poetic  diction,  against  which  his  most  fluence,  and  induces  a  kind  of  just  criticism 
serious  critical  efforts  were  directed :  the  reac-  and  true  estimate  of  it,  yet  the  purely  literary 
tion  in  his  political  ideas,  consequent  on  the  product  would  have  been  more  excellent,  had 
excesses  of  1795,^  makes  him,  at  times,  a  mere  30  the  writer  himself  purged  away  that  alien  ele- 
declaimer  on  moral  and  social  topics;  and  he  ment.  How  perfect  would  have  been  the  little 
seems,  sometimes,  to  force  an  unwilling  pen,  treasury,  shut  between  the  covers  of  how  thin 
and  write  by  rule.  By  making  the  most  of  a  book!  Let  us  suppose  the  desired  separation 
these  blemishes  it  is  possible  to  obscure  the  made,  the  electric  thread  untwined,  the  golden 
true  aesthetic  value  of  his  work,  just  as  his  life  35  pieces,  great  and  small,  lying  apart  together, 
also,  a  life  of  much  quiet  delicacy  and  inde-  What  are  the  peculiarities  of  this  residue? 
pendence,  might  easily  be  placed  in  a  false  What  special  sense  does  Wordsworth  exercise, 
focus,  and  made  to  appear  a  somewhat  tame  and  what  instincts  does  he  satisfy?  Wliat  are 
theme  in  illustration  of  the  more  obvious  the  subjects  and  the  motives  which  in  him  ex- 
parochial  virtues.  And  those  who  wish  to  40  cite  the  imaginative  faculty?  What  are  the 
understand  his  influence,  and  experience  his  qualities  in  things  and  persons  which  he  values, 
peculiar  savour,  must  bear  with  patience  the  the  impression  and  sense  of  which  he  can 
presence  of  an  alien  element  in  Wordsworth's  convey  to  others  in  an  extraordinary  way? 
work,  which  never  coalesced  with  what  is  An  intimate  consciousness  of  the  expression 
really  dehghtful  in  it,  nor  underwent  his  special  45  of  natural  things,  which  weighs,  listens,  pene- 
power.  Who  that  values  his  writings  most  has  trates,  where  the  earlier  mind  passed  roughly 
not  felt  the  intrusion  there,  from  time  to  time,  by,  is  a  large  element  in  the  complexion  of 
of  something  tedious  and  prosaic?  Of  all  poets  modern  poetry.  It  has  been  remarked  as  a 
equally  great,  he  would  gain  most  by  a  skU-  fact  in  mental  history  again  and  again.  It 
fully  made  anthology.  Such  a  selection  would  50  reveals  itself  in  many  forms;  but  is  strongest 
show,  in  truth,  not  so  much  what  he  was,  or  and  most  attractive  in  what  is  strongest  and 
to  himself  or  others  seemed  to  be,  as  what,  most  attractive  in  modern  literature.  .  .  . 
by  the  more  energetic  and  fertile  quality  in  It  has  doubtless  some  latent  connection 
his  writings,  he  was  ever  tending  to  become,      with  those  pantheistic  theories^  which  locate 

55  an  intelligent  soul  in  material  things,  and  have 
»7.pp.478.and48l,su^a.  largely  exercised  men's  mmds  in  some  modem 

iThe  great  reacwon  in  Wordsworth's  sentiments  be-  *=•    "^ 

gan  in  1793,  when,  at  the  time  of  the  Reign  of  Terror, 

England    declared    war    against    France.      Wordsworth  * ;.  e.  theories  of  the  all-pervading  presence  and  in- 

describes  the  effect  as  being  a  revolution  in  bis  whole  fluence  of  spirit  or  soul;  the  theory  that  the  Divine  Spirit 

moral  nature.  is  in  all  inanimate,  as  well  aa  in  animate  creation. 


770  'the  VICTORIAN  AGE 

BvatemB  of  philoeophy :  it  is  traceable  even  in  sound  as  even  moulding  the  human  counte- 
tho  graver  writings  of  historians:  it  makes  as  nance  to  nobler  types,  and  as  somethmg  actually 
much  difference  between  ancient  and  modem  "profaned"  by  colour,  by  visible  form,  or 
landscape  art,  as  there  is  between  the  rough  image.  He  has  a  power  hkewise  of  realismg, 
masks  of  an  early  mosaic  and  a  portrait  by  5  and  conveying  to  the  consciousness  of  the 
Ileynolds  or  Gainsborough.  Of  this  new  sense,  reader,  abstract  and  elementary  impressions— 
the  writings  of  Wordsworth  are  the  central  silence,  darkness,  absolute  motionlessness:  or, 
and  elementary  expression:  he  is  more  simply  again,  the  whole  complex  sentiment  of  a  par- 
and  entirely  occupied  with  it  than  any  other  ticular  place,  the  abstract  expression  of  desola- 
poet,  though  there  are  fine  expressions  of  pre-  lO  tion  in  the  long  white  road,  of  peacef ulness  in 
ciady  the  same  thing  in  so  different  a  poet  as  a  particular  folding  of  the  hills.  In  the  airy 
Shelley.  There  was  in  his  own  character  a  building  of  the  brain,  a  special  day  or  hour 
certain  contentment,  a  sort  of  inborn  religious  even,  comes  to  have  for  him  a  sort  of  personal 
placidity,  seldom  found  united  with  a  sensi-  identity,  a  spirit  or  angel  given  to  it,  by  which, 
bility  80  mobile  as  his,  which  was  favourable  15  for  its  exceptional  insight,  or  the  happy  light 
to  the  quiet,  habitual  observation  of  inanimate  upon  it,  it  has  a  presence  in  one's  history,  and 
or  imperfectly  animate,  existence.  His  life  of  acts  there,  as  a  separate  power  or  accomplish- 
ei^ty  years  is  divided  by  no  very  profoundly  ment;  and  he  has  celebrated  in  many  of  his 
fdt  incidents:  its  changes  are  almost  wholly  poems  the  "efficacious  spirit,"  which,  as  he 
inwaid,  and  it  falls  into  broad,  untroubled,  20 says,  resides  in  these  "particular  spots" 
pcrfaape  somewhat  monotonous  spaces.    What     of  time. 

it  most  resembles  is  the  Ufe  of  one  of  those  early  It  is  to  such  a  world,  and  to  a  world  of  con- 
Italian  or  Flemish  painters,  who,  just  because  gruous  meditation  thereon,  that  we  see  him 
their  minds  were  full  of  heavenly  visions,  passed  retiring  in  his  but  lately  published  poem  of 
some  of  them,  the  better  part  of  sixty  years  25  The  Recluse — taking  leave,  without  much 
in  quiet,  systematic  industry.  This  placid  life  count  of  costs,  of  the  world  of  business,  of  ac- 
matured  a  quite  unusual  sensibiUty,  really  tion  and  ambition,  as  also  of  all  that  for  the 
mate  in  him,  to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  majority  of  mankind  counts  as  sensuous  en- 
natural  world — the  flower  and  its  shadow  on     joyment. 

the  stone,  the  cuckoo  and  its  echo.  The  poem  30  And  so  it  came  about  that  this  sense  of  a  life 
of  Reiolution  and  Independence  is  a  storehouse  in  natural  objects  which  in  most  poetry  is  but 
of  such  records:  for  its  fulness  of  imagery  it  a  rhetorical  artifice;  is  with  Wordsworth  the 
may  be  compared  to  Keats's  St.  Agnes'  Eve.^  assertion  of  what  for  him  is  almost  literal  fact. 
To  read  one  of  his  longer  pastoral  poems  for  the  To  him  every  natural  object  seemed  to  possess 
first  time,  is  like  a  day  spent  in  a  new  country:  35  more  or  less  of  a  moral  or  spiritual  life,  to  be 
the  memory  is  crowded  for  awhile  with  its  capable  of  a  companionship  with  man,  full  of 
precise  and  vivid  incidents —  expression,  of  inexplicable  affinities  and  deli- 

^^—,.  ...  cacies  of  intercourse.    An  emanation,  a  particu- 

"The  pliant  harebell  swingmg  in  the  breeze  lar  spirit,  belonged,  not  to  the  moving  leaves 

nn  some  grey  rock;  — «  40  ^^  water  only,  but  to  the  distant  peak  of  the 

•The  single  sheep  and  the  one  blasted  tree,  «n!l^.fjrV'''^'^?J^'  ^^  ''''^l  '^^""^^  f  ^T 

And  the  bleak  music  from  that  old  stone  wall;  "5     sP^^l^ive,   above  the   nearer  horizon,   to   the 

passmg  space  of  hght  across  the  plam,  to  the 
"  In  the  meadows  and  the  lower  ground  hchened   Druidic  stone   even,   for   a   certain 

Was  all  the  sweetness  of  a  common  dawn;"<»       ^^  weird  fellowship  in  it  with  the  moods  of  men. 

It  was  like  a  "survival,"  in  the  peculiar  intel- 

■  And  that  green  com  all  day  is  rustUng  in  thine     lectual  temperament  of  a  man  of  letters  at  the 

*•*■•  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  of  that  primi- 

^  J    .  r  *^^®  condition,  which  some  philosophers  have 

V.lear  and  delicate  at  once,  as  he  is  in  the  50  traced  in  the  general  history  of  human  culture, 

ouUinmg  of  visible  imagery,  he  is  more  clear     wherein  all  outward  objects  alike,  including 

and  delicate  still,  and  finely  scrupulous,  in  the     even  the  works  of  men's  hands,  were  beheved 

noting  cf  sounds;  so  that  he  conceives  of  noble     to  be  endowed  with  animation,  and  the  world 

•ri>.S30tttiirti  *ThePrduA    RW'5r977_«         ^^s  "^uU  of  souls"— that  mood  in  which  the 

•/WL,  Bk.'  X.  3ii-20.   •  Ibid.,  Bk  ivr&2-3.  ^^  ^^^  ^^eek  gods  were  first  begotten,  and  which 

» Th«  p«t  Lamb.  had  many  strange  aftergrowths. 


FREDERICK  W.  H.  MYERS  771 

ifr^tietick    W*    J^t    ^^tti  sound— the  actual  sonority  of  the  passage— 

^  ^  quite  subordinate  element  in  the  effect 
154(5-1901  which  is  produced  mainly  by  relations  and  se- 

pniT'TPV  quences  of  vowels  and  consonants,  too  varying 

rUhiliix  5 and  delicate  to  be  reproducible  by  rule  al- 

(From  ^'Virgil"  in  Essays  Classical  and  Mod-     though  far  more  widely  similar,  among  Euro- 
ern   1883)  pean  languages  at  least,   than  is  commonly 

perceived.  But  this  limitation  of  the  means 
The  range  of  human  thoughts  and  emotions  employed,  which  may  itself  be  an  added  source 
greatly  transcends  the  range  of  such  symbols  lo  of  pleasure  from  the  sense  which  it  may  give  of 
as  man  has  invented  to  express  them;  and  it  difficulty  overcome,  is  by  no  means  without 
becomes  therefore,  the  business  of  Art  to  use  analogies  in  other  forms  of  art.  The  poet 
these  symbols  in  a  double  way.  They  must  thrills  us  with  delight  by  a  collocation  of  con- 
be  used  for  the  direct  representation  of  thought  sonants,  much  as  the  etcher  suggests  infinity 
and  feeling;  but  they  must  also  be  combined  15  by  a  scratch  of  the  needle, 
by  so  subtle  an  imagination  as  to  suggest  much  And,  indeed,  in  poetry  of  the  first  order,  al- 
which  there  is  no  means  of  directly  expressing,  most  every  word  (to  use  a  mathematical  meta- 
And  this  can  be  done;  for  experience  shows  phor)  is  raised  to  a  higher  power.  It  continues 
that  it  is  possible  so  to  arrange  forms,  colours,  to  be  an  articulate  sound  and  a  logical  step  in 
and  sounds  as  to  stimulate  the  imagination  20  the  argument;  but  it  becomes  also  a  musical 
in  a  new  and  inexplicable  way.  This  power  sound  and  a  centre  of  emotional  force.  It 
makes  the  painter's  art  an  imaginative  as  well  becomes  a  musical  sound; — that  is  to  say,  its 
as  an  imitative  one;  and  gives  birth  to  the  art  consonants  and  vowels  are  arranged  to  bear  a 
of  the  musician,  whose  symbols  are  hardly  relation  to  the  consonants  and  vowels  near  it, — 
imitative  at  all,  but  express  emotions  which,  25  a  relation  of  which  accent,  quantity,  rhyme, 
till  music  suggests  them,  have  been  not  only  assonance,  and  alliteration  are  specialized 
unknown  but  unimaginable.  Poetry  is  both  forms,  but  which  may  be  of  a  character  more 
an  imitative  and  an  imaginative  art.  As  a  subtle  than  any  of  these.  And  it  becomes  a 
choice  and  condensed  form  of  emotional  speech  centre  of  emotional  force;  that  is  to  say,  the 
it  possesses  the  reality  which  depends  on  its  30  complex  associations  which  it  evokes  modify 
directly  recalling  our  previous  thoughts  and  the  associations  evoked  by  other  words  in  the 
feelings.  But  as  a  system  of  rhythmical  and  same  passage  in  a  way  quite  distinct  from 
melodious  effects — not  indebted  for  their  po-  grammatical  or  logical  connection.  The  poet 
tency  to  their  associated  ideas  alone — it  ap-  therefore  must  avoid  two  opposite  dangers, 
peals  also  to  that  mysterious  power  by  which  35  If  he  thinks  too  exclusively  of  the  music  and 
mere  arrangements  of  sound  can  convey  an  the  colouring  of  his  verse — of  the  imaginative 
emotion  which  no  one  could  have  predicted  means  of  suggesting  thought  and  feeling — 
beforehand,  and  which  no  known  laws  can  ex-  what  he  writes  will  lack  reality  and  sense, 
plain.  But  if  he  cares  only  to  communicate  definite 

It  is  true  that  the  limits  of  melody  within  40  thought  and  feeling  according  to  the  ordinary 
which  poetry  works  are  very  narrow.    Between     laws  of  eloquent  speech,  his  verse  is  lil^ely  to  be 
an  exquisite  and  a  worthless  line  there  is  no     deficient  in  magical  and  suggestive  power, 
difference  of  sound  in  any  way  noticeable  to         And  what  is  meant  by  the  vague  praise  so 
an  unintelligent  ear.    For  the  mere  volume  of     often  bestowed  on  Virgil's  unequalled  style  is 

45  practically  this,   that  he  has  been,   perhaps, 
\P.  W.  H.  Myers,  the  son  oi  an  English  clergyman      j^ore  successful  than  any  other  poet  in  fusing 

and  author,  was  born  at  Keswick,  in  the     Lake  Ooun-        ,         ,  i        , ,  i        j  j-u  4-   j 

try,"  in  1843.    He  graduated  at  Trinity  College.  Cam-      together  the  expressed  and  the  Suggested  emo- 

bridge,  in  1864,  and  was  made  Fellow  and  Classical  lee-  ^Jqq  ^^^q^^  j^g  j^^g  discovered  the  hidden  music 
turer  in  1865.     From  1872  to  1900,  he  was  inspector  of  .  . '.  .         ,  u    ^        c  c     ^'         -^^ 

schools.     He  became  deeply  interested  in  the  scientific       whlch   can   give  to   every   Shade  Ot   feeling   its 

investigation  of  the  problems  of  the  spiritual  life,  and  5Q  distinction,   its  permanence,   and   its   charm; 

he  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Society  for  Psychical  ,,     ,    ,  •     xi  Ui.  ^      ^^^^4-  i-u 

Research  in  1882.     Myers  wrote  little.     A  few  slender  that  hlS  thoughts  seem  tO  COme  tO  US  on  the 

volumes  of  verse,  some  essays,  an  admirable  life  of  Words-  wingS  of  melodies  prepared  for  them  from  the 

worth,  and  a  book  on  personal  immortahty  in  the  light  ,         j    x-  r  +u         i^        -Q,,*-   i^   +^^..4^4^^  ^( 

of  psychical  research,  practically  complete  the  list..  But  foundation  of  the  WOrld.      But  m   treating  of 

he  was  a  scholar  and  the  son  of  a  scholar;  and  while  he  go  ^iry  and  abstract  a  matter  it  is  well  to  have 

lacked  those  popular  qualities  which  seem  necessary  in  .  "^    ,  ,  j.        mi      j.     j.* 

our  democratic  age  to  win  the  applause  of  the  crowd,  55  frequent    recourse    to    Concrete    illustration. 

his  work  is  distinguished  by  that  refinement  and  delicacy  Before  we  attempt  further  description  of  Vir- 
of  feeling,  that  purity  and  elevation  of  tone,  which  are  .,,       ,    ,  u*     i,    u-t.      i  i      r       •    j     i  4. 

the  rewards  of  true  culture.  A  recent  critic  has  pro-  gll  S  style,  Or  hlS  habitual  mood  of  mmd,  let 
nounced  Myers"  FtVffii  and  Francis  Thompson's  Shelley  ^S  clear  OUr  conceptions  by  a  careful  examina- 
(».  p.  779)      the  two  best  English  Essays  on  Poetry  of,.  ,.  -.  c     ^  w  a 

our  day."  ^  j  j  ^^^^  ^^  g^^j^g  fewpassages  from  his  poems.    As 


772 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


we  turn  the  leaves  of  the  book  we  find  it  hard  lized  world.  No  poet  has  lain  so  close  to  so 
to  know  on  what  passages  it  were  best  to  dwell,  many  hearts;  no  words  so  often  as  his  have 
What  varied  memories  are  stirreti  by  one  line  sprung  to  men's  lips  in  moments  of  excite- 
after  another  as  we  read!  What  associations  ment  and  self-revelation,  from  the  one  fierce 
of  all  datca,  from  Virgil's  own  Ufetime  down  to  6  line  retained  and  chanted  by  the  untameable 
the  political  debates  of  today!  On  this  line^  boy  who  was  to  be  Emperor  of  Rome,^°  to 
the  poet's  own  voice  faltered  as  he  read.  At  the  impassioned  prophecy  of  the  great  English 
this*  Augustus  and  Octavia  melted  into  pas-  statesman"  as  he  pleaded  till  morning's  light 
sionatc  weeping.  Here  is  the  verse*  which  for  the  freedom  of  a  continent  of  slaves. 
Augustine  quotes  as  typical  in  its  majestic  lO  And  those  who  have  followed  by  more  secret 
rhythm  of  all  the  pathos  and  the  glory  of  pagan  ways  the  influence  which  these  utterances  have 
art,  from  which  the  Christian  was  bound  to  exercised  on  mankind  know  well,  perhaps 
flee.  This  is  the  couplet'  which  Fenelon  could  themselves  have  shared,  the  mass  of  emotion 
never  read  without  admiring  tears.  This  line  which  has  slowly  gathered  round  certain  lines 
Filippo  Strozzi  scrawled  on  his  prison  wall,  15  of  Virgil's  as  it  has  round  certain  texts  of  the 
when  he  slew  himself  to  avoid  worse  ill.*  These  Bible,  till  they  come  to  us  charged  with  more 
are  the  words'  which,  like  a  trumpet-call,  than  an  individual  passion  and  with  a  meaning 
roused  Savonarola  to  seek  the  things  that  are  wider  than  their  own — with  the  cry  of  the  de- 
above.  And  this  line"  Dante  heard  on  the  spair  of  all  generations,  ^2  ^^^  ^jjg  yearning  of 
lips  of  the  Church  Triumphant,  at  the  opening  20  all  loves  unappeased,!^  ^[^^  |j^g  anguish  of  all 
of  the  Paradise  of  God.  Here,  too,  are  the  partings, i*  "beneath  the  pressure  of  separate 
long  roll  of  prophecies,  sought  tremblingly  in  eternities." 
the  monk's  secret  cell,  or  echoing  in  the  ears 
of  emperon^  from  Apollo's  shrine,  which  have 
answered  the  appeal  made  by  so  many  an  25 
heart  to  the  Virgilian  Lots— that  strange 


invocation  which  has  been  addressed,  I  beheve, 
to  Homer,  Virgil,  and  the  Bible  alone;  the  off- 
spring of  men's  passionate  desire  to  bring  to 
bear  on  their  own  lives  the  wisdom  and  the: 
beuity  which  they  revered  in  the  past,  to  make 
their  prophets  in  such  wise  as  they  might — 


1845-1894 


MS  TRIPLEXi 
(From    Virginibus    Puerisque,    1881) 


'Speak  from  those  lips  of  immemorial  speech, 
If  but  one  word  for  each." 


The  changes  wrought  by  death  are  in  them- 
selves so  sharp  and  final,  and  so  terrible  and 
melancholy  in   their   consequences,    that   the 
Q    ,       ,  .  ,     .  35  thing  stands  alone  in  man's  experience,  and 

.  .♦»  ^^^^^  ^^^^  be  multiplied  indef-  has  no  parallel  upon  earth.  It  outdoes  all 
mitely  But  there  is  not  at  any  rate  need  to  other  accidents  because  it  is  last  of  them. 
h^r-    X  ««^""ft^o"^^7bich  Virgil  has  been     Sometimes  it  leaps  suddenly  upon  its  victims, 

w^ir  n^f/tL  ^t  ^^T  u  ^^^^  *?^^*^°°  ^^^  ^  "^^^g'  sometimes  it  lays  a  regular  siege 
would    only    be   weakened    by   specification.  40  j  ^  & 

"The  chastest  poet,"  in  Bacon's  words,  "and 

royalist,  Virgilius  Maro,  that  to  the  memory 

of  man  is  known,"  has  lacked  in  no  age  until 

our  own  the  concordant  testimony  of  the  civi- 

•kI^  *^"*"  "^^^  quoniam  de  conjuge  restat.     Since 
Sl.^k*IV  *324  ''^'^    "*  *    *^**  remains  of  our  union. 
You  will  be  a  Marcellus  in- 


Bk.  IV.  324. 
•  Tu  Marcellu*  arU,  etc 
Mn,,  Bk.  VI.  883. 
In/tUx  nmulacrum 


Sjr'-^ 


aigue  ipaitu  umbra  Creusce. 
of  CreuasB  herself. 


^n., 


Un- 
Bk.  II. 


toXLSi  itl??K*  ^A*  "^'^ '"?"'  *<'^"*-  I^a'-e.  O  Guest. 
■r«S^lS!*!^  .  *°°  ^t.  ^^A"  yourself  also  worthy  of 
S^y  i;..°Bk'viir  36l!'^  '"'^  '^"  surroundings  of 
aliquia  nottria  ex  o^nibua  ultor.     May  some 


•''y*^  •«i«e  from  nay 

•  Umt!/uo€  cnuUlia  i 

ih»  eraal  retion.  fly  tl 


ashes,    ^n.,  Bk.  IV.  625 
Urran,  fuge  littis  avarum.    Alas!  fl 
^n.,  Bk 


the  rapacious  shore. 


!fly 
III. 


.!i^*^ '^«  VL  sS'*"'  ^"°*  ""^  '^'^  generous 
"^n  Severw,..eic  ''in  templo  Apol- 
».     In  the  temple  of  the  Cum»aa  oracle. 


1°  Clodius  Albinus.  Arma  amens  capio;  nee  sat  rationis 
tn  armis.  Frenzied  I  take  arms,  not  that  there  is  any 
reason  m  taking  arms.  ^n.  II.  315 

"  Pitt. 
Nosque  ubi  primus  equis  Oriens  adflavit  anhelis, 
Illic  sera  rubens  accendit  lumina  Vesper. 
Aurora  returns  to  them  when  she  leaves  us,  and  brings 
them  back  the  day,  and  as  among  us  the  rising  day  first 
breathes  her  panting  steeds,  etc.    Georg.,  i.  250, 

12  Quo  res  summa  loco,  Panthu?  quam  prendimus  arcemf 
How  13  ;t  with  the  state  Panthus?  How  do  we  defend 
the  citadel?    ^n.,  Bk.  II.  322. 

^^  Ilium  absens  absentem  auditque  videique.  Him  absent 
she  both  sees  and  hears,    ^n.,  iv.  83. 

"  Quem  fugis?  extremum  falo,  quod  te  adloquor,  hoc  est. 
Whom  would  you  fly  from?  This  is  the  last  word  which 
late  allows  me  to  address  to  you.    JEn.,  vi.  466. 

1^8   Tripl(a>.   (Lat.,   threefold  brass.)     The  title  of 
the  essay  is  taken  from  Horace: 
Illi  robur  et  ces  triplex 

Circa  pectus  erat,  qui  fragilem  truci 

Commisit  pelago  ratem. 

«.rk  1        J  T-  .     .  Odes,  I.  iii.  9-11. 

Oak  and  brass  of  triple  fold 
Encompassed  sure  that  heart,  which  first  made  bold 
lo  the  ragmg  sea  to  trust 
A  fragile  bark." 

Conington'a  trar^s. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  773 

and  creeps  upon  their  citadel  during  a  score  of  it  seems,  could  hardly  be  relished  in  such  cir- 
years.  And  when  the  business  is  done,  there  cumstances  without  something  like  a  defiance 
is  sore  havoc  made  in  other  people's  lives,  and  of  the  Creator.  It  should  be  a  place  for  nobody 
a  pin  knocked  out  by  which  many  subsidiary  but  hermits  dwelling  in  prayer  and  maceration, 
friendships  hung  together.  There  are  empty  5  or  mere  born-devils  drowning  care  in  a  per- 
ch airs,  solitary  walks,  and  single  beds  at  night,      petual  carouse. 

Again,  in  taking  away  our  friends,  death  does  And  yet,  when  one  comes  to  think  upon  it 
not  take  them  away  utterly,  but  leaves  behind  calmly,  the  situation  of  these  South  American 
a  mocking,  tragical,  and  soon  intolerable  resi-  citizens^  forms  only  a  very  pale  figure  for  the 
due,  which  must  be  hurriedly  concealed.  Hence  lo  state  of  ordinary  mankind.  This  world  itself, 
a  whole  chapter  of  sights  and  customs  striking  travelling  blindly  and  swiftly  in  overcrowded 
to  the  mind,  from  the  pyramids  of  Egypt  to  space,  among  a  million  other  worlds  travelling 
the  gibbets  and  dule^  trees  of  mediaeval  Europe,  blindly  and  swiftly  in  contrary  directions,  may 
The  poorest  persons  have  a  bit  of  pageant  very  well  come  by  a  knock  that  would  set  it 
going  towards  the  tomb;  mem6rial  stones  are  15  into  explosion  like  a  penny  squib.  And  what, 
set  up  over  the  least  memorable;  and,  in  order  pathologically  looked  at,  is  the  human  body 
to  preserve  some  show  of  respect  for  what  re-  with  all  its  organs,  but  a  mere  bagful  of  pe- 
mains  of  our  old  loves  and  friendships,  we  must  tards?*  The  least  of  these  is  as  dangerous  to 
accompany  it  with  much  grimly  ludicrous  the  whole  economy  as  the  ship's  powder- 
ceremonial,  and  the  hired  undertaker  parades  20  magazine  to  the  ship;  and  with  every  breath 
before  the  door.  All  this,  and  much  more  of  we  breathe,  and  every  meal  we  eat,  we  are 
the  same  sort,  accompanied  by  the  eloquence  putting  one  or  more  of  them  in  peril.  If  we 
of  poets,  has  gone  a  great  way  to  put  hu-  clung  as  devotedly  as  some  philosophers  pre- 
manity  in  error;  nay,  in  many  philosophies  tend  we  do  to  the  abstract  idea  of  life,  or  were 
the  error  has  been  embodied  and  laid  down  25  half  as  frightened  as  they  make  out  we  are, 
with  every  circumstance  of  logic;  although  in  for  the  subversive  accident  that  ends  it  all, 
real  life  the  bustle  and  swiftness,  in  leaving  the  trumpets  might  sound  by  the  hour  and 
people  little  time  to  think,  have  not  left  them  no  one  would  follow  them  into  battle — the 
time  enough  to  go  dangerously  wrong  in  prac-  blue-peter^  might  fly  at  the  truck,  but  who 
tice.  30  would  climb  into  a  sea-going  ship?     Think 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  although  few  things  are  (if  these  philosophers  were  right)  with  what  a 
spoken  of  with  more  fearful  whisperings  than  preparation  of  spirit  we  should  affront  the  daily 
this  prospect  of  death,  few  have  less  influence  peril  of  the  dinner-table:  a  deadlier  spot  than 
on  conduct  under  healthy  circumstances.  We  any  battle-field  in  history,  where  the  far  greater 
have  all  heard  of  cities  in  South  America  built  35  proportion  of  our  ancestors  have  miserably 
upon  the  side  of  fiery  mountains,  and  how,  left  their  bones!  What  woman  would  ever  be 
even  in  this  tremendous  neighbourhood,  the  lured  into  marriage,  so  much  more  dangerous 
inhabitants  are  not  a  jot  more  impressed  by  the  than  the  wildest  sea?  And  what  would  it  be 
solemnity  of  mortal  conditions  than  if  they  were  to  grow  old?  For,  after  a  certain  distance, 
delving  gardens  in  the  greenest  corner  of  40  every  step  we  take  in  life  we  find  the  ice  grow- 
England.  There  are  serenades  and  suppers  ing  thinner  below  our  feet,  and  all  around  us 
and  much  gallantrj''  among  the  myrtles  over-  and  behind  us  we  see  our  contemporaries 
head;  and  meanwhile  the  foundation  shudders  going  through.  By  the  time  a  man  gets  well 
underfoot,  the  bowels  of  the  mountain  growl,  into  the  seventies,  his  continued  existence  is  a 
and  at  any  moment  living  ruin  may  leap  sky- 45  mere  miracle;  and  when  he  lays  his  old  bones 
high  into  the  moonlight,  and  tumble  man  and  in  bed  for  the  night,  there  is  an  overwhelming 
his  merry-making  in  the  dust.  In  the  eyes  of  probability  that  he  will  never  see  the  day.  Do 
very  young  people,  and  very  dull  old  ones,  the  old  men  mind  it,  as  a  matter  of  fact?  Why, 
there  is  something  indescribably  reckless  and  no.  They  were  never  merrier;  they  have  their 
desperate  in  such  a  picture.  It  seems  not  50  grog  at  night,  and  tell  the  raciest  stories;  they 
credible  that  respectable  married  people,  with  hear  of  the  death  of  people  about  their  own 
umbrellas,  should  find  appetite  for  a  bit  of  sup-  age,  or  even  younger,  not  as  if  it  were  a  grisly 
per  within  quite  a  long  distance  of  a  fiery  moun- 
tain; ordinary  life  begins  to  smell  of  high-  ^  'The  fate  of  St.  Pierre  (1902)  aflfords  a  sM^^ 
,         1,1,,        ,         • ,    .  -J  1  tration  of  Stevenson  s  statement,  and  in  the  light  of  that 

handed  debauch  when  it  is  carried  on  so  close  55  recent  catastrophe  the  whole  passage  becomes  eloquent 

to  a  catastrophe;  and  even  cheese  and  salad,      "'^VkLToTbotlfformerly  u^  to  blow  up  .ate,  .od 

walls. 
*  Trees  of  mourning;  a  name  given  in  Scotland  to  trees  *  A  blue  flag  with  a  white  square  in  the  centre,  flown 

under  which  the  clan  gathered  to  bewail  its  dead.  Spelled  in  the  merchant  marine  aa  a  signal  that  the  vessel  is 
also  dool-tree.    (Lat.  dolor,  grief,  lamentation.)  ready  to  depart. 


774  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

warning,  but  with  a  simple  childlike  pleasure  to  understand  the  more  we  think  about  them. 
at  having  outUve<i  some  one  else;  and  when  a  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  an  immense  pro- 
draft  might  puff  them  out  like  a  guttering  portion  of  boat  accidents  would  never  happen  if 
candle,  or  a  bit  of  a  stumble  shatter  them  like  people  held  the  sheet  in  their  hands  instead  of 
ao  much  glaas,  their  old  hearts  keep  sound  and  5  making  it  fast;  and  yet,  unless  it  be  some  mar- 
unaffrighted,  and  they  go  on,  bubbling  with  tinet  of  a  professional  mariner  or  some  lands- 
laughter,  through  years  of  man's  age  compared  man  with  shattered  nerves,  every  one  of  God's 
to  which  the  valley  at  Balaklava'  was  as  safe  creatures  makes  it  fast.  A  strange  instance  of  < 
and  peaceful  as  a  village  cricket-green  on  Sun-  man's  unconcern  and  brazen  boldness  in  the ' 
day.    It  may  fairly  be  questioned  (if  we  look  10  face  of  death! 

to  the  peril  only)  whether  it  was  a  much  more  We  confound  ourselves  with  metaphysical 
<laring  feat  for  Curtius^  to  plunge  into  the  phrases,  which  we  import  into  daily  talk  with 
gulf,  than  for  any  old  gentleman  of  ninety  to  noble  inappropriateness.  We  have  no  idea  of 
doff  hb  clothes  and  clamber  into  bed.  what  death  is,  apart  from  its  circumstances 

Indeed,  it  is  a  memorable  subject  for  con- 15  and  some  of  its  consequences  to  others;  and 
dderation,  with  what  unconcern  and  gaiety  although  we  have  some  experience  of  living, 
mankind  pricks  on  along  the  Valley  of  the  there  is  not  a  man  on  earth  who  has  flown  so 
Shadow  of  Death.  The  whole  way  is  one  wil-  high  into  abstraction  as  to  have  any  practical 
demoas  of  snares,  and  the  end  of  it,  for  those  guess  at  the  meaning  of  the  word  life.  All 
who  fear  the  last  pinch,  Ls  irrevocable  ruin.  20  literature,  from  Job  and  Omar  Khayyd,m^°  to 
And  yet  we  go  spinning  through  it  all,  like  a  Thomas  Carlyle  or  Walt  Whitman,  is  but  an 
party  for  the  Derby.*  Perhaps  the  reader  attempt  to  look  upon  the  human  state  with 
remembers  one  of  the  humorous  devices  of  such  largeness  of  view  as  shall  enable  us  to  rise 
the  deified  Cahgula,'  how  he  encouraged  a  vast  from  the  consideration  of  living  to  the  Defini- 
ooocourBe  of  hoUdaymakers  on  to  his  bridge  25  tion  of  Life.  And  our  sages  give  us  about  the 
over  Bai»  bay;  and  when  they  were  in  the  best  satisfaction  in  their  power  when  they 
height  of  their  enjoyment,  turned  loose  the  say  it  is  a  vapour,  or  a  show,  or  made  out  of 
Pnetorian  guards  among  the  company,  and  the  same  stuff  with  dreams.  Philosophy,  in 
had  them  tossed  into  the  sea.  This  is  no  bad  its  more  rigid  sense,  has  been  at  the  same 
miniature  of  the  dealings  of  nature  with  the  30  work  for  ages;  and  after  a  myriad  bald  heads 
iranidtoryraceof  man.  Only,  what  a  chequered  have  wagged  over  the  problem,  and  piles  of 
picnic  we  have  of  it,  even  while  it  lasts!  and  words  have  been  heaped  one  upon  another 
into  what  great  waters,  not  to  be  crossed  by  into  dry  and  cloudy  volumes  without  end, 
any  swimmer,  God's  pale  Praetorian  throws  us  philosophy  has  the  honour  of  laying  before  us, 
over  in  the  end!  35  with  modest  pride,  her  contribution  towards 

We  Uve  the  time  that  a  match  flickers;  we  the  subject:  that  life  is  a  Permanent  Possibility 
pop  the  cork  of  a  ginger-beer  bottle,  and  the  of  Sensation.  Truly  a  fine  result!  A  man  may 
earthquake  swallows  us  on  the  instant.  Is  very  well  love  beef,  or  hunting,  or  a  woman; 
It  not  odd,  IS  It  not  mcongruous,  is  it  not,  in  but  surely,  surely,  not  a  Permanent  Possibility 
the  highest  sense  of  the  human  speech,  in- 40  of  Sensation!  He  may  be  afraid  of  a  precipice, 
credible,  that  w-e  should  think  so  liighly  of  the  or  a  dentist,  or  a  large  enemy  with  a  club,  or 
ginger-beer,  aiid  r^ard  so  httle  the  devouring  even  an  undertaker's  man;  but  not  certainly 
wrthquake?  The  love  of  Life  and  the  fear  of  of  abstract  death.  We  may  trick  with  the 
Ueath  are  two  famous  phrases  that  grow  harder  word  life  in  its  dozen  senses  untU  we  are  weary 
•  iiitiMirvm«..#K--««^-^»*k   t  u         ,  L   ^^^^  tricking;  we  may  argue  in  terms  of  all  the 

« ._i" iP?  ^^n™^ '™  **'*®  <*»  *Q® 'a™ou8  charge  of  the       ,^u:i^ u-  -i       i     i^  r      . 

Uj*t  BrUpde.   Through  a  mistaken  order,  a  brigade  of      pnUosophies  on  earth,  but  one  fact  remams 

5Si£^o?J7t^onTy"i98?^tuTnid?'  '^'"^  ^'^'^''      true  throughout-that  we  do  not  love  life, 

'AeoordiQg  to   tradition   a   chasm   appeared  in  the       *^  ^^^  ^^^^®  t^^*  we  are  greatly  preoccupied 

SSS  ^"S  'S^  S'  b^'^Z  toJlf^R^m^,  ^  "'^o"'  its  conservation;  that  we  do  not,  prep- 

rjMwttreMure.    Thereupon  Marcua  Curtiua,  a  young  ^  ^"^  Speakmg,  love  hf  e  at  all,  but  hving.     Into 

wMeh  immediately  closed  over  him.  '      ^ome  degree  of  providence;  no  man's  eyes  are 

of  ^-l^^^'^^^nZ^^^^^^  fi-^^  ^^^ir^ly  «^  the  passing  hour;  but  although 

^faMfSw"*  •^•'^'•*  *°**  '*  "^'^  ^  ^  attended  by      ^'^  "^^e  some  anticipation  of  good  health,  good 
•EtSSSrofRSme.  37-41  A.  D..  and  noted  for  his '' "^^f ^^''  ™^'  .^^^^^^  employment,  love,  and 


l!IT?!JS5'*^  j*"^  eitravaganper"'HT"cau8^"  Wi^if  self-approval,  the  sum  of  these  anticipations 

Ti?irSurS?K  mT  ?  «'*♦'•  »°'*  ^^'^  ^'''  ^""^  ™«le  consul. 

Kr^W  uil'^fi^lK  ?a?e"r  b"^Querin°"thl  n.^H^'f  ^^T^^  ^^'  «.?  '^'  ^^  of  the  eleventh  centuiy. 

aidit  of  it.  which  coded  a.  tteveiSn  dLcrib2i       ^  '^^  SanLfion '*V*°  ^^€'^  '"^^^^^  ^^  ^^'^^'i  Fitzgerald's 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  775 

does  not  amount  to  anything  like  a  general  its  vanity  and  brevity;  whether  we  look  justly 
view  of  life's  possibilities  and  issues;  nor  are  for  years  of  health  and  vigour,  or  are  about  to 
those  who  cherish  them  most  vividly,  at  all  the  mount  into  a  bath-chair,  as  a  step  towards 
most  scrupulous  of  their  personal  safety.  To  the  hearse;  in  each  and  aU  of  these  views  and 
be  deeply  interested  in  the  accidents  of  our  5 situations  there  is  but  one  conclusion  possible: 
existence,  to  enjoy  keenly  the  mixed  texture  of  that  a  man  should  stop  his  ears  against  para- 
human  experience,  rather  leads  a  man  to  dis-  lysing  terror,  and  run  the  race  that  is  set  be- 
regard  precautions,  and  risk  his  neck  against  fore  him  with  a  single  mind.  No  one  surely 
a  straw.  For  surely  the  love  of  living  is  stronger  could  have  recoiled  with  more  heartache  and 
in  an  Alpine  climber  roping  over  a  peril,  or  a  10  terror  from  the  thought  of  death  than  our 
hunter  riding  merrily  at  a  stiff  fence,  than  in  respected  lexicographer  ;^3  ^nd  yet  we  know 
a  creature  who  Uves  upon  a  diet  and  walks  a  how  Httle  it  affected  his  conduct,  how  wisely 
measured  distance  in  the  interest  of  his  con-  and  boldly  he  walked,  and  in  what  a  fresh  and 
stitution.  lively  vein  he  spoke  of  life.     Already  an  old 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  very  vile  nonsense  15  man,  he  ventured  on  his  Highland  tour^^  and 
talked  upon  both  sides  of  the  matter:  tearing  his  heart,  bound  with  triple  brass, ^^  did  not 
divines  reducing  life  to  the  dimensions  of  a  recoil  before  twenty-seven  individual  cups  of 
mere  funeral  procession,  so  short  as  to  be  tea.  As  courage  and  intelligence  are  the  two 
hardly  decent;  and  melancholy  unbehevers  quaUties  best  worth  a  good  man's  cultivation, 
yearning  for  the  tomb  as  if  it  were  a  world  too  20  so  it  is  the  first  part  of  intelligence  to  recognise 
far  away.  Both  sides  must  feel  a  little  ashamed  our  precarious  estate  in  life,  and  the  first  part 
of  their  performances  now  and  again  when  they  of  courage  to  be  not  at  all  abashed  before  the 
draw  in  their  chairs  to  dinner.  Indeed,  a  good  fact.  A  franlc  and  somewhat  headlong  carriage, 
meal  and  a  bottle  of  wine  is  an  answer  to  most  not  looking  too  anxiously  before,  not  dallying 
standard  works  upon  the  question.  When  a  25  in  maudlin  regret  over  the  past,  stamps  the 
man's  heart  warms  to  his  viands,  he  forgets  a  man  who  is  well  armoured  for  this  world, 
great  deal  of  sophistry,  and  soars  into  a  rosy  And  not  only  well  armoured  for  himself, 
zone  of  contemplation.  Death  may  be  knock-  but  a  good  friend  and  a  good  citizen  to  boot, 
ing  at  the  door,  hke  the  Commander's  statue ;^^  We  do  not  go  to  cowards  for  tender  dealing; 
we  have  something  else  in  hand,  thank  God,  so  there  is  nothmg  so  cruel  as  panic;  the  man  who 
and  let  him  knock.  Passing  bells  are  ringing  has  least  fear  for  his  own  carcase,  has  most  time 
all  the  world  over.  All  the  world  over,  and  to  consider  others.  That  eminent  chemist^^ 
every  hour,  some  one  is  parting  company  with  who  took  his  walks  abroad  in  tin  shoes,  and 
all  his  aches  and  ecstasies.  For  us  also  the  subsisted  wholly  upon  tepid  milk,  had  all  his 
trap  is  laid.  But  we  are  so  fond  of  life  that  we  35  work  cut  out  for  him  in  considerate  dealings 
have  no  leisure  to  entertain  the  terror  of  death,  with  his  own  digestion.  So  soon  as  prudence 
It  is  a  honeymoon  with  us  all  through,  and  has  begun  to  grow  up  in  the  brain,  Uke  a  dismal 
none  of  the  longest.  Small  blame  to  us  if  we  fungus,  it  finds  its  first  expression  in  a  paralysis 
give  our  whole  hearts  to  this  glowing  bride  of  of  generous  acts.  The  victim  begins  to  shrink 
ours,  to  the  appetites,  to  honour,  to  the  hungry  40  spiritually;  he  develops  a  fancy  for  parlours 
curiosity  of  the  mind,  to  the  pleasure  of  the  with  a  regulated  temperature,  and  takes  his 
eyes  in  nature,  and  the  pride  of  our  own  nimble  morality  on  the  principle  of  tin  shoes  and  tepid 
bodies.  milk.    The  care  of  one  important  body  or  soul 

We  all  of  us  appreciate  the  sensations;  but  becomes  so  engrossing,  that  all  the  noises  of 
as  for  caring  about  the  Permanence  of  the  45  the  outer  world  begin  to  come  thin  and  faint 
Possibility,  a  man's  head  is  generally  very  bald,  into  the  parlour  with  the  regulated  tempera- 
and  his  senses  very  dull,  before  he  comes  to  ture;  and  the  tin  shoes  go  equably  forward 
that.  Whether  we  regard  life  as  a  lane  leading  over  blood  and  rain.  To  be  overwise  is  to 
to  a  dead  wall — a  mere  bag's  end,^^  ^s  the  ossify;  and  the  scruple-monger  ends  by  stand- 
French  say — or  whether  we  think  of  it  as  a  50  ing  stockstill.  Now  the  man  who  has  his  heart 
vestibule  or  gymnasium,  where  we  wait  our  on  his  sleeve,  and  a  good  whirling  weathercock 
turn  and  prepare  our  faculties  for  some  more  of  a  brain,  who  reckons  his  fife  as  a  thing  to 
noble  destiny;  whether  we  thunder  in  a  pulpit,  be  dashingly  used  and  cheerfuUy  hazarded, 
or  pule  in  little  atheistic  poetry-books,  about      makes  a  very  different  acquaintance  of  the 

"  In  Spanish  legend,  Don  Juan,   after  he  had  mur-  "  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson, 

dered  the  Commandant  of  UUoa,  was  enticed  to  a  certain  "  In  1773,  Dr.  Johnson,  aged  64,  accompanied  by  his 

monastery,  and  there  killed  by  the  monks,  who  asserted  faithful  Boswell,  made  his  celebrated  tour  to  Scotland 

that  the  statue  of  the  Commandant  (erected  there)  had  and  the  Hebrides, 
come  down  from  its  pedestal  and  dragged  Juan  off  to  i^  y.  p.  772,  n.  1. 

Hell.  »«  Dr.  Joseph  Black  (1728-1799),  prof«»ssor  of  chemis- 

12  Xhe  French  expression  is  cid  de  sac.  try  at  Edinburgh. 


776  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

world,  keeps  all  his  pulses  going  true  and  the  sickroom.  By  all  means  begin  your  folio; 
fast,  and  fl;athera  impetus  as  he  runs,  until,  even  if  the  doctor  does  not  give  you  a  year, 
if  ho  be  nmning  ti)wards  anything  better  than  even  if  he  hesitates  about  a  month,  make  one 
a  wildfire,  he  may  shoot  up  and  become  a  con-  brave  push  and  see  what  can  be  accomplished 
itellation'  in  the  end.  Lord  look  after  his  sin  a  week.  It  is  not , only  in  finished  under- 
beallh,  Lonl  have  a  care  of  his  soul,  says  he;  takings  that  we  ought  to  honour  useful  labour. 
and  he  has  at  the  key  of  the  position,  and  A  spirit  goes  out  of  the  man  who  means  execu- 
awashes  through  incongruity  and  peril  towards  tion,  which  outlives  the  most  untimely  ending. 
his  aim.  Death  is  on  all  sides  of  him  with  All  who  have  meant  good  work  with  their' 
pointed  batteries,  as  he  is  on  all  sides  of  all  of  lO  whole  hearts,  have  done  good  work,  although 
us;  unfortunate  surprises  gird  him  round;  mim-  they  may  die  before  they  have  the  time'  to  sign 
mouthed >'  friends  and  relations  hold  up  their  it.  Every  heart  that  has  beat  strong  and 
hands  in  quite  a  little  elegiacal  synod  about  his  cheerfully  has  left  a  hopeful  impulse  behind 
path;  and  what  cares  he  for  all  this?  Being  it  in  the  world,  and  bettered  the  tradition  of 
a  true  lover  of  living,  a  fellow  with  something  15  mankind.  And  even  if  death  catch  people,  like 
pushing  and  spontaneous  in  his  inside,  he  an  open  pitfall,  and  in  mid-career,  laying  out 
must,  like  any  other  soldier,  in  any  other  vast  projects,  and  planning  monstrous  founda- 
stirring,  deadly  warfare,  push  on  at  his  best  tions,  flushed  with  hope,  and  their  mouths  full 
pace  until  he  touch  the  goal.  "A  peerage  or  of  boastful  language,  they  should  be  at  once 
Westminster  Abbey!"*'  cried  Nelson  in  his 20  tripped  up  and  silenced :  is  there  not  something 
bright,  boyish,  heroic  manner.  These  are  great  brave  and  spirited  in  such  a  termination?  and 
incentives;  not  for  any  of  these,  but  for  the  does  not  Hfe  go  down  with  a  better  grace,  foam- 
plain  satisfaction  of  living,  of  being  about  their  ing  in  full  body  over  a  precipice,  than  miserably 
busine^  in  some  sort  or  other,  do  the  brave,  straggling  to  an  end  in  sandy  deltas?  When 
aerviceable  men*  of  every  nation  tread  down  25  the  Greeks  made  their  fine  saying  that  those 
the  nettle  danger,  and  pass  flyingly  over  all  whom  the  gods  love  die  young, 20 1  cannot  help 
the  stumbling-blocks  of  prudence.  Think  of  believing  they  had  this  sort  of  death  also  m 
the  heroism  of  Johnson,  think  of  that  superb  their  eye.  For  surely,  at  whatever  age  it  over- 
indifference  to  mortal  limitation  that  set  him  take  the  man,  this  is  to  die  young.  Death  has 
upon  his  dictionary,  and  carried  him  through  30  not  been  suffered  to  take  so  much  as  an  illu- 
triumphantly  until  the  end!  Who,  if  he  were  sion  from  his  heart.  In  the  hot-fit  of  life,  a 
wisely  considerate  of  things  at  large,  would  tip-toe  on  the  highest  point  of  being,  he  passes 
ever  embark  upon  any  work  much  more  con-  at  a  bound  on  to  the  other  side.  The  noise  of  ' 
siderable  than  a  halfpenny  post  card?  Who  the  mallet  and  chisel  -is  scarcely  quenched,- 
would  project  a  serial  novel,  after  Thackeray  35  the  trumpets  are  hardly  done  blowing,  when, 
and  Dickens  had  each  fallen  in  mid-course?*»  trailing  with  him  clouds  of  glory,2i  this  happy- 
Who  would  find  heart  enough  to  begin  to  live  starred,  full-blooded  spirit  shoots  into  the 
if  he  dallied  with  the  consideration  of  death?         spiritual  land. 

And,  after  all,  what  sorry  and  pitiful  quib- 
bling all  this  is!    To  forego  all  the  issues  of  40 

living  in  a  parlour  with  a  regulated  tempera-  PULVIS  ET  UMBRA^ 

ture— as  if  that  were  not  to  die  a  hundred  times  /Trx^rv,  a^^„„  yi.^  r.?^  -^^  1  Qno\ 

,  over,  and  for  ten  years  at  a  stretch!  As  if  it  were  ^^'^^^  ^"^^'^  ^^'  ^^'""'^  ^^^^^ 

not  to  die  in  one's  own  lifetime,  and  without  We  look  for  some  reward  of  our  endeavours 
even  the  sad  immunities  of  death!  As  if  it 45 and  are  disappointed;  not  success,  not  hap^ 
were  not  to  die,  and  yet  be  the  patient  spec-  piness,  not  even  peace  of  conscience,  crowns 
totore  of  our  own  pitiable  change!  The  Per-  our  ineffectual  efforts  to  do  well.  Our  frailties 
manent  Possibility  is  preserved,  but  the  sensa-  are  invincible,  our  virtues  barren;  the  battle 
tions  carefully  held  at  arm's  length,  as  if  one  goes  sore  against  us  to  the  going  down  of  the 
kept  a  photographic  plate  in  a  dark  cliamber.  60     »  Aftr;K„f^^  +    a/t       ^        nr   t,,    .       01... 

Ufa  K^tfA.  t^   1^«^   u      uu    ri  1.,    'r.        .      ^Attributed  to  Menander.     Cf.  Plautus,  Bacchtdes, 

la  better  to  lose  health  like  a  spendthrift     iv.  7.  is. 

than  to  waste  it  like  a  miser.     It  is  better  to  /•*  ^^'  Wordsworth's  Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immor- 

live  and  be  done  with  it,  than  to  die  daily  in         *'^'  ^' But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

n  !/•      •        Oil.*  ,  From  God,  who  is  our  home." 

•TWk.™,  left  D.m.  Duval  >,nfi»i,hed,  .nd  Dickers  '^""^  "  """"■"  "'"""■  H„r    m  IV  7  14 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  »       777 

sun.  The  canting  moralist  tells  us  of  right  dust,  used  as  we  are  to  it,  yet  strikes  us  with 
and  wrong;  and  we  look  abroad,  even  on  the  occasional  disgust,  and  the  profusion  of  worms 
face  of  our  small  earth,  and  find  them  change  in  a  piece  of  ancient  turf,  or  the  air  of  a  marsh 
with  every  climate,  and  no  country  where  darkened  with  insects,  will  sometimes  check 
some  action  is  not  honoured  for  a  virtue  and  sour  breathing  so  that  we  aspire  for  cleaner 
none  where  it  is  not  branded  for  a  vice;  and  places.  But  none  is  clean:  the  moving  sand  is 
we  look  in  our  experience,  and  find  no  vital  infected  with  lice;  the  pure  spring,  where  it 
congruity  in  the  wisest  rules,  but  at  the  besL  bursts  out  of  the  mountain,  is  a  mere  issue  of 
a  municipal  fitness.  ,  It  is  not  strange  if  we  worms;  even  in  the  hard  rock  the  crystal  is 
are  tempted  to  despair  of  good.    We  ask  too  lo  forming. 

much.    Our  religions  and  moralities  have  been  In  two  main  shapes  this  eruption  covers  the 

trimmed  to  flatter  us,  till  they  are  all  emascu-  countenance  of  the  earth:  the  animal  and  the 
late  and  sentimentalised,  and  only  please  and  vegetable:  one  in  some  degree  the  inversion  of 
v/eaken.  Truth  is  of  a  rougher  strain.  In  the  the  other:  the  second  rooted  to  the  spot;  the 
harsh  face  of  life,  faith  can  read  a  bracing  15  first  coming  detached  out  of  its  natal  mud, 
gospel.  The  human  race  is  a  thing  more  an-  and  scurrying  abroad  with  the  myriad  feet  of 
cient  than  the  ten  commandments;  and  the  insects  or  towering  into  the  heavens  on  the 
bones  and  revolutions  of  the  Kosmos,  in  whose  wings  of  birds:  a  thing  so  inconceivable  that, 
joints  we  are  but  moss  and  fungus,  more  an-  if  it  be  well  considered,  the  heart  stops.  To 
cient  still.  20  what  passes  with  the  anchored  vermin,  we  have 

little  clue;  doubtless  they  have  their  joys  and 
'         •*•       •  sorrows,  their  delights  and  killing  agonies:  it 

Of  the  Kosmos  in  the  last  resort,  science  re-  appears  not  how.  But  of  the  locomotory, 
ports  many  doubtful  things  and  all  of  them  to  which  we  ourselves  belong,  we  can  tell  more. 
appalUng.  There  seems  no  substance  to  this  25  These  share  with  us  a  thousand  miracles:  the 
solid  globe  on  which  we  stamp:  nothing  but  miracles  of  sight,  of  hearing,  of  the  projection 
symbols  and  ratios.  Symbols  and  ratios  carry  of  sound,  things  that  bridge  space;  the  miracles 
us  and  bring  us  forth  and  beat  us  down;  gravity  of  memory  and  reason,  by  which  the  present 
that  swings  the  incommensurable  suns  and  is  conceived,  and  when  it  is  gone,  its  image 
worlds  through  space,  is  but  a  figment  varying  30  kept  living  in  the  brains  of  man  and  brute; 
inversely  as  the  squares  of  distances;  and  the  the  miracle  of  reproduction,  with  its  imperious 
suns  and  worlds  themselves,  imponderable  desires  and  staggering  consequences.  And  to 
figures  of  abstraction,  NH3  and  H2O.  ^  Con-  put  the  last  touch  upon  this  mountain  mass 
sideration  dares  not  dwell  upon  this  view;  that  of  the  revolting  and  the  inconceivable,  all 
way  madness  lies;'  science  carries  us  into  zones  35  these  prey  upon  each  other,  lives  tearing  other 
of  speculation,  where  there  is  no  habitable  city  lives  in  pieces,  cramming  them  inside  them- 
for  the  mind  of  man.  selves,  and  by  that  summary  process,  growing 

But  take  the  Kosmos  with  a  grosser  faith,      fat:  the  vegetarian,   the  whale,   perhaps  the 
as  our  senses  give  it  us.     We  behold  space      tree,  not  less  than  the  lion  of  the  desert;  for 
sown  with  rotatory  islands,  suns  and  worlds  40  the  vegetarian  is  only  the  eater  of  the  dumb, 
and  the  shards  and  wrecks  of  systems:  some.  Meanwhile  our  rotatory  island  loaded  with 

like  the  sun,  still  blazing;  some  rotting,  like  predatory  life,  and  more  drenched  with  blood, 
the  earth;  others,  like  the  moon,  stable  in  both  animal  and  vegetable,  than  ever  mutinied 
desolation.  All  of  these  we  take  to  be  made  of  ship,  scuds  through  space  with  unimaginable 
something  we  call  matter:  a  thing  which  no  45  speed,  and  turns  alternate  cheeks  to  the  rever- 
analysis  can  help  us  to  conceive;  to  whose  beration  of  a  blazing  world,  ninety  million 
incredible  properties  no  familiarities  can  recon-  miles  away, 
cile  our  minds.    This  stuff,  when  not  purified 

by  the  lustration  of  fire,  rots  uncleanly  into  ^^ 

something  we  call  life;  seized  through  all  its  50  What  a  monstrous  spectre  is  this  man,  the 
atoms  with  a  pediculous  malady;  swelling  in  disease  of  the  agglutinated  dust,^  lifting  alter- 
tumours  that  become  independent,  sometimes  nate  feet  or  lying  drugged  with  slumber;  kill- 
even  (by  an  abhorrent  prodigy)  locomotory;  ing,  feeding,  growing,  bringing  forth  small 
one  splitting  into  millions,  millions  cohering  copies  of  himself;  grown  upon  with  hair  hke 
into  one,  as  the  malady  proceeds  through  55  grass,  fitted  with  eyes  that  move  and  glitter 
varying  stages.    This  vital  putrescence  of  the         ,  ..^^^^  ^  p.^^^  ^^  ^^^^  .^  ^^^,       ^^^  ^^^  ^  ^^^ 

,                     •         J       i  what  ia  this  guirt/esscAtce  »/ rfusi.' "  etc.     //arn..  II.  ii.  295. 

«  NHs  and  H2O,  1.  e.  ammonia  and  water.  The  style  and  rhythm  of  Stevenson's  passage  are  strik- 

•  Oh,  that  way  madness  lies,  let  me  shun  that.  ingly  close  to  the  famous  speech  of  Hamlet,  from  which 

Lear,  III.  iv.  21.  the  above  lines  are  quoted. 


778  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

in  his  face;  a  thing  to  set  children  screaming; —  fections  of  the  best.  They  cannot  be  too  darkly 
and  yet  looked  at  nearlier,  known  as  his  fellows  drawn.  Man  is  indeed  marked  for  failure  in 
know  him,  how  surprising  are  his  attributes!  his  efforts  to  do  right.  But  where  the  best 
Poor  soul,  here  for  so  little,  cast  among  so  consistently  miscarry,  how  tenfold  more  re- 
many  hardships,  filled  with  desires  so  incom-  smarkable  that  all  should  continue  to  strive; 
mensurate  and  so  inconsistent,  savagely  sur-  and  surely  we  should  find  it  both  touching 
rounded,  savagely  descended,  irremediably  and  inspiriting,  that  in  a  field  from  which 
condemned  to  prey  upon  his  fellow  fives:  who  success  is  banished,  our  race  should  not  cease 
should  have  blamed  him  had  he  been  of  a  piece      to  labour. 

with  bis  destiny  and  a  being  merely  barbarous?  lo  If  the  first  view  of  this  creature,  stalking  in 
And  we  look  and  behold  him  instead  filled  with  his  rotatory  isle,  be  a  thing  to  shake  the  cour- 
imperfect  virtues:  infinitely  childish,  often  age  of  the  stoutest,  on  this  nearer  sight,  he 
admirably  valiant,  often  touchingly  kind;  startles  us  with  an  admiring  wonder.  It  mat- 
sitting  down,  amidst  his  momentary  life,  to  ters  not  where  we  look,  under  what  climate  we 
debate  of  right  and  wrong  and  the  attributes  15  observe  him,  in  what  stage  of  society,  in  what 
of  the  deity;  rising  up  to  do  battle  for  an  egg^  depth  of  ignorance,  burthened  with  what 
or  die  for  an  idea;  singling  out  his  friends  and  erroneous  morality;  by  camp-fires  in  Assiniboia, 
his  mate  with  cordial  affection;  bringing  forth  the  snow  powdering  his  shoulders,  the  wind 
in  pain,  rearing  with  long-suffering  solicitude,  plucking  his  blanket,  as  he  sits,  passing  the 
his  young.  To  touch  the  heart  of  his  mystery,  20  ceremonial  calumet  and  uttering  his  grave 
we  find  in  him  one  thought,  strange  to  the  opinions  like  a  Roman  senator;  in  ships  at 
point  of  lunacy:  the  thought  of  duty;  the  sea,  a  man  inured  to  hardship  and  vile  pleas- 
thought  of  something  owing  to  himself,  to  his  ures,  his  brightest  hope  a  fiddle  in  a  tavern  and 
neighbour,  to  his  God:  an  ideal  of  decency,  to  a  bedizened  trull  who  sells  herself  to  rob  him, 
which  he  would  rise  if  it  were  possible;  a  limit  25  and  he  for  all  that  simple,  innocent,  cheerful, 
of  shame,  below  which,  if  it  be  possible,  he  kindly  like  a  child,  constant  to  toil,  brave  to 
will  not  stoop.  The  design  in  most  men  is  drown,  for  others;  in  the  slums  of  cities,  mov- 
one  of  conformity;  here  and  there,  in  picked  ing  among  indifferent  millions  to  mechanical 
natures,  it  transcends  itself  and  soars  on  the  employment,  without  hope  of  change  in  the 
other  side,  arming  martyrs  with  independence;  30  future,  with  scarce  a  pleasure  in  the  present, 
but  in  all,  in  their  degrees,  it  is  a  bosom  thought:  and  yet  true  to  his  virtues,  honest  up  to  his 
—Not  in  man  alone,  for  we  trace  it  in  dogs  lights,  kind  to  his  neighbours,  tempted  per- 
and  cats  whom  we  know  fairly  well,  and  doubt-  haps  in  vain  by  the  bright  gin-palace,  perhaps 
less  some  similar  point  of  honour  sways  the  long-suffering  with  the  drunken  wife  that  ruins 
elephant,  the  oyster,  and  the  louse,  of  whom  35 him;  in  India  (a  woman  this  time)  kneeling 
we  know  so  little: — But  in  man,  at  least,  it  with  broken  cries  and  streaming  tears,  as  she 
sways  with  so  complete  an  empire  that  merely  drowns  her  child  in  the  sacred  river;  in  the 
selfish  things  come  second,  even  with  the  sel-  brothel,  the  discard  of  society,  hving  mainly 
fish:  that  appetites  are  starved,  fears  are  con-  on  strong  drink,  fed  with  affronts,  a  fool,  a 
quered,  pains  supported;  that  almost  the  dullest  40  thief,  the  comrade  of  thieves,  and  even  here 
shrinks  from  the  reproof  of  a  glance,  although  keeping  the  point  of  honour  and  the  touch  of 
it  were  a  child's;  and  all  but  the  most  cowardly  pity,  often  repaying  the  world's  scorn  with 
stand  amid  the  risks  of  war;  and  the  more  service,  often  standing  firm  upon  a  scruple, 
noble  having  strongly  conceived  an  act  as  due  and  at  a  certain  cost,  rejecting  riches:— every- 
to  their  ideal,  affront  and  embrace  death.  45  where  some  virtue  cherished  or  affected, 
Strange  enough  if,  with  their  singular  origin  everywhere  some  decency  of  thought  and  car- 
and  perverted  practice,  they  think  they  are  riage,  everywhere  the  ensign  of  man's  ineffec- 
to  be  rewarded  in  some  future  life:  stranger  tual  goodness:— ah!  if  I  could  show  you  this! 
still,  if  they  are  persuaded  of  the  contrar>%  If  I  could  show  you  these  men  and  women,  all 
and  think  this  blow,  which  they  sohcit,  will  50  the  world  over,  in  every  stage  of  history,  under 
strike  them  senseless  for  eternity.  I  shall  be  every  abuse  of  error,  under  eveiy  circumstance 
remmded  what  a  tragedy  of  misconception  of  failure,  without  hope,  without  help,  without 
and  misconduct  man  at  large  presents;  of  or-  thanks,  still  obscurely  fighting  the  lost  fight 
ganised  injustice,  cowardly  violence  and  of  virtue,  stiU  clinging,  in  the  brothel  or  on  the 
treacherous  crime;  and  of  the  damning  imper- 55  scaffold,  to  some  rag  of  honour,  the  poor 
» To  do  hatUe  for  an  egg.  jewel  of  their  souls!^   They  may  seek  to  escape, 

Exposing  what  is  mortal  and  unsure 

Toall  that  fortune  death,  and  danger  dare.  «  Good  name  in  man  or  woman,  dear  my  lord, 

Uvw  for  an  egg-sheU.  Is  the  immediate  jewd  of  their  souls. 

Ham.,  IV.  IV.  61.  Othello,  III.  iii.  181.       J 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON 


779 


and  yet  they  cannot;  it  is  not  alone  their  privi- 
lege and  glory,  but  their  doom;  they  are  con- 
demned to  some  nobility;  all  their  lives  long, 
the  desire  of  good  is  at  their  heels,  the  impla- 
cable hunter. 

Of  all  earth's  meteors,  here  at  least  is  the 
most  strange  and  consoling:  That  this  en- 
nobled lemur,^  this  hair-crowned  bubble  of 
the  dust,  this  inheritor  of  a  few  years  and  sor- 


timid  hope  of  some  reward,  some  sugar  with 
the  drug?  do  they,  too,  stand  aghast  at  unre- 
warded virtues,  at  the  sufferings  of  those 
whom,  in  our  partiality,  we  take  to  be  just, 
5  and  the  prosperity  of  such  as,  in  our  blindness 
we  call  wicked?  It  may  be,  and  yet  God 
knows  what  they  should  look  for.  Even  while 
they  look,  even  while  they  repent,  the  foot  of 
man  treads  them  by  thousands  in  the  dust. 


rows,  should  yet  deny  himself  his  rare  delights,  lo  the  yelping  hounds  burst  upon  their  trail,  the 
and  add  to  his  frequent  pains,  and  live  for  an  bullet  speeds,  the  knives  are  heating  in  the  den 
ideal,  however  misconceived.  Nor  can  we  of  the  vivisectionist;  or  the  dew  falls,  and  the 
stop  with  man.  A  new  doctrine,  received  generation  of  a  day  is  blotted  out.  For  these 
with  screams  a  little  while  ago  by  canting  are  creatures,  compared  with  whom  our  weak- 
moralists,  and  still  not  properly  worked  intoisness  is  strength,  our  ignorance  wisdom,  our 
the  body  of  our  thoughts,  lights  us  a  step     brief  span  eternity. 

farther  into  the  heart  of  this  rough  but  noble  And  as  we  dwell,  we  living  things,  in  our 
universe.  For  nowadays  the  pride  of  man  isle  of  terror  and  under  the  imminent  hand  of 
denies  in  vain  his  kinship  with  the  original  death,  God  forbid  it  should  be  man  the  erected, 
dust.  He  stands  no  longer  like  a  thing  apart.  20  the  reasoner,  the  wise  in  his  own  eyes — God 
Close  at  his  heels  we  see  the  dog,  prince  of  forbid  it  should  be  man  that  wearies  in  well- 
another  genus:  and  in  him  too,  we  see  dumbly  doing,  that  despairs  of  unrewarded  effort,  or 
testified  the  same  cultus  of  an  unattainable  utters  the  language  of  complaint.  Let  it  be 
ideal,  the  same  constancy  in  failure.  Does  it  enough  for  faith,  that  the  whole  creation 
stop  with  the  dog?  We  look  at  our  feet  where  25  groans  in  mortal  frailty,  strives  with  uncon- 
the  ground  is  blackened  with  the  swarming  querable  constancy:  Surely  not  all  in  vain, 
ant:  a  creature  so  small,  so  far  from  us  in  the 
hierarchy  of  brutes,  that  we  can  scarce  trace 
and  scarce  comprehend  his  doings;  and  here 
also,  in  his  ordered  polities  and  rigorous  jus- 30 
tice,  we  see  confessed  the  law  of  duty  and  the 
fact  of  individual  sin.  Does  it  stop,  then, 
with  the  ant?  Rather  this  desire  of  well- 
doing and  this  doom  of  frailty  run  through 
all  the  grades  of  life:  rather  is  this  earth,  from  35 
the  frosty  top  of  Everest*  to  the  next  margin 


iFrancfe  tCliompsfon 

1859(?)-1907 


THE 


ETERNAL  CHILD  IN  SHELLEY 

(From  ShclUy,  pub.  1908) 

We  have  among  us  at  the  present  day  no 
lineal  descendant,   in   the  poetical  order; 


of 


of  the  internal  fire,  one  stage  of  ineffectual  Shelley;  and  any  such  offspring  of  the  abound- 
virtues  and  one  temple  of  pious  tears  and  per-  ingly  spontaneous  Shelley  is  hardly  possible, 
severance.  The  whole  creation  groaneth  and  still  less  likely,  on  account  of  the  defect  by 
travaileth  together .^  It  is  the  common  and  40  which  (we  think)  contemporary  poetry  in 
the  god-Uke  law  of  life.  The  browsers,  the  general,  as  compared  with  the  poetry  of  the 
biters,  the  barkers,  the  hairy  coats  of  field  early  nineteenth  century,  is  mildewed.  That 
and  forest,  the  squirrel  in  the  oak,  the  thou-  defect  is  the  predominance  of  art  over  in- 
sand-footed  creeper  in  the  dust,  as  they  share  spiration,  of  body  over  soul.  We  do  not  say 
with  us  the  gift  of  life,  share  with  us  the  love  45  the  deject  of  inspiration.  The  warrior  is  there; 
of  an  ideal:  strive  like  us — like  us  are  tempted  but  he  is  hampered  by  his  armour.  Writers 
to  grow  weary  of  the  struggle — to  do  well;  of  high  aim  in  all  branches  of  literature,  even 
like  us  receive  at  times  unmerited  refresh-  when  they  are  not — as  Mr.  Swinburne,  for 
ment,  visitings  of  support,  returns  of  courage;  instance,  is — lavish  in  expression,  are  gener- 
and  are  condemned  like  us  to  be  crucified  50  ally  over-deliberate  in  expression.  Mr.  Henry 
between  that  double  law  of  the  members  and  James,  delineating  a  fictitious  writer  clearly 
the  will     Are  they  like  us,  I  wonder,  in  the      intended  to  be  the  ideal  of  an  artist,  makes  him 

*  Francis  Thompson  is  remembered  chiefly  as  one  of  a 
little  group  of  poets  who  challenged  attention  toward 
the  close  of  the  Victorian  era.  Of  a  mystical  and  deeply 
religious  temperament,  he  was  obviously  influenced  by 
Craabaw,  and  other  religious  poets  of  the  early  17th 
century.  His  Hound  of  Henven  (which  has  been  greatly 
over-praised)  is  probably  his  best-known  poem.  His 
essay  on  Shelley  (Dublin  Review,  1908;  Scribner,  1912) 
is  a  remarkable  production  in  an  age  not  distinguished 
for  the  eloquence  or  poetic  enthusiasm  of  its  prose. 


^  The  lemurs  belong  to  the  highest  order  of  mammalia, 
the  Primates,  including  besides  themselves,  man  and 
monkeys.  They  are  just  below  the  apes  in  the  scale  of 
evolution.  In  appearance  they  are  fox-like  monkeys. 
The  name  lemur  (Lat.  lemures,  ghosts)  has  been  given 
them  on  account  of  their  nocturnal  habits  and  stealthy 
steps. 

^  A  mountain  in  the  Himalayas,  so  far  as  known  the 
highest  peak  on  the  earth  (29,002  feet). 

»  V.  Bom.,  vii.  23. 


780  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

regret  that  he  has  sometimes  allowed  himself  Yet,  just  as  in  the  effete  French  society  be- 
to  take  the  second-best  word  instead  of  search-  fore  the  Revolution  the  Queen  played  at  Ar- 
ing  for  the  best.  Theoretically,  of  course,  one  cadia,  the  King  played  at  being  a  mechanic, 
ought  always  to  try  for  the  best  word.  But  every  one  played  at  simplicity  and  universal 
practically,  the  habit  of  excessive  care  in  word  5  philanthropy,  leaving  for  most  durable  out- 
selection  frequently  results  in  loss  of  spon-  come  of  their  philanthropy  the  guillotine,  as 
taneity;  and,  still  worse,  the  habit  of  always  the  most  durable  outcome  of  ours  may  be 
taking  the  most  ornate  word,  the  word  most  execution  by  electricity; — so  in  our  own  so- 
removed  from  ordinary  speech.  In  conse-  ciety  the  talk  of  benevolence  and  the  cult  of 
quence  of  this,  poetic  diction  has  become  lat-  10  childhood  are  the  very  fashion  of  the  hour, 
terly  a  kaleidoscope,  and  one's  chief  curiosity  We,  of  this  self-conscious,  incredulous  genera- 
is  as  to  the  precise  combinations  into  which  tion,  sentimentalize  our  children,  analyse  our 
the  pieces  will  be  shifted.  There  is,  in  fact,  children,  think  we  are  endowed  with  a  special 
a  certain  band  of  words,  the  Praetorian  cohorts^  capacity  to  sympathize  and  identify  ourselves 
of  poetry,  whose  prescriptive  aid  is  invoked  15  with  children;  we  play  at  being  children.  And 
by  every  aspirant  to  the  poetical  purple,  and  the  result  is  that  we  are  not  more  child-like, 
without  whose  prescriptive  aid  none  dares  but  our  children  are  less  child-like.  It  is  so 
aspire  to  the  poetical  purple;  against  these  tiring  to  stoop  to  the  child,  so  much  easier  to 
it  is  time  some  banner  should  be  raised.  Per-  lift  the  child  up  to  you.  Know  you  what  it 
haps  it  is  almost  impossible  for  a  contem-20is  to  be  a  child?  It  is  to  be  something  very 
porary  writer  quite  to  evade  the  services  of  different  from  the  man  of  to-day.  It  is  to 
the  free-lances  whom  one  encounters  under  have  a  spirit  yet  streaming  from  the  waters 
so  many  standards.  But  it  is  at  any  rate  of  baptism;  it  is  to  believe  in  love,  to  believe 
curious  to  note  that  the  literary  revolution  in  loveliness,  to  beheve  in  belief,  it  is  to  be  so 
against  the  despotic  diction  of  Pope  seems  25  little  that  the  elves  can  reach  to  whisper  in 
issuing,  like  political  revolutions,  in  a  des-  your  ear;  it  is  to  turn  pumpkins  into  coaches, 
potism  of  its  own  making.  and  mice  into  horses,  lowness  into  loftiness, 
This,  then,  we  cannot  but  think,  distin-  and  nothing  into  everything,  for  each  child 
guishes  the  Uterary  period  of  Shelley  from  our  has  its  fairj'  godmother  in  its  own  soul;  it  is 
own.  It  distinguishes  even  the  unquestionable  30  to  live  in  a  nutshell  and  to  count  yourself  the 
treasures  and  masterpieces  of  to-day  from  king  of  infinite  space;'  it  is 
similar  treasures  and  masterpieces  of  the  pre- 
cedent day;  even  the  Lotus-Eaters  from  Kuhla-  "^^.^^  ^  f  °^^^  ^-  ^  ^^^^  ^1  ^^^^' 
Khan;  even  Rossetti's  ballads  from  Christabel.  „  ^nd  a  heaven  m  a  wild  flower, 

It  is  present  in  the  restraint  of  Matthew  Arnold  35       ^^Hi^^wn^-/^  -^1^^^.^^  ^"""^  ^^''^' 

, '     ^,       •     XI-  L  <•  c   •  u  And  eternity  m  an  hour:* 

no  less  than  m  the  exuberance  of  Swinburne,  *^  ' 

and  affects  our  writers  who  aim  at  simpUcity      It  is  to  know  not  as  yet  that  you  are  undei 

no  less  than  those  who  seek  richness.    Indeed,      sentence  of  life,  nor  petition  that  it  be  com- 

nothing  is  so  artificial  as  our  simplicity.    It  is      muted  into   death.     When  we  become   con- 

the  simplicity  of  the  French  stage  ingenue.  40  scious  in  dreaming  that  we  dream,  the  dream 

We  are  self-conscious  to  the  finger-tips;  and      is  on  the  point  of  breaking;  when  we  become 

this  inherent  quality,  entailing  on  our  poetry      conscious  in  living  that  we  live,  the  ill  dream 

the  inevitable  loss  of  spontaneity,  ensures  that      is  but  just  beginning.    Now  if  Shelley  was  but 

whatever  poets,  of  whatever  excellence,  may      too  conscious  of  the  dream,  in  other  respects 

be  bom  to  us  from  the  Shelleian  stock,  its  45  Dryden's  false  and  famous  line^  might  have 

founder's  spirit  can  take  among  us  no  rein-      been  applied  to  him  with  very  much  less  than 

carnation.    An  age  that  is  ceasing  to  produce      its  usual  untruth.     To  the  last,  in  a  degree 

child-like  children  cannot  produce  a  Shelley,      uncommon  even  among  poets,  the  idiosyncrasy 

For  both  as  poet  and  man  he  was  essentially     of  childhood  expanded  and  matured  without 

a  child.  50  differentiation.     To  the  last  he  was  the  en- 

2  i.  e.  this  chosen  band  of  words  stands  in  the  same  chanted  child, 

relation  to  the  aspirant  for  poetical  distinction,  as  the  »  "O  God,  I  could  be  bounded  in  a  nut-shell,  and  count 

PrcElorian  Cohort,  or  Guard   (the  special  guard  of  the  myself  a  king  of  infinite  space,  were  it  not  that  I  have 

Roman  emperors),  stood  to  those  who  aspired  to  the  im-  bad  dreams."    Ham.,  II.  ii.  250. 

perial   purple.     The   Prcetorian   Cohort,  created   by   the  *  William  Blake. 

Emperor  Augustus  for  his  especial  use  and  protection,  »  The  Zme  referred  to  is  presumably : 

gained  such  power  m  later  times  that  it  made  and  d«-  "Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied." 

posed  •mperore  at  its  pUasur*.  Absalom  and  Achitophel,  162. 


^ 


APPENDIX 

I.  SELECTIONS  ILLUSTRATING  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE 

c.  737-c.  1500 


C^DMON'S  HYMN 

(Translated  on  p.  8) 

nu  scylun  hergan      hefaenricaes  uard, 

metudaes  maecti      end  his  modgidanc, 

uerc  uuldurfadur  ;      sue  he  uundra  gihuaes, 

eci  dryctin,       or  astelidse. 

he  aerist  scop      aelda  barnum 

heben  til  hrofe,       haleg  scepen. 

Tha  middungeard      moncynnses  uard, 

eci  dryctin,      sefter  tiadae 

firum  foldu      frea  allmectig. 


BEOWULF 

(Translated  on  p.  3) 

Ic  J?8et_lond-buend,      leode  mine, 
sele-rsedende,       secgan  hyrde, 
>8Bt  hie  gesawon      swylce  twegen 
micle  mearc-stapan      moras  healdan, 
ellor-g^stas,       'Seera  otSer  waes, 
>3es  he  hie  gewisllcost      gewitan  meahton, 
idese  onlicnes  ;     otJer  earm-sceapen 
on  weres  wsestmum      wrsec-lastas  treed, 
nasfne  he  waes  mara      Jjonne  senig  man  o'Ser, 
l>one  on  gear-dagiim       Grendel  nemdon 
fold-biiende  ;      no  hie  fa3der  cunnon, 
hw9e)>er  him  ^nig  wses      ^r  acenned 
dyrnra  gasta.     Hie  dygel  lond 
warigeaS,  wulf-hleo}>u,       windige  ntessas, 
frecne  fen-gelad,       Sser  fyrgen-stream 
under  nsessa  genipu      nijjer  gewite'S, 
flod  under  foldan.       Nis  |>a;t  feor  heonon 
mil-gemearces,       \>2et  se  mere  stande'S, 
ofer  bsem  hongia'S       hrimge  bearwas, 
^vudu  wyrtura  faest,       waeter  oferhelma^. 
peer  integ  nihta  gehwSm    ni5-wundor  seon, 
fyr  on  flode.       No  haes  frod  leofa^ 
gumena  bearna,       ^aet  J^one  grund  wite. 
Deah  |)e  h«5-stapa       hundum  geswenced, 
heorot  hornum  trum,      holt-wudu  sece, 
feorran  geflymed,       ^r  he  feorh  sele'S, 
aldor  on  ofre,       £er  he  in  wille 
hafelan  [hydan],       Nis  }?9Bt  heoru  st5w; 
honon  yS-geblond       iip  astige'5 
won  t5  wolcnum,       J^onne  wind  styrej> 
laS  gewidru,       o'S  tiajt  lyft  drysma}?, 
roderas  reota'S.       Nti  is  se  rsed  gelang 
eft  let  i)e  anum.       Eard  git  ne  const, 
frecne  stowe,       ^^r  \>u  findan  miht 


1350 


1355 


1360 


1365 


1370 


1375 


fela-sinnigne  secg  ;      sec  gif  ^u  dyrre. 
Ic  y>e  ha  f«h^e      feo  leanige,  i380 

eald-gestreonum,       swa  ic  ^r  dyde, 
wundnum  golde,       gyf  \>u  on  weg  cymest. 


THE   BATTLE   OF  BRUNANBURH 

(Translated  on  p.  14) 

Her  ^t5elstan  cyning,       eorla  drihten, 

beorna  beahgifa,       and  his  broSor  eac, 

Eadmund  seSeling,       ealdorlangne  tir 

geslogon  set  ssecce      sweorda  ^cgum 

ymbe  Brunanburh  :    bordweall  clufon,  5 

heowon  hea'Solinde      hamora  kifum, 

eaforan  Eadweardes ;      swa  him  geae^ele  wses 

fram  cneomagum,       "Saet  hi  set  campe  oft 

wi'S  la'Sra  gehwsene      land  ealgodon, 

hord  and  hamas.       H^ttend  crungon,  10 

Scotta  leode      and  scipflotan, 

fsege  feollon  :      feld  dennode 

s^cga  swate,       sihban  sunne  upp 

on  morgentid,       m^re  tungol, 

glad  ofer  grund  as,       Godes  candel  beorht,        15 

eces  Drihtnes,       o'S  sio  set^ele  gesceaft 

sah  to  setle.       Deer  l«g  s^cg  mgnig 

garum  ageted,       guma  NorSerna 

ofer  scyld  scoten,      swylce  Scyttisc  eac 

werig  wiges  ssed.  ...  20 


ALFRED'S  PREFACE  TO  HIS  TRANS- 
LATION OF  GREGORY'S  PASTOBAL 
CABE 

(Translated  on  p.  20) 

Alfred  kyning  hate's  gretan  Wserfer^  biscep 
his  wordum  lufllce  Qnd  f  reondlice  ;  gnd  "Se  cy-San 
hate  'Sset  me  com  swrSe  oft  on  gemynd,  hwelce 
wiotan  iu  wteron  giond  Angelcynn,  segSer  ge 
godcundra  hada  ge  woruldcundra ;  grid  hu  ge- 
sseliglica  tida  "Sa  weeron  giond  Angelcynn  ;  gnd 
hu  "Sa  kyniugas  ISe  "Sone  onwald  hsefdon  'Sass 
folces  on  ^5am  dagum  Gode  ^nd  his  serendwrecum 
hersumedon ;  Qiid  ha  hie  ^gSer  ge  hiora  sibbe  ge 
hiora  siodo  ge  hiora  onweald  innanbordes  g(  hi- 
oldon,  Qnd  eac  ut  hiora  eM  gerymdon  ;  Qud  hQ 
him  Sa  speow  seg'Ser  ge  mid  wige  ge  mid  wis- 
dSrne^  <jnd_eac  ^a  godcundan  hadas  hu  giorne 
hie  wseron  8eg'^er  ge  ymb  lare  ge  ymb  liorriuiiga, 
ge  ymb  ealle  "Sa  'Siowotdomas  'Se  hie  Gode  d5n 


781 


782 


APPENDIX 


scoldon ;  gnd  hu  man  utanbordes  wisd5m  gnd 
lare  hieder  on  Ignd  sohte,  Qnd  hu  w6  hie  nu 
sceoldon  ute  begietan,  gif  w6  hie  habban  sce- 
oldon.  Sw£e  clsene  hio  waes  o'Sfeallenu  on  An- 
gelcynne  "SsBt  swi'Se  feawa  waron  behionan 
Humbre  '5e  hiora  •86ninga  cu'Sen  understgndan 
on  j^nglisc  o55e  fuiiSuin  an  gerendgewrit  of  Lae- 
dene  on  ^^nglisc  ar^ceau  ;  qad  ic  w6ne  "Saette 
nOht  mQnige  begiondan  Humbre  nseren.  Swae 
feawa  hiora  wjeron  Saet  ic  fur&um  anne  anlepne 
ne  m<Tg  ge'S^ncean  be  stitSan  T^mese,  "Sa  '5a  ic  t5 
rice  f6ng.  Gode  aslmihtegum  sie  ISqnc  "Saette  we 
na  senigne  onstal  habbaS  lareowa.  (^nd  for  "Son 
ic  -Se  beblode  tJaet  tSu  d5  sw«  ic  geliefe  ^aet  M 
wille,  •Saet  5u  5e  'Sissa  woruld^inga  to  tSaem  ge- 
semetige,  swae  ^u  oftost  maege,  "Saet  5u  "Sone  wis- 
dom -Se  "86  God  sealde  "Saer  '5air  -Su  hiene  befaestan 
raoBge,  befaeste.  Ge'S^nc  hwelc  witu  iis  "Sa  be- 
c5mon  for  ^isse  worulde,  Sa  ^a  we  hit  uohwae'Ser 
n6  selfe  ne  lufodon,  n6  6ac  o^nim  mgnnum  ne 
lefdon  :  "Sone  naman  anne  we  lufodon  Saette  we 
Cristne  wseron,  gnd  swi'8e  f6awe  "Sa  'Seawas. 


THE   ANGLO-SAXON  CHRONICLE,   1087 

(Translated  on  p.  44) 

Gif  hwa  gewilnige^  t5  gewitane  hu  ge  don 
mann  h6  waes,  otSSe  hwilene  wurSscipe  he  hsefde, 
oS'Se  hu  fela  lande  he  waere  hlaford,  "Sonne  wille 
w6  be  him  awritan  swa  swa  we  hine  ageaton  "Se 
liim  l5codan  and  o^re  hwile  on  his  hirede  wune- 
don.  Se  cyng  Willelm  J>e  we  embe  speca^  waes 
swI'Se  WIS  man  and  swiSe  rice,  and  wurSfulre 
and  strengere  "Sonne  ainig  his  foregenga  waere. 
He  waes  milde  >am  godum  mannum  )>e  God 
lufedon,  and  ofer  eall  gemett  stearc  j^am  man- 
num be  wi'Scwaedon  his  willan.  Oft  "Sam  ilcan 
steode  \>e  God  him  geu^e  |>aet  he  moste  Engle- 
land  gegan,  he  arerde  msere  mynster  and  mune- 
cas  l>«r  gesaette  and  wash  gegodade.  On  his 
dagan  waes  }>aet  mare  mynster  on  Cantwarbyrig 
getymbrad  and  eac  swISe  manig  o^er  ofer  eall 
Englaland.  Eac  >is  land  wass  swiSe  afylled  mid 
munecan  and  >a  leofodan  heora  lif  aefter  scs 
Benedictus  regule,  and  se  Xpendom  waes  swilc 
on  his  daege  baet  aelc  man  hwaet  his  hade  to 
belumpe  folgade  se  >e  wolde.  .  .  , 


POEMA  MORALE 

(Modernized  on  p.  27) 

Ich  aem  elder  \>en  ich  wes  a  wintre  and  a  Igre ; 
Ic  waelde  mgre  ^anne  ic  dude,  mi  wit  ah  to  ben 

mgre. 
W6l  lange  ic  habbe  child  ib6on  a  weorde  and  ^ch 

a  d^de ; 
D^h  ic  beo  a  wintre  6ald,  t5  jyng  I  eom  a  r^de. 
Unnut  lyf  ic  habb   Used,  and  jyet  me  Mncb  ic 

l^de ;  5 

Danne  ic  m6  bij>enche,  wei  sgre  ic  me  adr^de. 
M^st  al  )>aet   ic  habbe  ydOn  ys  idelnesse  and 

chilche  : 


W6l  late  ic  habbe  me  bi]?oht,  bute  me  God  d 

milce. 
Fele  ydele  word  ic  habbe  iqueden,  sy  S'Sen  ic  spek 

cute, 
And  fale  >unge  d|de  id5  >et  me  ofHnchet  nu]>e. 


ORMULUM 

(Modernized  on  p.  28) 

Nu  br5J>err  Wallterr,  br61>err  min 

affterr  be  flaeshess  kinde, 
annd  broberr  min  i  Crisstenndom 

burrh  fulluhht  and  burrh  trowwbe, 
annd  broberr  min  i  Godess  hiis 

jet  o  be  bridde  wise, 
burrh  batt  witt  hafenn  takenn  ba 

an  rejheilboc  to  folljhenn, 
unnderr  kanunnkess  had  annd  llf 

swa  summ  Sannt  Awwstin  sette  ;         i 
ice  hafe  don  swa  summ  bu  badd 

annd  for>edd  te  bin  wille, 
ice  hafe  wennd  inn  till  Ennglissh 

goddspelless  halljhe  lare, 
affterr  batt  little  witt  batt  me  i 

min  Drihhtin  hafebb  lened. 
Du  bohhtesst  tatt  itt  mihhte  wel 

till  mikell  frame  turrnenn, 
>iff  Ennglissh  folic,  forr  lufe  off  Crist, 

itt  wollde  >erne  lernenn  2« 

annd  foUjhenn  itt  and  fillenn  itt 

wibb  bohht,  wibb  word,  wibb  dede  ; 
annd  forrbi  jerrndesst  tii  batt  ice 

biss  werrc  be  shoUde  wirrkenn, 
annd  ice  itt  hafe  forbedd  te,  2{ 

ace  all  )>urrh  Cristess  hellpe. 


DEBATE  OF  THE  BODY  AND  THE  SOUII 
(Modernized  on  p.  30) 

Als  I  lay  in  a  winteris  nyjt  .; 

In  a  droupening  bif^r  be  day,  ■ 

Forsobe  I  sau?  a  selly  sy>t,  T 

A  body  on  a  here  lay, 
Dat  havede  ben  a  mody  knyjt  t 

And  litel  served  God  to  pay ; 
Lqren  he  haved  be  lives  lyjt, 

De  gQSt  was  oute  and  scholde  away. 

Wan  be  gQSt  it  scholde  gg, 

It  biwente  and  withstod,  ic 

Biheld  the  body  bere  it  cam  frg 

Sq  serf uUi  with  dredli  mod ; 
It  seide,  '  Weile  and  walawQ  ! 

Wq  worbe  bl  fleys,  bi  f oule  blo(f . 
Wreche  bodi  wjy  list  ou  sq,  li 

Dat  jwilene  were  sq  wilde  and  wod  ? 

Don  bat  were  woned  to  ride 

Heyje  on  horse  in  and  out, 
Sq  kweynte  kni^t  iku«  sq  wide. 

As  a  lyon  fers  and  proud,  20 


APPENDIX 


783 


^were  is  al  H  michele  pride, 
And  \>i  lede  >at  was  sq  loud  ? 

gwi  list  ou  >ere  sq  bare  o  side 
Iprlcked  in  )jat  pore  schroud  ? 

§were  ben  }>i  wur^li  wedes, 

Di  somers  with  H  riche  beddes, 
Di  proude  palfreys  and  \)l  stedes  ? 

Dat  ^on  about  in  dester  leddes  ? 
Di  faucouns  l>at  were  wont  to  grede, 

And  )>ine  houndes  bat  bou  fedde  ? 
Me  binkeb  God  is  be  to  gnede, 

Dat  alle  bine  frend  beon  frQ  be  fledde. 

§were  beon  H  castles  and  bi  toures, 

Di  chambres  and  bi  riche  halles 
Ipeynted  with  sq  riche  floures, 

And  bi  riche  rQbes  alle  ? 
Dine  cowltes  and  bi  covertoures, 

Di  cendels  and  bi  riche  palles  ? 
Wreclie,  ful  derk  is  nou  bi  hour  ; 

Tomoruwe  bou  schalt  berinne  falle.' 


25 


35 


40 


THE   ANCREN   RIWLE 

Of  Speech 

(Modernized  on  p.  51) 

Spellunge  and  smecchunge  beo^  ine  mii'Se  b^^e 
ase  sih'Se  is  i  "Sen  eien ;  auh  we  schullen  l^ten 
smecchunge  vort  tet  we  spoken  of  ower  m|te, 
and  spoken  nu  of  spellunge  and  t^refter  of  her- 
runge,  of  bQ  inline  sume  cherre  ase  gQ5  togederes. 

On  aire  ^rest  hwon  }e  schulen  to  oure  parltires 
burle,  iwiteS  et  ower  meiden  hwQ  hit  beo  bet  is 
icumen,  vor  swuch  hit  mei  beon  bet  >e  schulen 
asunien  ou ;  and  hwon  }e  alles  moten  vorS, 
3reoise'S  ful  jeorne  our  mufS,  ^aren,  and  eien, 
and  te  breoste  ^ke,  and  gQ'S  for'S  mid  Godes  dr^de 
to  preoste.  On  ^rest  siggeS  '•  conflteor,'  and 
b^refter  '  benedicite ' ;  bet  he  ouh  t5  siggen, 
•lercne'S  his  vvordes  and  sitte'5  al  stille  bet,  hwon 
lie  partes  vrom  ou,  bet  he  ne  cunne  ower  god 
ae  ower  uvel  nou^er,  ne  he  ne  cunne  ou  nou'Ser 
blamen  ne  preisen.  Sum  is  sq  wel  il^red  QlSer 
j^  WIS  iworded  bet  heo  wolde  bet  he  wuste  hit  be 
;it  and  sp^ke^  touward  him  and  jelt  him  word 
i?8in  word,  and  bicume'5  meister  be  schulde  beon 
more,  l^are'S  him  bet  is  icumen  to  l^ren  hire ; 
wolde  bi  hire  tale  sone  beon  mit  te  wise  icud 
ind  icnowen.  Icnowen  heo  is  wel,  vor  burh  bet 
Ike  bet  heo  wene'5  to  beon  wis  ih^lden  he  un- 
lerstont  bet  heo  is  sot,  vor  heo  hunte'S  efter  pris 
lud  kecche'S  lastunge.  Vor  et  te  laste  hwon  he 
s  iwend  awei,  '  Deos  ancre,'  he  wule  siggen,  'is 
)f  muchele  sp^che.' 


ALYSOUN 

(Modernized  on  p.  42) 

Bytuene  Mersh  ant  Averil, 

When  spray  biginneth  to  springe, 
The  Intel  foul  hath  hire  wyl 

On  hyre  lud  to  synge. 


Ich  libbe  in  love-longinge 

For  semlokest  of  alle  things  ; 

He  may  me  blisse  bringe ; 
Icham  in  hire  baundoun. 

An  hendy  hap  ichabbe  yhent ; 

Ichot  from  hevene  it  is  me  sent ; 

From  alle  wymmen  mi  love  is  lent 
Ant  lyht  on  Alysoun. 


On  hen  hire  her  is  fayr  ynoh, 

Hire  browe  broune,  hire  eye  blake ; 

With  lossum  chere  he  on  me  loh, 
With  middel  smal  ant  wel  ymake. 
Bote  he  me  wolle  to  hire  take. 
Forte  buen  hire  owen  make, 
Longe  to  lyven  ichulle  forsake. 

Ant  feye  fallen  adoun. 


Nihtes  when  I  wende  ant  wake, 
Forthi  myn  wonges  waxeth  won. 

Levedi,  al  for  thine  sake 
Longinge  is  ylent  me  on. 
In  world  nis  iion  so  wytermon. 
That  al  hire  bounte  telle  con. 
Hire  swyre  is  whittore  then  the  swon 

Ant  feyrest  may  in  toune. 

i 

Icham  for  wowing  al  f orwake, 

Wery  so  water  in  wore. 
Lest  eny  reve  me  my  make, 

Ichabbe  y-yerned  yore. 

Betere  is  tholien  whyle  sore, 

Then  mournen  evermore. 

Geynest  under  gore, 
Herkne  to  my  roun. 

An  hendy  hap  ichabbe  yhent ; 

Ichot  from  hevene  it  is  me  sent ; 

From  alle  wymmen  mi  love  is  lent 
Ant  lyht  on  Alysoun. 


BARBOUR'S   BBUGE 

(Modernized  on  p.  55) 

A  !  fredome  is  a  noble  thing  ! 
Fredome  mayss  man  to  haiff  liking  ; 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffis  : 
He  levys  at  ess  that  frely  levys  ! 
A  noble  hart  may  haiff  nane  ess, 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  pless, 
Gyff  fredome  fail>he  ;  for  fre  liking 
Is  jharnyt  our  all  othir  thing. 
Na  he,  that  ay  hass  levyt  fre, 
May  nocht  knaw  weill  the  propyrte. 
The  angyr,  na  the  wrechyt  dome. 
That  is  cowplyt  to  foule  thyrldome. 
Bot  gyff  he  had  assayit  it. 
Than  all  perquer  he  suld  it  wyt ; 
And  suld  think  fredome  mar  to  pryss 
Than  all  the  gold  in  warld  that  is. 
Thus  contrar  thingis  euir-mar 
Discoweryngis  off  the  tothir  ar. 


20 


25 


40 


225 


230 


235 


784 


APPENDIX 


THE   PEARL 

(Modernized  on  p.  56) 

I 

Perle  plesaunte  to  Prynces  paye, 

To  clanly  clos  in  golde  so  clere  1 

Oute  of  Oryent,  I  hardyly  saye, 

Ne  proued  I  neuer  her  precios  pere, 

So  rounde,  so  reken  in  vche  araye,  6 

So  smal,  so  8moJ>e  her  syde>  were. 

Queresoeuer  I  jugged  gemmej  gaye, 

I  sette  hyr  sengeley  in  syngulere. 

Alias  !  I  leste  hyr  in  on  erbere  ; 

Dur)  gresse  to  grounde  hit  fro  me  yot.  10 

I  dewyne,  fordolked,  of  luf-daungere, 

Of  )>at  pryuy  perle  wythouten  spot. 


in 

Dat  spot  of  spyse?  mot  nede?  sprede,  25 

Der  such  rychej  to  rot  is  runne  ; 

131ome>  blayke  &  blwe  &  rede 

Der  schynej  f ul  schyr  agayn  j?e  sunne ; 

Flor  &  fryte  may  not  be  fede 

Der  hit  doun  drof  in  molde>  dunne ;  30 

For  vch  gresse  mot  grow  of  graynej  dede, 

No  whete  were  ellej  to  wone>  wonne  ; 

Of  goud  vche  goude  is  ay  bygonne ; 

So  semly  a  sede  mojt  fayly  not, 

Dat  spryngande  spycej  vp  ne  sponne  35 

Of  )>at  precios  perle  wythouten  spotte. 


vn 

Dubbed  wern  alle  l>o  downed  syde? 
Wyth  crystal  klyffe>  so  cler  of  kynde. 
Holte-wodej  bryjt  aboute  hem  bydej  75 

( )f  bollej  as  blwe  as  ble  of  ynde ; 
As  bornyst  syluer  ^e  lef  onslyde^, 
Dat  J>ike  con  trylle  on  vch  a  tynde 
Quen  glem  of  glode?  agayn>  hem  glydej  ; 
Wyth    schymeryng    schene    ful     schrylle    hay 
schynde.  80 

De  grauayl  \>ait  on  grounde  con  grynde 
VVem  precious  perlej  of  Oryente ; 
De  sunnebeme5  bot  bio  &  blynde 
In  respecte  of  bat  adubbement. 


vni 

The  adubbemente  of  \>o  downej  dere  85 

Garten  my  goste  al  greffe  forjete  ; 

So  frech  flauorej  of  fryte?  were 

As  fode  hit  con  me  fayre  refete. 

Fowle)  her  flowen  in  fryth  in  fere, 

Of  tlaumbande  hwej,  bo>e  smale  &  grete ;  90 

Bot  sytole-stryng  &  gyternere 

Her  reken  myr^e  mo)t  not  retrete ; 

For,  quen  hose  brydde?  her  wyngej  bete. 

Day  songen  wyth  a  swete  asent ; 

So  gracios  gle  coube  no  mon  gete  95 

As  here  &  se  her  adubbement. 


SIR  GAWAIN  AND  THE  GREEN  KNIGHT 

(Modernized  on  p.  58) 

For-hi  Hs  >ol  ouer-jede,  &  he  jere  after,  500 

&  vche  sesoun  serlepes  sued  after  oher  ; 
After  crysten-masse  com  he  crabbed  lentoun, 
Dat  frayste>  flesch  wyth  he  fysche  &  fode  more 

symple ; 
Bot  henne  he  weder  of  he  worlde  wyth  wynter 

hit  hrepe>, 
Colde  clenge?  adoun,  cloudej  vp-lyften,  505 

Schyre  schedej  he  rayn  in  schowrej  ful  warme, 
Falle?  vpon  fayre  flat,  flowre>  here  schewen, 
Bohe  grounded  &  he  greuej  grene  ar  her  wedej, 
Bryddej  busken  to  bylde,  &  bremlych  syngen, 
For  solace  of  he  softe  somer  hat  sues  her-af ter,  510 
bi  bonk ; 

&  blossumej  bolne  to  blowe, 

Bi  rawe?  rych  &  ronk, 

pen  note?  noble  in-no?e, 

Ar  herde  in  wod  so  wlonk.  615 

After  he  sesoun  of  somer  wyth  he  soft  wynde?, 
Quen  jerferus  syfle?  hym-self  on  sede?  &  erbe>, 
Wela-wynne  is  he  wort  hat  woxes  her-oute. 
When  he  donkande  dewe  drope?  of  he  leue?, 
To  bide  a  blysful  blusch  of  he  bry?t  sunne.       520 
Bot  hen  hy?es  heruest,  &  hardenes  hym  sone, 
Warne?  hym  for  he  wynter  to  wax  ful  rype  ; 
He  dryues  wyth  dro>t  he  dust  for  to  ryse, 
Fro  he  face  of  the  folde  to  fly?e  ful  hy?e  ; 
Wrohe  wynde  of  he  welkyn  wrastele?  with  he 
sunne,  525 

De  leue?  lancen  fro  he  lynde,  &  ly>ten  on  he 

grounde, 
&  al  grayes  he  gres,  hat  grene  wat?  ere ; 
Denue  al  rype?  &  rote?  hat  ros  vpon  fyrst, 
&  hus  ?irne?  he  ?ere  in  ?isterdaye?  mony, 
&  wynter  wynde?  a?ayn,  as  he  worlde  aske?    530 
no  sage. 

Til  me?el-mas  mone, 

Wat?  cumen  wyth  wynter  wage  ; 

Den  henkke?  Gawan  ful  sone. 

Of  his  anious  uyage.  535 


William  llanglanD 


PIERS   THE   PLOUGHMAN 

(Modernized  on  p.  60) 

In  A  somer  sesun      whon  softe  was  he  sonne, 
I  schop  me  in-to  a  schroud      A  scheep  as  I  were ; 
In  Habite  of  an  Hermite      vn-holy  of  werkes, 
Wende  I  wydene  in  his  world       wondres  to  here. 
Bote  in  a  Mayes  Morwnynge       on   Maluerne 

hulles  5 

Me  bi-fel  a  ferly      A  Feyrie  me  houhte  ; 
I  was  weori  of   wandringe      and  wente  me  to 

reste 
Vndur  a  brod  banke      bi  a  Bourne  syde, 
And  as  I  lay  and  leonede      and  lokede  on  he 

watres, 
I  sluinberde  in  A  slepyng    hit  sownede  so  muiie. 
Denne  gon  I  Meeten      A  Meruelous  sweuene,  n 


APPENDIX 


785 


Dat  I  was  in  A  Wildernesse      wuste  I  neuer 

where, 
And  as  I  beo-heold  in-to  J?e  Est      an-hei>  to  be 

Sonne, 
I  sauh  a  Tour  on  A  Toft      tritely  I-maket ; 
A  Deop  Dale  bi-neobe      A  dungun  ber-Inne,    15 
VV  ith  deop  dich  and  derk      and  dredf ul  of  siht. 
A  Feir  feld  ful  of  folk      fond  I  er  bi-twene, 
()[  alle  maner  of  men      be  mene  and  be  riche, 
Worchinge  and  wondringe      as  be  world  askeb- 
S amine  putten  hem  to  be  ploii>      and  pleiden 

hem  fnl  seldene,  20 

In  Eringe  and  in  Sowynge      swonken  ful  harde, 
Dat  monie  of  beos  wasturs      In  Glotonye  dis- 

truen. 
And  Summe  putten  hem  to  pruide     apparaylden 

hem  berafter, 
In  Cuntinaunce  of  clobinge       queinteliche  de- 

Gyset ; 
To    preyere    and  to  penaunce      putten  heom 

monye,  25 

For  loue  of  vr  lord      liueden  ful  harde, 
In  Hope  for  to  haue      Heuene-riche  blisse  ; 
As  Ancres  and  Hermytes      bat  holdeb  hem  in 

heore  Celles, 
Coueyte  not  in  Cuntre      to  carien  a-boute       29 
For  non  likerous  lyflode      heore  licam  to  plese. 
And  summe  chosen  ChafEare      to  cheeuen  be 

bettre, 
As  hit  semeb  to  vre  siht    bat  suche  men  scholden ; 
And  summe  Murbhes  to  maken      as  Munstrals 

cunne, 
And  gete  gold  wib  here  gle      giltles,  I  trowe. 
Bote  lapers  and  langelers      ludas  Children,    35 
Founden    hem    Fantasyes       and    fooles    hem 

maaden. 
And  habbeb  wit  at  heor  wille      to  worchen  yi 

hem  luste. 
Dat  Foul  precheb  of  hem      I  dar  not  preouen 

heere  ; 
Qui  loquitur  turpiloquium      Hee  is  Luciferes 

byne. 

(Modernized  on  p.  78) 

A  schort  reule  of  life  for  ich  man  in  general, 
and  for  prestis  and  lordis  and  laboreris  in  special, 
how  ich  man  schal  be  savyd  in  his  degre,  if  he 
wile  hym  silf. 

First,  whanne  bou  risist  or  fulli  wakist,  benk 
on  be  goodnesse  of  God ;  ffor  his  owne  goodnesse 
and  non  ober  nede  he  made  al  bing  of  noujt,  bobe 
angels  and  men,  and  alle  ober  creatures  good  in 
hiT  kynde.  pe  seconde  tyme  benk  on  be  gret 
passion  and  wilful  deb  bat  Crist  suffrid  for  man- 
Icynde.  Whan  no  man  mijt  make  satisfaccion 
for  be  gilt  of  Adam  and  Eve,  and  ober  moo,  ne 
non  angel  owe  no  my>t  make  aseb  berfor,  ban 
Crist  of  his  endeles  charite  sufferid  so  gret  pas- 
sioun  and  peynful  deb,  bat  no  creature  myjt 
suffre  soo  myche.  And  benk  be  brid  tyme,  how 
God  hab  savyd  be  fro  deeb  and  ober  miscevis,  and 
suffrid  many  bousyndis  to  be  lost  bat  ni>t  sum 
in  watir,  sume  in  tier,  sunie  bi  sodeyn  deeb,  and 


sume  to  be  dampnyd  wijiouten  ende.  And  for 
beise  goodnessis  and  mercies  banke  bi  God  wib 
al  bin  hert,  and  preye  hym  to  ?ive  be  grace  to 
spende,  in  bat  day  and  evermore,  all  be  mi>tis 
of  bi  soule,  as  mynde,  reson,  witt  and  wille,  and 
alle  be  mijtis  of  \>\  bodi,  as  strengbe,  bewte,  and 
bi  five  wittis,  in  his  servise  and  his  worschipe; 
and  in  no  bing  forfete  a^enis  his  comaundemen- 
tis,  but  redi  to  performe  werkis  of  merci,  and 
to  5ive  good  ensample  of  holi  lif,  bobe  in  word 
and  in  dede,  to  alle  men  aboute  be. 

W[ilUam  3ar>unbar 

DANCE    OF    THE   SEVEN  DEADLY    SINS 

(Modernized  on  p.  84) 

Off  Februar  the  fyiftene  nycht. 

Full  lang  befoir  the  dayis  lycht, 

I  lay  in  till  a  trance  ; 

And  then  I  saw  baith  hevin  and  hell : 

Me  thocht,  araangis  the  feyndis  fell,  6 

Mahoun  gart  cry  ane  dance 

Off  schrewis  that  wer  nevir  schrevin, 

Aganiss  the  feist  of  Fastemis  evin. 

To  mak  thair  observance ; 

He  bad  gallandis  ga  graith  a  gyiss,  10 

And  kast  vp  gamountis  in  the  skyiss. 

That  last  came  out  of  France.  ...  12 

"Latse,"quodhe,  "  Now  quha  begynnis  ; "  19 

With  that  the  fowll  Sevin  Deidly  Synnis 

Begowth  to  leip  at  anis. 

And  first  of  all  in  dance  wes  Pryd, 

With  bair  wyld  bak  and  bonet  on  syd, 

Lyk  to  mak  vaistie  wanis  ; 

And  round  abowt  him,  as  a  quheill,  25 

Hang  all  in  rumpillis  to  the  heill 

His  kethat  for  the  nanis  : 

Mony  prowd  trumpour  with  him  trippit 

Throw  skaldand  fyre,  ay  as  thay  skippit 

Thay  gyrnd  with  hiddouss  granis.  30 

Than  Yre  come  in  with  sturt  and  stryfe ; 

His  hand  wes  ay  vpoun  his  knyfe. 

He  brandeist  lyk  a  beir  : 

Bostaris,  braggaris,  and  barganeris, 

Eftir  him  passit  in  to  pairis,  35 

All  bodin  in  feir  of  weir  ; 

In  iakkis,  and  stryppis  and  bonnettis  of  steill, 

Thair  leggis  wer  chen  eit  to  the  heill, 

Ffrawart  wes  thair  affeir  : 

Sum  vpoun  vdir  with  brandis  beft,  40 

Sum  jaggit  vthiris  to  the  heft. 

With  knyvis  that  scherp  cowd  scheir. 

William  Carton 

PREFACE   TO  MALORY'S   LE  MOBTE 
DABTHUB 

(Modernized  on  p.  110) 

After  that  I  had  accomplysshed  and  fynysshed 
dyuers  hystoryes  as  wel  of  contemplacyon  as  of 
other  hystoryal  and  worldly  actes  of  grete  con- 


786 


APPENDIX 


querours  &  prynces,  and  also  certeyn  bookes  of 
ensauinples  and  doctryue,  many  noble  and  dy- 
uers  fi;entyimen  of  thys  royame  of  Englond  camen 
and  demamided  me  many  and  oftymes,  wherfore 
that  I  haue  not  do  made  &  enprynte  the  noble 
hystorye  of  the  saynt  greal  and  of  the  moost 
renomed  crysten  kyng  Arthur,  whyche  ought 
raoost  to  be  remembred  emonge  vs  englysshe 
men  tofore  al  other  crysten  kynges;  for  it  is 
notoyrly  knowen  thorugh  the  vnyuersal  world 
that  there  been  ix  worthy  &  the  best  that  euer 
were.  That  is  to  wete  thre  paynyms,  thre  lewes 
and  thre  crysten  men.  As  for  the  paynyms  they 
were  tofore  the  Incamacyon  of  Cryst,  whiche 
were  named,  the  fyrst  Hector  of  Troye,  of 
whome  thystorye  is  comen  bothe  in  balade  and 
in  prose.  The  second  Alysaunder  the  grete,  & 
the  thyrd  lulyus  Cezar  Emperour  of  Rome  of 
whome  thystoryes  ben  wel  kno  and  had.  And 
as  for  the  thre  lewes  whyche  also  were  tofore 
thyncamacyon  of  our  lord  of  whome  the  fyrst 
was  Due  losue  whyche  brought  the  chyldren  of 
Israhel  in  to  the  londe  of  byheste ;  the  second 
Dauyd  king  of  Iherusalem,  &  the  thyrd  ludas 
Machabeus,  of  these  thre  the  byble  reherceth  al 
theyr  noble  hystoryes  &  actes.  And  sythe  the 
sayd  Incarnacyon  haue  ben  thre  noble  crysten 
men  stalled  and  admytted  thorugh  the  vnyuer- 
sal world  in  to  the  nombre  of  the  ix  beste  & 
worthy,  of  whome  was  fyrst  the  noble  Arthur, 
whos  noble  actes  I  purpose  to  wryte  in  thys 
present  book  here  folowyng.  The  second  was 
Charlemayn  or  Charles  the  grete,  of  whome  thys- 


torye is  had  in  many  places  bothe  in  frensshe 
and  englysshe ;  and  the  thyrd  and  last  was 
Godefray  of  boloyn,  of  whos  actes  &  lyf  I 
made  a  book  vnto  thexcellent  prynce  and  kyng 
of  noble  memorye  kyng  Edward  the  fourth. 
The  sayd  noble  lentylmen  Instantly  requyred 
me  temprynte  thystorye  of  the  sayd  noble  kyng 
and  conquerour  kyng  Arthur,  and  of  his  knyghtes 
wyth  thystorye  of  the  saynt  greal,  and  of  the 
deth  and  endyng  of  the  sayd  Arthur,  affermyng 
that  I  ou>t  rather  tenprynte  his  actes  and  noble 
feates,  than  of  godefroye  of  boloyne,  or  ony  the 
other  eyght,  consyderyng  that  he  was  a  man 
borne  wythin  this  royame  and  kyng  and  Em- 
perour of  the  same ;  and  that  there  ben  in 
frensshe  dyuers  and  many  noble  volumes  of  his 
actes  and  also  of  his  knyghtes. 


THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  CHEVIOT 

(Modernized  on  p.  90) 

The  Perse  owt  off  Northumbarlonde, 

and  avowe  to  God  mayd  he 
That  he  wold  hunte  in  the  mowntayns 

off  Chyviat  within  days  thre. 
In  the  magger  of  douglite  Dogles,  5 

and  all  that  ever  with  him  be. 

The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Cheviat 

he  sayd  he  wold  kyll,  and  cary  them  away  : 
'  Be  my  feth,'  sayd  the  dougheti  Doglas  agayn, 

*  I  will  let  that  hontyng  yf  that  I  may.'  10 


(It  must  be  remembered  that  the  English  language  and  orthography  did  not  remain  stationary 
after  1600  ;  but  that  they  have  been,  and,  indeed,  are  still,  subject  to  a  continual,  if  unobtrusive, 
change.  English  spelling  has  changed  since  the  sixteenth  century  and  it  is  still  changing  ;  old  words, 
old  manners  of  expression,  are  constantly  falling  into  disuse  and  being  replaced  by  new.  We  some- 
times forget  that  we  commonly  read  our  Shakespeare  and  Milton  in  a  modernized  spelling.  But  the 
changes  in  the  language  since  1600  have  been,  comparatively  speaking,  so  trifling  that  it  has  not  been 
thought  necessary  to  inplude  any  examples  of  the  original  texts  later  than  that  date.) 


n.   ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   THE   EARLY   DRAMA 


NOAH'S  FLOOD 

(A  Miracle  Play,  from  the  Chester  Plays,  Early 
XIV  Century) 

God.     I,  God,  that  all  this  world  hath  wrought. 
Heaven  and  earth,  and  all  from  naught, 
I  see  my  people  in  deed  and  thought 

Are  set  foul  in  sin  ; 
My  ghost  shall  not  linger  in  mon,i  5 

That  through  flesh-liking  is  my  son. 
But  till  six  score  years  be  come  and  gone, 

To  look  if  they  will  blynne.2 
Man  that  I  made  I  will  destroy. 
Beast,  wonn,  and  fowl  that  fly  ;  10 

For  on  earth  they  me  deny. 

The  folk  that  are  thereon  ; 
It  harms  me  so  most  hurtfully 
The  malice  that  doth  now  multiply, 


That  sore  it  grieves  me  heartily 

That  ever  I  made  mon. 
Therefore,  Noah,  my  servant  free, 
That  righteous  man  art,  as  I  see, 
A  ship  soon  shalt  thou  make  to  thee 

Of  trees  both  dry  and  light ; 
Little  chambers  therein  thou  make, 
And  binding  plaster  thou  must  take, 
Within  and  without  thou  must  not  slake  ^ 

To  anoint  it  with  all  thy  might. 
Three  hundred  cubits  it  shall  be  long, 
And  fifty  broad  to  make  it  strong ; 
Of  height  fifty  the  meete  thou  fonge,* 

Thus  measure  thou  it  about. 
One  window  work  in  through  thy  wit, 
A  cubit  of  length  and  breadth  make  it. 


15 


20 


25 


30 


1  Man. 
measure. 


2  Cease. 


«  Slack. 


*  Take  thou 


APPENDIX 


787 


Upon  the  side  a  door  thall  sit 

For  to  come  in  and  out. 
Eating  places  make  thou  also, 
Three  roofed  places  in  a  row  : 
For  with  water  I  mean  to  slow  i  35 

Man  that  I  can  make  : 
Destroyed  all  the  world  shall  be, 
Save  thou,  thy  wife,  and  children  three, 
And  their  wives  also  with  thee, 

Shall  saved  be  for  thy  sake.  40 

Noah.     O  Lord,  I  thank  thee  loud  and  still. 
That  to  me  art  in  such  good  will, 
And  spar'st  me  and  my  household  to  spill,^ 

As  I  now  truly  find. 
Thy  bidding  Lord  I  shall  fulfil,  45 

And  never  more  thee  grieve  nor  grill,^ 
That  such  grace  hath  sent  me  till  * 

Among  all  mankind. 
Have  done,  you  men  and  women  all, 
Hie  you,  lest  this  water  fall,  60 

To  build  this  ship,  chamber  and  hall 

As  God  hath  bidden  us  do. 

Shem.     Father,  I  am  already  bowne,^ 
An  axe  I  have,  by  my  crown ! 
As  sharp  as  any  in  all  this  town,  55 

For  to  go  thereto. 


Ham.     I  have  a  hatchet,  wonder 
To  bite  well,  as  may  be  seen, 
A  better  ground,  as  I  ween, 
Is  not  in  all  this  town. 


Japhet.     And  I  can  make  well  a  pin. 
And  with  this  hammer  knock  it  in  : 
Go  we  to  work  without  more  din, 
And  I  am  ready  bowne. 

Noah's  Wife.     And  we  shall  bring  timber  too. 
For  we  have  nothing  else  to  do,  66 

Women  be  weak  to  undergo 
Any  great  travail. 

Shem's  Wipe.     Here  is  a  good  hacking  stock. 
On  this  one  you  may  hew  and  knock,  70 

None  shall  be  idle  in  this  flock  ; 
Nay,  now  may  no  man  fail. 

Ham's  Wife.     And  I  will  go  and  gather  slyche,^ 
The  ship  for  to  caulk  and  pitch. 
Anointed  must  be  every  stiche,''  75 

Board,  and  tree,  and  pin. 

Japhet's  Wife.     And  I  will  gather  chippes^ 
here 
To  make  a  fire  for  you  in  feare,® 
For  to  make  ready  your  dinner, 

Against  your  coming  in.  80 

Then  Noah  beginneth  to  build  the  Ark,  and 
speaketh  Noah. 

1  Slay.       2  /.e.  from  being  killed.        »  Grumble. 
4  To  me.  5  Prepared.  «  Plaster.  ^  Stick. 

8  Chips.       9  I.e.  and  your  companions. 


Noah.     Now,  in  the  name  of  God  I  will  begin 
To  make  the  ship  that  we  shall  in. 
That  we  may  be  ready  for  to  swim 

At  the  coming  of  the  flood. 
These  boards  here  I  pin  i  together,  85 

To  bear  us  safely  from  the  weather, 
That  we  may  row  both  hither  and  thither 

And  safe  be  from  the  flood. 
Of  this  tree  will  I  make  the  mast, 
Tied  with  cables  that  will  last,  90 

With  a  sail  yard  for  each  blast. 

And  each  thing  in  their  kind  : 
With  top-castill  =2  and  bowsprit. 
With  cords  and  ropes  I  hold  all  meete. 
To  sail  forth  at  the  next  weet,^  95 

This  ship  is  at  an  end. 
Wife,  in  this  vessel  we  shall  be  kept : 
My  children  and  thou,  I  would  in  ye  leapt. 

Noah's  Wife.     In  faith,  Noah,   I  had   as  lief 
thou  slept ! 
For  all  thy  good  advice,  100 

I  will  not  do  after  thy  rede.* 

Noah.     Good  wife,  do  now  as  I  thee  bid. 

Noah's  Wife.     By  Christ !  not  ere  I  see  more 
need, 
Though  thou  stand  all  the  day  and  stare. 


Noah.    Lord,  that  women  pe  crabbed  aye, 
And  none  are  meek  I  dare  well  say. 
This  is  well  seen  by  me  to-day, 

Bear  witness  of  it  each  one. 
Good  wife,  let  be  all  this  beare,^ 
That  thou  makest  in  this  place  here  ; 
For  all  well  know  that  thou  art  master. 

And  so  thou  art,  by  Saint  John  ! 


105 


110 


TTien  Noah  with  all  his  family  shall  make  a 
sign  as  though  they  lorought  upon  the  ship  with 
divers  instruments  and  after  that  God  shall  speak 
to  Noah,  saying : 

God.     Noah,  take  thou  thy  company, 
And  in  the  ship  hie  that  you  be, 
For  none  so  righteous  man  to  me  115 

Is  now  on  earth  living  ; 
Of  clean  beasts  with  thee  thou  take, 
Seven  and  seven,  before  thou  slake,® 
He  and  she,  make  to  make,^ 

Hasten  that  thou  bring  in.  120 

Of  beasts  unclean,  two  and  two, 
Male  and  female,  but  no  more  ; 
Of  clean  fowls  seven  also. 

The  he  and  she  together ; 
Of  fowls  unclean,  twain,  and  no  more,  125 

As  I  of  the  beasts  said  before  ; 
That  man  be  savM  through  my  lore,^ 

Against  I  send  this  weather. 
Of  all  meats  that  may  be  eaten, 
Into  the  ship,  look  there  be  gotten ;  130 

For  that  may  be  no  way  forgotten, 

iNail.          2  Topmast.  8  Wet.  *  Counsel. 

5  Noise.       6  Slack.        '  Mate  to  mate.        8  Knowl- 
edge. 


788 


APPENDIX 


And  do  all  this  bydene,i 
To  sustain  man  and  beast  therein, 
Till  the  water  cease  and  blynne.^ 
This  world  ye  filled  full  of  sin,  135 

And  that  is  now  well  seen. 
Seven  days  be  yet  coming, 
You  shall  have  space  them  in  to  bring  ; 
After  that  it  is  my  liking 

Mankind  for  to  annoy.  140 

Forty  days  and  forty  nights, 
Rain  shall  fall  for  their  unrights, 
And  that  I  have  made  through  my  mights, 

Now  think  I  to  destroy. 

Noah.     Lord  to  thy  bidding  I  am  beane,*       145 
Seeing  no  other  grace  will  gain. 
It  will  I  fulfil  fayne,* 

For  gracious  I  thee  find  ; 
A  hundred  winter  and  twenty 
This  ship  making  tarried  have  I.  160 

If  through  amendment  thy  mercy 

Would  fall  to  mankind, 
Have  done,  you  men  and  women  all. 
Hie  you  lest  this  water  fall, 
Let  each  beast  be  installed  155 

And  into  the  ship  be  brought ; 
Of  clean  beasts  seven  shall  be. 
Of  unclean  two,  this  God  bade  me  ; 
The  flood  is  nigh,  you  may  well  see. 
Therefore  tarry  you  nought.  160 

Then  Noah  shall  go  into  the  Ark  with  all  his 
family,  except  his  wife;  and  the  Ark  must  be 
boarded  round  about,  on  the  boards  all  the  birds 
and  beasts  are  painted. 

Shem.     Sir,  here  are  lions,  leopards,  in, 
Horses,  raares,  oxen,  and  swine  ; 
Goat  and  calf,  sheep  and  kine ; 
Here  sitting  you  may  see. 

Ham,    Camels,  asses,  man  may  find,  i65 

Buck  and  doe,  hart  and  hinde. 
And  beasts  of  all  sorte  and  kind, 
Here  be,  aa  thinketh  me. 

Japhet.     Here  take  cats,  and  dogs  also, 
Otter,  and  fox,  and  fulmarts  too;  170 

Hares  hopping  gaily  can  go. 
Here  have  cabbage  for  to  eat. 

Noah's  Wife.    And  here  bears  and  wolves  are 
set. 
Apes,  owls,  and  marmosette, 
Weasels,  squirrels,  and  ferret,  176 

Here  they  eat  their  meat. 

Shem's  Wife.     Here  are  beasts  in  this  house. 
Here  cats  do  make  it  crousse,^ 
Here  a  rat.  here  a  mouse. 
That  stand  nigh  together.  180 


Ham's  Wife.     And  here  are  fowls  lesse  and 
more,i 
Herons,  cranes,  and  bittor,^ 
Swans,  peacocks,  and  them  before 
Meat  for  this  weather. 

Japhet' s  Wife.     Here  are  cocks,  kites,  crows. 
Rooks,  ravens,  many  roes,  ige 

Cuckoos,  curlews,  who  ever  knows 

Each  one  in  his  kind. 
Here  are  doves,  ducks,  and  drakes. 
Red-shanks  running  through  the  lakes,        190 
And  each  bird  that  music  makes, 

In  this  ship  you  may  find. 

Noah.    Wife,  come  in  :  why  stand'st  thou  there  ? 
Thou  art  ever  froward,  I  dare  will  swear  ; 
Come  in,  in  God's  name,  half  time  it  were,  195 
For  fear  lest  that  we  drown. 

Noah's  Wife.    Yea,  sir,  set  up  your  sail 
And  row  forth  with  evil  hail  ^ 
For  withouten  any  fail 

I  will  not  out  of  this  town.  200 

But*  I  have  my  gossips  every  one. 
One  foot  further  I  will  not  gone  : 
They  shall  not  drown,  by  Saint  John  ! 

I  may  save  their  life 
They  loven  me  full  well,  by  Christ !  205 

But  thou  let  them  into  thy  cheiste  ^ 
Else  row  now  when  thou  list. 

And  get  thee  a  new  wife. 

Noah.     Shem,  son,  lo  !  thy  mother  is  wrawe  : « 
Forsooth,  such  another  I  do  not  know.         210 

Shem.     Father,  I  shall  fetch  her  in,  I  trowe, 
Withouten  any  fail,  — 
Mother,  my  father  doth  for  thee  send. 
And  bids  thee  into  yonder  ship  wend 
For  we  be  ready  to  sail.  215 

Noah's  Wife.     Shem,  go  again  to  him,  I  say  ; 
I  will  not  go  therein  to-day. 

Noah.     Come  in,  wife,  in  twenty  devil's  way  ! 
Or  else  stand  there  without. 


Ham.     Shall  we  fetch  her  in  ? 


220 


Noah.     Yea,  sons,  in  Christ's  blessing  and  mine  ! 
I  would  you  hied  you  betime. 
For  of  this  flood  I  am  in  doubt. 

The  Good  Gossip's  Song 


The  flood  comes  fleeting  in  full  fast. 

On  every  side,  and  spreads  full  far ; 
For  fear  of  drowning,  I  am  aghast ; 

Good  gossips,  let  us  draw  near. 
And  let  us  drink  e'er  we  depart, 

For  oft  times  we  have  done  so  ; 
For  at  a  draught  thou  drink'st  a  quart. 

And  so  will  I  do  ere  I  go. 


225 


230 


1  Immediately.  2  Decline. 

*  Gladly.  &  Noisy. 


*  Obedient^ 


1  Big  and  little. 
*  Unless.         «  Ark. 


2  Bittern. 
•Angry. 


«  Bad  luck. 


APPENDIX 


789 


Here  is  a  bottle  full  of  Malmsy,!  good  and 

strong. 
It  will  rejoice  both  heart  and  tongue  ; 
Though  Noah  think  us  never  so  long, 
Here  we  will  drink  together.  235 

Japhet.     Mother,  we  pray  you  all  together. 
For  we  are  here,  your  own  childer,^ 
Come  into  the  ship  for  fear  of  the  weather ; 
For  His  love  that  you  bought ! 

Noah's  Wife.     That  will  I  not,  for  all  your  call, 
But  I  have  my  gossips  all.  241 

Shem.     In  faith,  mother,  yet  you  shall 
Whether  you  will  or  not.* 

Noah.     Welcome,  wife,  into  this  boat. 

Noah's  Wife.     Have  thou  that^  for  thy  note.* 

Noah.     Ha-ha  !  marry  !  this  is  hot !  246 

It  is  good  for  to  be  still. 
Ha  !  children,  methinks  my  boat  remeves,^ 
Our  tarrying  here  highly  me  grieves, 
Over  the  land  the  water  spreads  :  250 

God  do  as  he  will. 
Ah  !  great  God  that  art  so  good ; 
Who  worketh  not  thy  will  is  wood  *  — 
Now  all  this  world  is  in  a  flood. 

As  well  I  see  in  sight.  255 

This  window  I  will  shut  anon, 
And  into  my  chamber  I  will  gone. 
Till  this  water,  so  great  a  one. 

Be  slackened  through  thy  might. 

Then  shall  Noah  shut  the  window  of  the  Ark, 
and  for  a  tittle  space  be  silent,  and  afterwards, 
looking  round  about,  shall  say  : 

Noah.    Now  forty  days  are  fully  gone,  260 

Send  a  raven  I  will  anon 
If  anywhere  earth,  tree  or  stone. 

Be  dry  in  any  place. 
And  if  this  fowl  come  not  again 
It  is  a  sign,  sooth  to  sayne,''  266 

That  dry  it  is  on  hill  or  plain, 

And  God  hath  done  some  grace. 

Then  dismissing  the  raven,  and  holding  the 
dove  in  his  hands  he  says : 

Noah.     Ah,  Lord,  wherever  this  raven  be 
Somewhere  is  dry,  well  I  see ; 
But  yet  a  dove,  by  my  loyalty ,»  270 

After  I  will  send. 
Thou  wilt  turn  again  to  me : 
For  of  all  fowls  that  do  fly 

Thou  art  most  meek  and  gentle. 

Then  he  sends  forth  the  dove,  and  there  shall 
be  in  the  ship  another  dove  bearing  an  olive  twig 

1  A  kind  of  wine.  2  Children.  «  It  is  sup- 

posed that  Noah's  Wife  is  brought  in  by  force, 
and  that  she  strikes  Noah.  *  Head.  «  It 

moves.  6  Foolish.         ^  Say.         »  By  my  faith. 


in  its  bill;  and  some  one  shall  pull  this  down 
from  the  mast  by  means  of  a  cord  into  the  hand 
of  Noah  ;  and  afterwards  Noah  shall  say  : 

Noah.     Ah  Lord,  blessed  be  thou  aye,  275 

That  me  hast  comforted  to-day  ; 
By  this  sight,  I  well  may  say, 

This  flood  begins  to  cease. 
My  sweet  dove  to  me  brought  base  i 
A  branch  of  olive  from  some  place,  280 

This  betokeneth  God  has  done  us  some  grace 

And  is  a  sign  of  peace. 
Ah  Lord,  honoured  most  thou  be. 
All  earth  is  drying  now  I  see, 
But  yet,  till  thou  command  me,  285 

Hence  will  I  not  hie. 
All  this  water  is  away. 
Therefore  as  soon  as  I  may 
Sacrifice  I  shall  do  in  f aye  2 

To  thee,  devoutly.  290 

God.     Noah,  take  thy  wife  anon. 
And  thy  children,  every  one, 
Out  of  the  ship  thou  shalt  be  gone 

And  they  all  with  thee. 
Beasts,  and  all  that  can  fly  295 

Out  anon  they  shall  hie 
On  earth  to  grow  and  multiply  ; 

I  will  that  it  be  so. 

Noah.    Lord  I  thank  thee  through  thy  might, 
Thy  bidding  shall  be  done  in  height,  300 

And  as  fast  as  I  may  dighte  * 

I  will  do  thee  honour. 
And  to  thee  offer  sacrifice. 
Therefore  comes  in  all  this  wise  : 
For  of  these  beasts  that  been  hise*  305 

Offer  I  will  this  hour. 

Then  departing  from  the  Ark  with  all  his 
family,  he  shall  receive  the  birds  and  beasts, 
and  make  offering  and  sacrifice. 

Noah.     Lord,  God  in  majesty. 
That  such  grace  hath  granted  me. 
Where  all  was  lost  safe  to  be ; 

Therefore  now  I  am  bound  310 

My  wife,  my  children,  and  company 
With  sacrifice  to  honor  thee 
Of  beasts,  fowls,  as  thou  mayest  see, 

And  full  devotion. 


God.     Noah,  to  me  thou  art  full  able. 
And  thy  sacrifice  acceptable. 
For  I  have  found  thee  true  and  stable 

On  thee  now  must  I  think. 
To  curse  the  earth  I  will  no  more 
For  men's  sins  that  grieve  me  sore. 
For  from  youth  man  full  yore 

Has  been  inclined  to  sin. 
You  shall  now  grow  and  multiply. 
And  earth  again  to  edify. 
Each  beast,  and  fowl  that  may  fly 

Shall  be  afeard  of  you  ; 
And  fish  in  sea  that  may  fleete  ^ 


315 


320 


iRas. 
6  Float. 


2  Faith. 


8  Make  ready.         *  His. 


790 


APPENDIX 


Shall  sustain  you,  I  thee  behetti 
To  eat  of  them  ye  ne  lette^ 

Which  clean  are,  you  may  know ;  330 

Whereas  you  have  eaten  before 
Trees  and  roots,  since  you  were  bore  * 
Of  clean  beasts,  now  less  and  more, 

I  give  you  leave  to  eat. 
Save  blood  and  flesh,  both  in  fear,  835 

Of  rouge  dead  carrion  that  is  here, 
Eat  not  of  that,  in  no  manere. 

For  that  aye  you  shall  leave. 
Man  slaughter  also  you  shall  flee. 
For  that  is  not  pleasant  unto  me  ;  340 

He  that  sheddeth  blood,  he  or  she, 

Anywhere  among  mankind. 
That  blood  foul  shed  shall  be 
And  vengeance  have,  that  men  shall  see  ; 
Therefore  beware  now  all  ye,  345 

You  fall  not  into  that  sin. 
A  covenant,  Noah,  with  thee  I  make, 
And  all  thy  seed,  for  thy  sake, 
.    Of  such  vengeance  for  to  slake, 

For  now  I  have  my  will ;  350 

Here  I  promise  thee  a  heiste,* 
That  man,  woman,  fowl,  nor  beast 
With  water,  while  this  world  shall  last, 

I  will  no  more  spill. ^ 
My  bow  between  you  and  me  355 

In  the  firmament  shall  be, 
By  true  token  that  you  shall  see. 

That  such  vengeance  shall  cease. 
That  man  nor  woman  shall  never  more 
Be  wasted  with  water  as  hath  before  ;  360 

But  for  sin  that  grieveth  me  sore 

Therefore  this  vengeance  was. 
Where  clouds  in  the  welkin  been. 
That  same  bow  shall  be  seen. 
In  token  that  luy  wrath  and  teem  *  365 

Shall  never  thus  wreakM  be. 
The  string  is  turned  towards  you 
And  toward  me  is  bent  the  bow. 
That  such  weather  shall  never  show, 

And  this  I  promise  thee.  310 

My  blessing  Noah,  I  give  thee  here. 
To  thee,  Noah,  my  servant  dear  ; 
For  vengeance  shall  no  more  appear. 

And  now  farewell,  my  darling  dear. 

The  End.  By  the  grace  of  God,  by  me 
George  Bellin  1692.  Come,  Lord  Jesus,  come 
quickly. 


EVERYMAN 
(Morality  Play,  late  15th  Century  ?) 

DRA3fATIS  PERSONS 

Messenger  Cousin  Strength 

God  Goods  Discretion 

Death  Good  Deeds  Five-Wits 

Everyman  Knowledge  Angel 

Fellowship  Confession  Dootor 

KiNi/SED  Beauty 

1  Promise.  2  do  not  hesitate.  a  Born. 

*  Promise.         «  Destroy.         «  Sorrow. 


HERE  BEGINNETH  A  TREATISE  HOW  THE  HIGH 
FATHER  OF  HEAVEN  SENDETH  DEATH  TO 
SUMMON  EVERY  CREATURE  TO  COME  AND 
GIVE  ACCOUNT  OF  THEIR  LIVES  IN  THIS 
WORLD,  AND  IS  IN  MANNER  OF  A  MORAL 
PLAY. 

Messenger 

I  pray  you  all  give  your  audience, 

And  hear  this  matter  with  reverence, 

By  figure  a  moral  play  ; 

The  Summoning  of  Everyman  called  it  is, 

That  of  our  lives  and  ending  shows, 

How  transitory  we  be  all  day  : 

This  matter  is  wonders  precious. 

But  the  intent  of  it  is  more  gracious. 

And  sweet  to  bear  away. 

The  story  saith  :  man,  in  the  beginning 

Look  well,  and  take  good  heed  to  the  ending, 

Be  you  never  so  gay  : 

Ye  think  sin  in  the  beginning  full  sweet. 

Which  in  the  end  causeth  thy  soul  to  weep, 

When  the  body  lieth  in  clay. 

Here  shall  you  see  how  Fellowship  and  Jollity, 

Both  Strength,  Pleasure,  and  Beauty 

Will  fade  from  thee  as  flower  in  May  ; 

For  ye  shall  hear,  how  our  Heaven  King 

Calleth  Everyman  to  a  general  reckoning : 

Give  audience,  and  hear  what  he  doth  say. 

GoD  speaketh 

I  perceive  here  in  my  Majesty 

How  that  all  creatures  be  to  me  unkind. 

Living  without  dread  in  worldly  prosperity  : 

Of  ghostly  sight  the  people  be  so  blind. 

Drowned  in  sin,  they  knew  me  not  for  their  God ; 

In  worldly  riches  is  all  their  mind.  .  .  . 

I  see  the  more  that  I  them  forbear 

The  worse  they  be  from  year  to  year ; 

All  that  liveth  appaireth  ^  fast, 

Therefore  I  will  in  all  the  haste 

Have  a  reckoning  of  every  man's  person.  .  .  . 

They  be  so  cumbered  with  worldly  riches. 

That  needs  on  them  1  must  do  justice. 

On  every  man  living  without  fear. 

Where  art  thou.  Death,  thou  mighty  messenger  ? 

Death 

Almighty  God,  I  am  here  at  your  will. 
Your  commadment  to  fulfil. 

God 

Go  thou  to  Everyman, 

And  show  him  in  my  name 

A  pilgrimage  he  must  on  him  take, 

Which  he  in  no  wise  may  escape  ; 

And  that  he  bring  with  him  a  sure  reckoning 

Without  delay  or  any  tarrying. 

Death 

Lord,  I  will  in  the  world  go  run  over  all. 
And  cruelly  out-search  both  great  and  small ; 

1  Grows  worse. 


APPENDIX 


791 


Every  man  will  I  beset  that  liveth  beastly, 

Out  of  God's  laws,  and  dreadeth  not  folly  : 

He  that  loveth  liches  I  will  strike  with  my  dart, 

His  sight  to  blind,  and  fro  heaven  to  depart, 

Except  that  alms  be  his  good  friend, 

In  hell  for  to  dwell,  world  without  end. 

Lo,  yonder  I  see  Everyman  walking : 

Full  little  he  thinketh  on  my  coming  : 

His  mind  is  on  fleshly  lusts  and  his  treasure  ; 

And  great  pain  it  shall  cause  him  to  endure 

Before  the  Lord,  heaven's  King. 

Everyman,  stand  still ;  whither  art  thou  going 

Thus  gaily  ?    Hast  thou  thy  Maker  forgot  ? 

Everyman 
Why  askest  thou  ?    Wouldest  thou  wit  ? 

Death 

Yea,  sir,  I  will  show  you;  in  great  haste  I  am 

sent  to  thee 
Fro  God  out  of  his  Majesty. 

EVBKYMAN 

What  1  sent  to  me  ? 

Death 

Yea,  certainly : 

Though  you  have  forgot  him  here. 

He  thinketh  on  thee  in  the  heavenly  sphere  ; 

As,  ere  we  depart,  thou  shalt  know. 

Everyman 
What  desireth  God  of  me  ? 

Death 

That  shall  I  show  thee  ; 

A  reckoning  he  will  needs  have 

Without  any  lenger  respite. 

Everyman 

To  give  a  reckoning  longer  leisure  I  crave  ; 
This  blind  matter  troubleth  my  wit. 

Death 

On  thee  thou  must  take  a  long  journey, 
Therefore  thy  book  of  count  with  thee  thou 

bring, 
For  turn  again  thou  cannot  by  no  way  : 
And  look  thou  be  sure  of  thy  reckoning  ; 
For  before  God  thou  shalt  answer  and  show 
Thy  many  bad  deeds,  and  good  but  a  few. 
How  thou  hast  spent  thy  life,   and   in  what 

wise, 
Before  the  chief  lord  of  paradise. 
Have  ado  that  we  were  in  that  way. 
For,   wit    thou    well,    thou   shalt    make   none 

attorney. 


Everyman 

Full  unready  I  am  such  reckoning  to  give  : 
I  know  thee  not ;  what  messenger  art  thou  ? 

Death 

I  am  Death,  that  no  man  dreadeth ; 

For  every  man  I  'rrest,  and  no  man  spareth, 

For  it  is  God's  commandment 

That  all  to  me  should  be  obedient. 


Everyman 

0  Death,  thou  comest  when  I  had  thee  least  in 

mind; 
In  thy  power  it  lieth  me  to  save  ; 
Yet  of  my  good  will  I  give  thee,  if  thou  will  be 

kind. 
Yea,  a  thousand  pounds  shalt  thou  have. 
And  [thou]  defer  this  matter  till  another  day. 

Death 

Everyman,  it  may  not  be  by  no  way  ; 

1  set  not  by  gold,  silver,  nor  riches, 

Ne  by  pope,  ^mperor,  king,  duke,  ne  princes  ; 

For,  and  I  would  receive  gifts  great, 

All  the  world  I  might  get ; 

But  my  custom  is  clean  contrary  ; 

I  give  thee  no  respite,  come  hence,  and  not  tarry. 

Everyman 

Alas  !  shall  I  have  no  lenger  respite  ? 

I  may  say  Death  giveth  no  warning  : 

To  think  on  thee  it  maketh  my  heart  sick  ; 

For  all  unready  is  my  book  of  reckoning  : 

But  [for]  twelve  year  and  I  might  have  abiding. 

My  counting-book  I  would  make  so  clear, 

That  my  reckoning  I  should  not  need  to  fear. 

Wherefore,  Death,  I  pray  thee  for  God's  mercy. 

Spare  me,  till  I  be  provided  of  remedy. 

Death 

Thee  availeth  not  to  cry,  weep,  and  pray  : 

But  haste  thee  lightly,  that  thou  wert  gone  this 

journey ; 
And  prove  thy  friends,  if  thou  can ; 
For,  wit  thou  well,  the  tide  abideth  no  man. 
And  in  the  world  each  living  creature 
For  Adam's  sin  must  die  of  nature. 

Everyman 

Death,  if  I  should  this  pilgrimage  take, 
And  my  reckoning  surely  make, 
Show  me,  for  Saint  Charity, 
Should  I  not -come  again  shortly  ? 

Death 

No,  Everyman,  and  thou  be  once  there. 
Thou  mayest  never  more  come  here. 
Trust  me  verily. 


792 


APPENDIX 


Eysrtman 

0  gracious  God,  in  the  high  seat  celestial, 
Have  mercy  on  me  in  this  most  need. 

Shall  I  have  no  company  from  this  vale  terrestrial 
Of  mine  acquaince,  that  way  me  to  lead  ? 

Death 

Yea,  if  any  be  so  hardy, 

That  would  go  with  thee,  and  bear  thee 
company  : 

Hie  thee  that  thou  were  gone  to  God's  mag- 
nificence, 

Thy  reckoning  to  give  before  his  presence. 

What,  weenest  thou  thy  life  is  given  thee, 

And  thy  worldly  goods  also  ? 

Everyman 

1  had  ween*d  so  verily. 

Death 

Nay,  nay  ;  it  was  but  lent  thee ; 

For,  as  soon  as  thou  art  gone. 

Another  awhile  shall    have    it,  and   then   go 

therefro, 
Even  as  thou  hast  done. 
Everyman,  thou  art  mad,  thou  hast  thy  wits 

five, 
And  here  on  earth  will  not  amend  thy  life ; 
For  suddenly  I  do  come. 

Everyman 

0  wretched  caitiff,  whither  shall  I  flee  ? 
That  I  might  escape  this  endless  sorrow  ! 
Now,  gentle  Death,  spare  me  till  to-morrow. 
That  I  may  amend  me 

With  good  advisement. 

Death 

Nay,  thereto  I  will  not  consent. 

Nor  no  man  will  I  respite  ; 

But  to  the  heart  suddenly  I  shall  smite 

Without  any  advisement. 

And  now  out  of  thy  sight  I  will  me  hie  ; 

See  thou  make  thee  ready  shortly. 

For  thou  may  est  say,  this  is  the  day 

That  no  man  living  may  'scape  away. 

Everyman 

Alas  1  I  may  well  weep  vnth  sighs  deep : 
Now  have  I  no  manner  of  company 
To  help  me  in  my  journey,  and  me  to  keep ; 
And  also  my  writing  is  full  unready. 
How  shall  I  do  now  for  to  excuse  me  I 

1  would  to  God  I  had  never  be  got ; 

To  my  soul  a  full  great  profit  it  had  be  ; 

For  now  I  fear  pains  huge  and  great. 

The  time  passeth  :  Lord,  help,  that  all  wrought  1 

For  though  I  mourn,  it  availeth  nought : 

The  day  passeth,  and  is  almost  ago  ; 


I  wot  not  well  what  for  to  do. 

To  whom  were  I  best  my  complaint  to  make  ? 

What,  and  I  to  Fellowship  thereof  spake, 

And  showed  him  of  this  sudden  chance  ! 

For  in  him  is  all  mine  affiance ; 

We  have  in  the  world  so  many  a  day 

Be  good  friends  in  sport  and  play. 

I  see  him  yonder  certainly  ; 

I  trust  that  he  will  bear  me  company. 

Therefore  to  him  will  I  speak  to  ease  my  sorrow. 

Well    met,    good  Fellowship,    and   good  mor- 


[_Here  Everyman  (as  he  relates  in  the  follow- 
ing speech)  appeals  in  vain  to  Fellowship^  to  his 
Kinsmen,  and  to  Goods,  or  Worldly  Biches,  who 
in  turn  refuse  to  accompany  him  on  his  journey. '] 

Everyman 

Oh,  to  whom  shall  I  make  my  moan. 

For  to  go  with  me  in  that  heavy  journey  ? 

First  Fellowship  he  said  he  would  with  me  gone ; 

His  words  were  very  pleasant  and  gay. 

But  afterward  he  left  me  alone. 

Then  spake  I  to  my  kinsmen  all  in  despair. 

And  also  they  gave  me  words  fair. 

They  lacked  no  fair  speaking ; 

But  all  forsake  me  in  the  ending. 

Then  went  I  to  my  Goods  that  I  loved  best, 

In  hope  to  have  found  comfort ;  but  there  had  I 

least: 
For  my  Goods  sharply  did  me  tell. 
That  he  bringeth  many  in  hell. 
Then  of  myself  I  wras  ashamed, 
And  so  I  am  worthy  to  be  blamed, 
Thus  may  I  well  myself  hate. 
Of  whom  shall  I  now  counsel  take  ? 
I  think  that  I  shall  never  speed, 
Till  that  I  go  to  my  Good  Deed ; 
But,  alas,  she  is  so  weak, 
That  she  can  nother  go  nor  speak : 
Yet  will  I  venter  on  her  now. 
My  Good  Deeds,  where  be  you  ? 

Good  Deeds 

Here  I  lie  cold  in  the  ground ; 
Thy  sins  have  me  so  sore  bound, 
That  I  cannot  stir. 


Everyman 

0  Good  Deeds,  I  stand  in  great  fear ; 

1  must  you  pray  of  counsel, 

For  help  now  should  come  right  well 

Good  Deeds 

Everyman,  I  have  understanding, 
That  thou  art  summoned  account  to  make 
Before  Messias  of  Jerusalem  King  ; 
And  you  do  by  me,  that  journey  with  you  will  I 
take. 


APPENDIX 


793 


EVEBTMAN 

Therefore  I  come  to  you  my  moan  to 
I  pray  you,  that  ye  will  go  with  me. 


Good  Deeds 
I  would  full  fain,  but  I  cannot  stand  verily. 

Everyman 
Why,  is  there  anything  on  you  fall  ? 

Good  Deeds 

Yea,  sir,  I  may  thank  you  of  all ; 

If  ye  had  perfectly  cheered  me, 

Your  book  of  account  full  ready  now  had  be. 

Look,  the  books  of  your  works  and  deeds  eke  1 

Behold  how  they  lie  under  the  feet, 

To  your  soul's  heaviness. 

Everyman 

Our  Lord  Jesus  help  me. 

For  one  letter  herein  can  I  not  see. 

Good  Deeds 

Here  is  a  blind  reckoning  in  time  of  distress  ! 

Everyman 

Good  Deeds,  I  pray  you,' help  me  in  this  need. 
Or  else  I  am  for  ever  damned  indeed  ; 
Therefore  help  me  to  make  my  reckoning 
Before  the  Redeemer  of  all  thing. 
That  king  is,  and  was,  and  ever  shall. 

Good  Deeds 

Everyman,  I  am  sorry  of  your  fall, 

And  fain  would  I  help  you,  and  I  were  able. 

Everyman 
Good  Deeds,  your  counsel,  I  pray  you,  give  me. 

Good  Deeds 

That  shall  I  do  verily  : 

Though  that  on  my  feet  I  may  not  go, 

I  have  a  sister  that  shall  with  you  also, 

Called  Knowledge,  which  shall  with  you  abide. 

To  help  you  to  make  that  dreadful  reckoning. 

[Enter  Knowledge.] 

Knowledge 

Everyman,  I  will  go  with  thee,  and  be  thy  guide, 
In  thy  most  need  to  go  by  thy  side. 

Everyman 

In  good  condition  I  am  now  in  every  thing. 
And  am  wholly  content  with  this  good  thing. 
Thanked  be  God  my  Creature. 


Good  Deeds 

And  when  he  hath  brought  thee  there, 

Where  thou  shalt  heal  thee  of  thy  smart, 

Then  go  thou  with  thy  reckoning  and  thy  good 

deeds  together, 
For  to  make  thee  joyful  at  the  heart 
Before  the  Blessed  Trinity. 

Everyman 

My  Good  Deeds,  I  thank  thee  heartfully : 
I  am  well  content  certainly 
With  your  words  sweet. 

Knowledge 

Now  go  we  together  lovingly 

To  Confession,  that  cleansing  river. 

Everyman 

For  joy  I  weep  :  I  would  we  there  were  ; 
But  I  pray  you  to  instruct  me  by  intellection. 
Where  dwelleth  that  holy  virtue  Confession  ? 

Knowledge 

In  the  house  of  salvation ; 

We  shall  find  him  in  that  place. 

That  shall  us  comfort  by  God's  grace. 

Lo,  this  is  Confession:  kneel  down,  and  ask 

mercy ; 
For  he  is  in  good  conceit  with  God  Almighty. 

Everyman 

0  glorious  fountain  that  all  uncleanness  doth 

.clarify. 
Wash  from  me  the  spots  of  vices  unclean. 
That  on  me  no  sin  may  be  seen  ; 

1  come  with  Knowledge  for  my  redemption, 
Redempt  with  heart  and  full  contrition. 
For  I  am  commanded  a  pilgrimage  to  take. 
And  great  accounts  before  God  to  make. 
Now  I  pray  you.  Shrift,  mother  of  salvation, 
Help  hither  my  good  deeds  for  my  piteous  ex- 
clamation. 

Confession 

I  know  your  sorrow  well,  Everyman  : 
Because  with  Knowledge  ye  come  to  me, 
I  will  you  comfort  as  well  as  I  can  ; 
And  a  precious  jewel  I  will  give  thee. 
Called  penance,  voider  of  adversity : 
Therewith  shall  your  body  chastised  be 
With  abstinence  and  perseverance  in  God's  ser- 
vice ; 
Here  shall  you  receive  that  scourge  of  me. 
Which  is  penance  strong  that  ye  must  endure. 
Remember  thy  Jjaviour  was  scourged  for  thee 
With  sharp  scourges,  and  suffered  it  patiently  : 
So  must  thou,  ere  thou  pass  thy  pilgrimage. 
Knowledge,  keep  him  in  this  voyage. 
And  by  that  time  Good  Deeds  will  be  with  thee  ; 
But  in  anywise  be  sure  of  mercy. 


7U 


APPENDIX 


For  your  time  draweth  faat ;  and  ye  will  saved  be, 
Ask  God  mercy,  and  he  will  grant  truly  : 
When  with  the  scourge  of  penance  man  doth 

him  bind. 
The  oil  of  forgiveness  then  shall  he  find. 

Everyman 

Thanked  be  God  for  his  gracious  work  ; 
For  now  I  wUl  my  penance  begin  : 
This  hath  rejoiced  and  lighted  my  heart, 
Though  the  knots  be  painful  and  hard  within. 

Knowledge 

Everyman,  look  your  penance  that  ye  fulfil, 
What  pain  that  ever  it  to  you  be  ; 
And  I  shall  give  you  counsel  at  will, 
How  your  account  ye  shall  make  clearly. 


Good  Deeds 

I  thank  God,  now  I  can  walk  and  go, 
And  am  delivered  of  my  sickness  and  woe  ; 
Therefore  with  Everyman   I  will  go,  and  not 

spare. 
His  good  works  I  will  help  him  to  declare. 

Knowledge 

Now,  Everyman,  be  merry  and  glad ; 

Your  Good  Deeds  cometh  now,  ye  may  not  be 

sad : 
Now  is  your  Good  Deeds  whole  and  sound, 
Going  upright  upon  the  ground. 

Everyman 

My  heart  is  light,  and  shall  be  evermore; 
Now  will  I  smite  faster  than  I  did  before. 


Everyman 

O  eternal  God,  0  heavenly  figure, 

O  way  of  rightwiseness,  0  goodly  vision. 

Which  descended  down  in  a  virgin  pure. 

Because  he  would  Everyman  redeem, 

Which  Adam  forfeited  by  his  disobedience, 

O  blessed  Godhead,  elect  and  high  Divine, 

P'orgive  me  my  grievous  offence  ; 

Here  I  cry  thee  mercy  in  this  presence  : 

O  ghostly  treasure,  O  ransomer  and  redeemer ! 

Of  all  the  world  hope  and  conduyter, 

Mirror  of  joy,  foundation  of  mercy, 

Which  enlumineth  heaven  and  earth  thereby. 

Hear  my  clamorous  complaint,  though  it  late  be. 

Receive  my  prayers  of  thy  benignity. 

Though  I  be  a  sinner  most  abominable. 

Yet  let  my  name  be  wi-itten  in  Moses'  table. 

0  Mary,  pray  to  the  Maker  of  all  thing 
Me  for  to  help  at  my  ending, 

And  save  me  from  the  power  of  my  enemy ; 

For  death  assaileth  me  strongly  : 

And,  Lady,  that  I  may  by  mean  of  thy  prayer 

Of  your  son's  glory  to  be  partiner. 

By  the  mean  of  his  passion  I  it  crave; 

1  beseek  you  help  me  my  soul  to  save. 
Knowledge,  give  me  the  scourge  of  penance, 
My  flesh  therewith  shall  give  acquittance ; 

I  will  now  begin,  if  God  give  me  grace. 

Knowledge 

Everyman,  God  give  you  time  and  space  ! 
Thus  I  bequeath  you  in  the  hands  of  our  Saviour ; 
Now  may  you  make  your  reckoning  sure. 

Everyman 

In  the  name  of  all  the  Holy  Trinity, 
My  body  punished  sore  shall  be. 
Take  this  body  for  the  sin  of  the  flesh ; 
Also  thou  delightest  to  go  gay  and  fresh  ; 
And  m  the  way  of  damnation  thou  did  me  bring 
Therefore  suffer  now  strokes  and  punishing : 
^ow  of  penance  I  will  wade  the  water  clear 
To  save  me  from  purgatory,  that  sharp  fire.' 


Good  Deeds 

Everyman  pilgrim,  my  special  friend, 

Blessed  be  thou  without  end ; 

For  thee  is  prepared  the  eternal  glory : 

Ye  have  me  made  whole  and  sound. 

Therefore  I  will  bide  by  thee  in  every  stound. 

Everyman 

Welcome,  my  Good  Deeds,  now  I  hear  thy  voice, 
I  weep  for  very  sweetness  of  love. 

Knowledge 

Be  no  more  sad,  but  evermore  rejoice, 
God  seeth  thy  living  in  His  throne  above; 
Put  on  this  garment  to  thy  behove. 
Which  with  your  tears  is  now  all  wet. 
Lest  before  God  it  be  unsweet. 
When  ye  to  your  journey's  end  come  shall. 

Everyman 

Gentle  Knowledge,  what  do  ye  it  call  ? 

Knowledge 

It  is  the  garment  of  sorrow. 
From  pain  it  will  you  borrow ; 
Contrition  it  is. 
That  getteth  forgiveness. 
It  pleaseth  God  passing  well. 

Good  Deeds 

Everyman,  will  you  wear  it  for  your  hele  ? 

Everyman 

Now  blessed  be  Jesu,  Mary's  son  ; 
For  now  have  I  on  true  contrition  : 
And  let  us  go  now  without  tarrying. 
Good  Deeds,  have  we  clear  our  reckoning  ? 

Good  Deeds 
Yea,  indeed,  I  have  here. 


APPENDIX 


795 


Everyman 

Then  I  trust  we  need  not  to  fear  ; 
Now,  friends,  let  us  not  depart  in  twain. 

Knowledge 
Nay,  Everyman,  that  will  we  not  certain. 

Good  Deeds 

Yet  must  thou  lead  with  thee 
Three  persons  of  great  might. 

Everyman 
Who  should  they  be  ? 

Good  Deeds 

Discretion  and  Strength  they  hyght, 
And  thy  Beauty  may  not  abide  behind. 

Knowledge 

Also  ye  must  call  to  mind 

Your  Five  Wits  as  for  your  councillors. 

Good  Deeds 
You  must  have  them  ready  at  all  hours. 


Everyman 

Almighty  God,  loved  may  Thou  be  ; 

I  give  thee  laud  that  I  have  hither  brought 

Strength,  Discretion,  Beauty,  Five  Wits :  lack  I 

nought : 
And  my  Good  Deeds,  with  Knowledge  clear, 
All  be  in  my  company  at  my  will  here  ; 
I  desire  no  more  to  my  business. 

Strength 

And  I  Strength  will  by  you  stand  in  distress, 
Though   thou  wouldest   in  battle  fight  on  the 
ground. 

Five  Wits 

And  though  it  were  thorow  the  world  round, 
We  will  not  depart  for  sweet  ne  for  sour. 

Beauty 

No  more  will  I  unto  Death's  hour. 
Whatsoever  thereof  befall. 

Discretion 

Everyman,  advise  you  first  of  all. 

Go  with  a  good  advisement  and  deliberation  ; 

We  all  give  you  virtuous  monition 

That  all  shall  be  well. 


Everyman 
How  shall  I  get  them  hither  ? 

Knowledge 

You  must  call  them  all  together, 
And  they  will  hear  you  incontinent. 

Everyman 

My  friends,  come  hither,  and  be  present. 
Discretion,  Strength,  my  Five  Wits  and  Beauty. 

Beauty 

Here  at  your  will  we  be  all  ready ; 
What  will  ye  that  we  should  do  ? 

Good  Deeds 

That  ye  would  with  Everyman  go. 
And  help  him  in  his  pilgrimage  : 
Advise  you,  will  ye  go  with  him  or  not  in  that 
voyage  ? 

Strength 

We  will  bring  him  all  thither 

To  help  and  comfort  him,  ye  may  believe  me. 

Discretion 
So  will  we  go  with  him  altogether. 


Everyman 

My  friends,  hark  what  I  will  you  tell ; 

I  pray  God  reward  you  in  His  heavenly  sphere  : 

Now  hearken  all  that  be  here ; 

For  I  will  make  my  testament 

Here  before  you  all  present : 

In  alms  half  my  good  I  will  give  with  my  hands 

twain 
In  the  way  of  charity  with  good  intent, 
And  the  other  half  still  shall  remain : 
I  it  bequeath  to  be  returned  there  it  ought  to  be. 
This  I  do  in  despite  of  the  fiend  of  hell, 
To  go  quit  out  of  his  peril 
Ever  after  this  day. 

Knowledge 

Everyman,  hearken  what  I  will  say ; 

Go  to  priesthood,  I  you  advise, 

And  receive  of  him  in  any  wise 

The  holy  sacrament  and  ointment  together, 

Then  shortly  see  ye  turn  again  hither. 

We  will  all  abide  you  here. 

Five  Wits 

Yea,  Everyman,  hie  you  that  ye  ready  were  : 
There  is  no  emperor,  king,  duke,  ne  baron. 
That  of  God  hath  commission, 
As  hath  the  least  priest  in  the  world  being; 
For  of  the  blessed  sacraments  pure  and  benign 
He  beareth  the  keys,  and  thereof  hath  cure 
For  man's  redemption,  it  is  ever  sure, 


796 


APPENDIX 


Which  God  for  our  soul's  medicine 
Gave  us  out  of  his  heart  with  great  pain, 
Here  in  this  transitory  life  for  thee  and  me  : 
The  blessed  sacraments  seven  there  be, 
Baptism,  confirmation,  with  priesthood  good, 
And  the  sacrament  of  God's  precious  flesh  and 

blood, 
Marriage,  the  holy  extreme  unction,  and  pen- 
ance ; 
These  seven  be  good  to  have  in  remembrance, 
Gracious  sacraments  of  high  divinity. 

Everyman 

Fain  would  I  receive  that  holy  body, 
And  meekly  to  my  ghostly  father  I  will  go. 

Five  Wits 

Everyman,  that  is  the  best  that  ye  can  do ; 

God  will  you  to  salvation  bring. 

For  good  priesthood  exceedeth  all  other  thing ; 

To  us  holy  scripture  they  do  teach. 

And  converteth  man  fro  sin  heaven  to  reach  ; 

God  hath  to  them  more  power  given 

Than  to  any  angel  that  is  in  heaven  : 

With  five  words  he  may  consecrate 

God's  body  in  flesh  and  blood  to  take, 

And  handleth  his  Maker  between  his  hands. 

The  priest  bindeth  and  unbindeth  all  bands 

Both  in  earth  and  in  heaven; 

He  ministers  all  the  sacraments  seven ; 

Though  we  kiss  thy  feet,  thou  wert  worthy  : 

Thou  art  the  surgeon  that  cureth  sin  deadly, 

No  remedy  may  we  find  under  God, 

But  all  only  priesthood. 

Everyman,  God  gave  priest  [s]  that  dignity, 

And  setteth  them  in  His  stead  among  us  to  be ; 

Thus  be  they  above  angels  in  degree. 

Knowledge 

If  priests  be  good,  it  is  so  surely, 

But  when  Jesu  heng  on  the   cross  with  great 

smart. 
There  he  gave  us  out  of  his  blessed  heart 
The  same  sacrament  in  great  torment. 

Five  Wits 

I  trust  to  God,  no  such  may  we  find : 

Therefore  let  us  priesthood  honour, 

And  follow  their  doctrine  for  our  soul's  succour ; 

We  be  their  sheep,  and  they  [our]  shepherds  be, 

By  whom  we  all  be  kept  in  surety. 

Peace  1  for  yonder  I  see  Everyman  come, 

Which  hath  made  true  satisfaction. 

Good  Deeds 
Methink  it  is  he  indeed. 

Everyman 

Now  Jesu  Christ  be  your  alder  speed  ! 
I  have  received  the  sacrament  for  my  redemp- 
Uon,  •"  ^ 


And  then  mine  extreme  unction  ; 

Blessed  be  all  they  that  counselled  me  to  take 
it: 

And  now,  friends,  let  us  go  without  longer  res- 
pite; 

I  thank  God  that  ye  have  tarried  so  long. 

Now  set  each  of  you  on  this  rod  your  hand, 

And  shortly  follow  me  ; 

I  go  before,  there  I  would  be  : 

God  be  our  guide. 

Strength 

Everyman,  we  will  not  fro  you  go, 
Till  ye  have  gone  this  voyage  long. 

Discretion 

I,  Discretion,  will  bide  by  you  also. 

Knowledge 

And  though  this  pilgrimage  be  never  so  strong, 
I  will  never  part  you  fro  : 
Everyman,  I  will  be  as  sure  by  thee. 
As  ever  I  was  by  Judas  Maccabee. 

Everyman 

Alas  !  I  am  so  faint  I  may  not  stand. 

My  limbs  under  me  do  fold  : 

Friends,  let  us  not  turn  again  to  this  land, 

Not  for  all  the  world's  gold ; 

For  into  this  cave  must  I  creep. 

And  turn  to  the  earth,  and  there  to  sleep. 

Beauty 

What,  into  this  grave  ?    Alas  ! 

Everyman 

Yea,  there  shall  ye  consume  more  and  less. 

Beauty 

And  what,  should  I  smother  here  ? 

Everyman 

Yea,  by  my  faith,  and  never  more  appear  ; 

In  this  world  live  no  more  we  shall, 

But  in  heaven  before  the  highest  Lord  of  all. 

Beauty 

I  cross  out  all  this  :  adieu,  by  Saint  John ; 
I  take  my  cap  in  my  lap,  and  am  gone. 

Everyman 
What,  Beauty  ?  whither  will  ye  ? 

Beauty 

Peace  !  I  am  deaf,  I  look  not  behind  me. 
Not,  and  thou  wouldst  give  me  all  the  gold  in 
thy  chest. 


APPENDIX 


797 


Everyman 

Alas  1  whereto  may  I  now  trust  ? 

Beauty  doth  fast  away  hie  : 

She  promised  with  me  to  live  and  die. 

Strength 

Everyman,  I  will  thee  also  forsake  and  deny, 
The  game  liketh  me  not  at  all. 

Everyman 

Why  then  ye  will  forsake  me  all : 
Strength,  tarry,  I  pray  you,  a  little  space. 

Strength 

Nay,  sir,  by  the  rood  of  grace, 

I  will  hie  me  from  thee  fast, 

Though  thou  weep  till  thy  heart  brast. 

Everyman 
Ye  would  ever  bide  by  me,  ye  said. 

Strength 

Yea,  1  have  you  far  enough  conveyed : 
Ye  be  old  enough,  I  understand, 
Your  pilgrimage  to  take  on  hand ; 
I  repent  me,  that  I  hither  came. 

Everyman 

Strength,  you  to  displease  I  am  to  blame ; 
Yet  promise  is  debt ;  this  ye  well  wot. 

Strength 

In  faith,  as  for  that  I  care  not : 
i     Thou  art  but  a  fool  to  complain ; 

Thou   spendest    thy  speech  and    wasteth  thy 

brain  : 
Go,  thrist  thee  into  the  ground. 

Everyman 

I  had  ween'd  surer  I  should  you  have  found  : 
But  I  see  well,  he  that  trusteth  in  his  Strength, 
Is  greatly  deceived  at  the  length  ; 
Both  Strength  and  Beauty  hath  forsaken  me. 
Yet  they  promised  me  steadfast  to  be. 

Discretion 

Everyman,  I  will  after  Strength  be  gone  ; 
As  for  me,  I  will  leave  you  alone. 

Everyman 
Why,  Discretion,  will  ye  forsake  me  ? 

Discretion 

Yea,  in  faith,  I  will  go  fro  thee ; 
For  when  Strength  is  gone  before, 
Then  I  follow  after  evermore. 


Everyman 

Yet,  I  pray  thee,  for  love  of  the  Trinity, 
Look  in  my  grave  once  piteously. 

Discretion 

Nay,  so  nigh  will  I  not  come. 
Now  farewell,  fellows  everichone. 

Everyman 

Oh,  all  thing  faileth,  save  God  alone. 
Beauty,  Strength,  and  Discretion ; 
For,  when  Death  bloweth  his  blast, 
They  all  run  fro  me  full  fast. 

Five  Wits 

Everyman,  of  thee  now  my  leave  I  take  ; 

I  will  follow  the  other,  for  here  I  thee  forsake. 

Everyman 

Alas  !  then  may  I  both  wail  and  weep  ; 
For  I  took  you  for  my  best  friend. 

Five  Wits 

I  will  no  lenger  thee  keep  : 
Now  farewell,  and  here  an  end. 

Everyman 

Now,  Jesu,  help  !  all  hath  forsaken  me. 

Good  Deeds 

Nay,  Everyman,  I  will  abide  with  thee, 

I  will  not  forsake  thee  indeed ; 

Thou  shalt  find  me  a  good  friend  at  need. 

Everyman 

Gramercy,  Good  Deeds,  now  may  I  true  friends 

see. 
They  have  forsaken  me  everychone  ; 
I  loved  them  better  than  my  good  deeds  alone  : 
Knowledge,  will  ye  forsake  me  also  ? 

Knowledge 

Yea,  Everyman,  when  ye  to  death  shall  go ; 
But  not  yet  for  no  manner  of  danger. 

Everyman 

Gramercy,  Knowledge,  with  all  ray  heart. 
Knowledge 

Nay,  yet  I  will  not  from  hence  depart, 
Till  I  see  where  ye  shall  be  come. 

Everyman 

Methinketh,  alas  !  that  I  must  be  gone 
To  make  my  reckoning,  and  my  debts  pay; 


798 


APPENDIX 


For  I  see  my  time  is  nigh  spent  away. 
Take  ensample,  all  ye  that  this  do  hear  or  see, 
How  they  that  I  loved  best  now  forsake  me ; 
Except  my  Good  Deeds,  that  bideth  truly. 

Good  Deeds 

All  earthly  things  is  but  vanity, 

Beauty,    Strength,    and    Discretion    do    man 

forsake, 
Foolish  friends  and  kinsmen,  that  fair  spake ; 
All  fleeth  save  Good  Deeds,  and  that  am  I. 

Everyman 

Have  mercy  on  ine,  God  most  mighty. 

And  stand  by  me,  thou  mother  and  maid  Mary. 

GrOOD  Deeds 
Fear  not,  I  will  speak  for  thee. 

Everyman 
Here  I  cry,  Grod  mercy  ! 

Good  Deeds 

Short  our  end  and  minish  our  pain : 
Let  us  go,  and  never  come  again. 

Everyman 

Into  thy  hands.  Lord,  my  soul  I  commend, 
Receive  it.  Lord,  that  it  be  not  lost ; 
As  thou  me  bough  test,  so  me  defend. 
And  save  me  fro  the  fiend's  boast. 
That  I  may  appear  with  that  blessed  host 


That  shall  be  saved  at  the  day  of  doom  : 
In  manus  tuas^  of  might  most, 
For  ever  commendo  spiritum  meum. 

(Everyman  dies.) 

Knowledge 

Now  hath  he  suffered  that  we  all  shall  endure : 

The  Good  Deeds  shall  make  all  sure  ; 

Now  hath  he  made  ending, 

Methinketh  that  I  hear  angels  sing. 

And  make  great  joy  and  melody, 

Where  Everyman's  soul  shall  received  be.  .  .  . 

Doctor 

This  memory  all  men  may  have  in  mind ; 
Ye  hearers,  take  it  of  worth,  old  and  young, 
And  forsake  pride,  for  he  deceiveth  you  in  the 

end. 
And  remember  Beauty,  Five  Wits,  Strength,  and 

Discretion, 
They  all  at  last  do  Everyman  forsake, 
Save  his  Good  Deeds ;   [them  he]  there  doth 

take : 
But  beware,  for,  and  they  be  small. 
Before  God  he  hath  no  help  at  all ; 
None  excuse  may  be  there  for  Everyman  : 
Alas  !  how  shall  he  do  then  ? 
For  after  death  amends  may  no  man  make. 
For  then  mercy  and  pity  doth  him  forsake ; 
If  his  reckoning  be  not  clear,  when  he  doth  come, 
God  will  say,  Ite,  maledicti,  in  ignem  ceternum, 
And  he  that  hath  his  account  whole  and  sound. 
High  in  heaven  he  shall  be  crowned  ; 
Unto  which  place  God  bring  us  all  thither, 
That  we  may  live  body  and  soul  together ; 
Thereto  help  the  Trinity  : 
Amen,  say  ye,  for  Saint  Charity. 


I 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

Poetical  selections  are  indicated  by  an  asterisk 


PAGE 

Addison,  Joseph 295*,  332 

iELFRIC 23 

Alfred , . . , 20 

Armstrong,  John ♦370 

Arnold,  Matthew 636*,  743 

AscHAM,  Roger 133 

Aytoun,  William  E 660* 

Bacon,  Francis 193 

Barbour,  John 55* 

Barnard,  Lady  Anne 458* 

Beattie,  James 441* 

Beaumont,  Francis 173* 

Bede 8*,  16 

Berkeley,  George 355* 

Berners,  see  Bourchier. 

Blake,  William 455* 

Bolingbroke,  Henry  St.  John,  Lord.  .  348 

BoswELL,  James 424 

Bourchier,  John,  Lord  Berners 121 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas 240 

Browne,  William 201* 

Browning,  Robert 609* 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 634* 

Brunne,  see  Manning. 

BuNYAN,  John 257 

Burke,  Edmund 403 

Burns,  Robert 460* 

Burton,  Robert 229 

Butler,  Samuel 273* 

Byron,  George  Gordon 508* 

C^DMON 8* 

Campbell,  Thomas 504* 

Campion,  Thomas 171* 

Carew,  Thomas 226* 

Carlyle,  Thomas 670 

Caxton,  William 110 

Chapman,  George 152* 

Chatterton,  Thomas 446* 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey 62* 

Chesterfield,   Philip  Dormer  Stan- 
hope, Lord 379 

Clanvowe,  Sir  Thomas 80* 

Clarendon,  Edward  Hyde,  Earl  of.  .  249 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh 663* 

Coleridge,  Hartley 655* 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor 484*,  541 

Collins,  William 431* 

Cornish,  William 100* 

Cornwall,  Barry,  see  Procter. 

Cowley,  Abraham 223*,  271 

CowpER,  William 415,  435* 


Crabbe,  George.  . , 
Crashaw,  Richard. 

cuthbert 

Cynbwulp 


Daniel,  Samuel 

Defoe,  Daniel 

Dekker,  Thomas ' 

De  Quincey,  Thomas 

Dickens,  Charles . .  .t 

DoBsoN,  Henry  Austin 

Donne,  John 

Douglas,  Gawain 

Doyle,  Sir  Francis  Hastings  Charles 

Drayton,  Michael 

Drummond,  William 

Dryden,  John 275*, 

Dunbar,  William 

Dyer,  John 

Earle,  John 

Eliot,  George  (Mary  Ann  Evans)  663*, 

Elliot,  Jane 

Elliott,  Ebenezer 

Ely,  see  Thomas  of.*' 

Evans,  Mary  Ann,  see  Eliot. 

Evelyn,  John 


PAGE 

452* 
205* 
19 
9* 

155* 

312 

167* 

572 

715 

665* 

167* 

86* 
659* 
157* 
174* 
285 

84* 
357* 

240 
718 
457* 
507* 


Fergusson,  Robert.  . . . 

Fielding,  Henry 

Fitzgerald,  Edward  ... 

Fletcher,  Giles 

Fletcher,  John 

Fletcher,  Phineas 

FoRTEScuE,  Sir  John  ... 

FoxE,  John 

Froude,  James  Anthony 
Fuller,  Thomas 


Gascoignb,  George 

Gay,  John 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth 

Gibbon,  Edward 

Gloucester,  see  Robert  of. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 374*, 

GowER,  John 

Gray,  Thomas 


Green,  John  Richard 

Greene,  Robert 155*, 

Guilford,  see  Nicholas. 

Habington,  William 

Hakluyt,  Richard 

Hales,  see  Thomas  of. 


280 

460* 

382 

658* 

200* 

172* 

199* 

102 

135 

721 

246 

114* 
309* 

48 
417 

397 
59* 
427* 
764 
192 


204* 
178 


799 


800 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Hampole,  see  RoUe.  page 

Harrison,  Frederick 760 

Hawker,  Robert  Stephen 658* 

Hazlitt,  William 567 

Henryson,  Robert 82* 

Herbert,  George 202* 

Herrick,  Robert 226* 

He YwooD,  Thomas 172* 

Hobbes,  Thomas 233 

HoccLEYE,  Thomas 80* 

Holinshed,  Raphael 177 

Hood,  Thomas 655* 

Hooker,  Richard 184 

Hunt,  James  Henry  Leigh 507* 

Huxley,  Thomas  Henry 753 

Hyde,  Edward,  see  Clarendon. 

James  I  op  Scotland 82* 

Johnson,  Samuel 366*,  384 

JoNSON,  Ben 169*,  197 

Keats,  John 629* 

Kingsley,  Charles 662*,  741 

Lamb,  Charles 502*,  554 

Landor,  Walter  Savage 503*,  564 

Langland,  William 60* 

Latimer,  Hugh 130 

Layamon 27* 

Lodge,  Thomas 151*,  190 

Lovelace,  Richard 229* 

Lydgate,  John 80* 

Lyly,  John 150*,  185 

Lyndsay,  Sir  David 87* 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington.  .  .656*,  687 

M  ACPHERSON,  James 444* 

Malmsbury,  see  William  of. 

Malory,  Sir  Thomas 103 

Mandeville,  Sir  John 75 

Manning,  Robert,  of  Brunne 33* 

Marlowe,  Christopher 158* 

Marvell,  Andrew 224* 

Matthew,  Paris 53 

Meredith,  George 664* 

MicKLE,  William  Julius 441* 

Milton,  John 208,  260* 

MiNOT,  Lawrence 36* 

Monmouth,  see  Geoffrey  of. 

Moore,  Thomas 506* 

More,  Sir  Thomas 125 

Morris,  William 645* 

Motherwell,  William 539* 

Myers,  Frederick  W.  H 771* 

Nairn,  Lady,  see  Oliphant. 

Nash,  Thomas 166* 

Newman,  John  Henry 657*,  704 

Nicholas  of  Guildford  (?) 29* 

North,  Sir  Thomas 176 


Occleve,  see  Hoccleve.  page 

Oliphant,  Caroline  (Lady  Nairn) 459* 

Orm 28* 

Overbury,  Sir  Thomas 232 

Pagan,  Isabel 458* 

Paris,  see  Matthew. 

Parnell,  Thomas , 352* 

Pater,  Walter 767 

Peele,  George 151* 

Pepys,  Samuel 291 

Percy,  Thomas 433* 

PooRE,  Richard  (?) 51 

Pope,  Alexander 296* 

Prior,  Matthew 294* 

Procter,  Bryan  Waller 507* 

Quarles,  Francis 202* 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter 149*,  182 

Ramsay,  Allan 355* 

Robert  of  Gloucester 33* 

Rochester,  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of.  . .  280* 

RoLLE,  Richard,  of  Hampole 35* 

Roper,  William 129 

Rossetti,  Christina  Georgina 644* 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel 641* 

Ruskin,  John 726 

Sackville,  Thomas,  Lord  Buckhurst.  .  115* 
St.  John,  Henry,  see  Bolinghroke. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter 496*,  539 

Shakespeare,  William 161* 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 518* 

Shenstone,  William 371* 

Shirley,  James 204* 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip 150*,  188 

Skelton,  John 100* 

Skinner,  John 457* 

somerville,  william 356* 

Southey,  Robert 495*,  548 

Spenser,  Edmund  . 136* 

Stanhope,  Philip  Dormer,  see  Chester-  i 

fieU.  \ 

Steele,  Sir  Richard 340 

Stephen,  Sir  Leslie 762 

Sterne,  Laurence 394 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 669*,  772 

Stowe,  John 175 

Suckling,  Sir  John 228* 

Surrey,  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of 113* 

Swift,  Jonathan 294,  320* 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 650* 

Taylor,  Jeremy 253 

Temple,  Sir  William 282 

Tennyson,  Alfred 583* 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace  .  659,*  710 
Thomas  of  Ely 48   J 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


801 


PAGE 

Thomas  op  Hales 28* 

Thompson,  Francis 779 

Thomson,  James 360* 

Traherne,  Thomas 206* 

Trench,  Richard  Chevenix 658* 

Vaughan,  Henry 205* 

Waller,  Edmund 207* 

Walton,  Izaak 234 

Webster,  John 173* 

Wedderburn,  James 87* 


PAGE 

White,  Joseph  Blanco 603* 

William  of  Malmsbdrt 45 

WiLMOT,  John,  see  Rochester. 

Wither,  George 200* 

WoLPE,  Charles 538* 

Wordsworth,  William 471* 

wulfstan 23 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas 113* 

Wyclip,  John 78 

Young,  EIdwabd 354* 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

A  Chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 505 

Adieu,  farewell,  earth's  bliss 166 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever 466 

After    that    Harvest    gathered    had    his 

sheaves 80 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand! 658 

"Ah!  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh" 502 

Ah  fading  joy!  how  quickly  art  thou  past!  280 

Ah!  Freedom  is  a  nolDle  thing 55 

Ah!  gentle  Shepherd!  thine  the  lot  to  tend  359 

Ah  me!  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn 371 

Ah!  my  Lord,  leave  me  not 87 

Ah!  Sun  flower!  weary  of  time 457 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptered  race 503 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight. . .  535 
Ah!  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb. .  441 

Alas!  for  Peter,  not  a  helping  hand 454 

Allan-a-Dale  has  no  faggots  for  burning. .  500 
All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay. . .  275 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored 310 

All  joys  are  there  in  that  countrie 35 

All  Nature  seems  at  work,  slugs  leave  their 

lair 494 

All  the  flowers  of  the  spring 174 

All  ye  woods,  and  trees,  and  bowers 173 

Although  I  enter  not 659 

A  maid  of  Christ  entreateth  me 28 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true 441 

And  if  ye  stand  in  doubt 101 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 113 

Art    thou    consum'd    with   soul-afHicting 

crosses? 202 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slum- 
bers?   167 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane 93 

As  once  I  lay  in  winter's  night 30 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 663 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 506 

As  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  away 168 

As  you  came  from  the  holy  land 150 

At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas-eve . .  594 

Athlestan  King 14 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever 529 

A  thousand  tymes  I  have  heard  men  telle  62 
At  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time  634 
At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is 

still 444 

Autumn  hath  all  the  summer's  fruitful 

treasure 167 

Ave  Maris  Stella 44 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints. .  214 
Awake,  my  St.  John!  leave  all  meaner 

things 306 

"A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid" 499 

803 


PAGE 

A  Well  there  is  in  the  west  country 495 

Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where  166 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 612 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 478 

Be  it  right  or  wrong,  these  men  among. . .     95 
Be  merry,  man!  and  tak  not  sair  in  mind . .     84 

Beowulf  said  to  them,  etc 6 

Blessed  be  simple  life,  withouten  dreid ...     84 

Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 609 

Break,  break,  break 597 

Bright  star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as 

thou  art 530 

Brittle  beauty,  that  nature  made  so  frail. .   113 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more 616 

But  though  true  worth  and  virtue,  etc 435 

But  welaway!  so  is  my  heart6  woe 81 

By  the  blue  taper's  trembling  light 352 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren  173 
Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trem- 
bling air 147 

Can  he  be  fair  that  withers  at  a  blast? ....  202 

Can  I  not  sing  but  hoy 99 

Can  I  see  another's  woe 456 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night  155 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes 458 

Clear  and  cool,  clear  and  cool 662 

Cold's  the  wind,  and  wet's  the  rain 167 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring  658 
Come,  gentle  Spring,   ethereal  mildness, 

come 360 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love 158 

Come,  Sleep!  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of 

peace 161 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  etc 589 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime 643 

Contented  wi'  little  and  cartlie  wi'  nmir  .  470 
"Courage!"  he  said,  and  pomtcHl  toward 

the  land 586 

Crabbed  age  and  youth 162 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 280 

Croesus,  King  of  Lydia,  dreamed  that  he 

saw 645 

Crown'd  with  the  sickle  and  the  wheaten 

sheaf 361 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 150 

Cyriack,  this  three  years'  day,  etc 214 

Cyriack,  whose  grandsire  on  the  royal  bench  214 

Dear  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only 

leave 611 

Dear  Chloe,  how  blubbered  is  that  pretty 
face 294 


804 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

Dear  native  brook  I  wild  streamlet  of  the 

West 493 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have 

called  thee 169 

"Death  have  we  hated,  etc" 650 

Descend  from  Heaven,  Urania,  by  that 

name 223 

Do  not  lift  him  from  the  bracken 660 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 170 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  483 

England  is  a  right  good  land,  etc 33 

Erce,  Erce,  Erce,  Mother  of  Earth 3 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind 510 

Even  in  a  palace  life  may  be  led  well 640 

Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  on  trust ....   150 

Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair 151 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 227 

Father  of  all!  in  ev'ry  age 304 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat  628 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  of  the  sun 162 

First  shall  the  heavens  want  starry  light.  .  151 
Five  years  have  passed;  five  summers,  etc.  471 
Flee   fro    the    presse,    and    dwelle,    with 

sothefastnesse 75 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea 597 

Flow   gently,    sweet   Afton,    among   thy 

green  braes 469 

Forget  six  counties  overhung  with  smoke  645 

For  thee  was  a  house  built 15 

For  the  few  hours  of  life  allotted  me 224 

For  the  Yule-tide  had  yielded,  etc 58 

For  this  ye  know  well,  though  I  would  lie .  .  79 
For  what  is  life,  if  measured  by  the  space . .  171 
Four  years! — and  didst  thou  stay  above. .  640 
From  brightening  fields  of  ether  fair  dis- 

clos'd 361 

From  depth  of  dole  wherein  my  soul  doth 

dweU 115 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony . .  277 

Full  fathom  fiTfiR^hy  father  lies 162 

Full  many  a  glwious'  morning  have  I  seen  163 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may 227 

Gentle  reddr,  have  at  me  na  despite 87 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming 

mom 226 

God  that  shaped  both  sea  and  sand 37 

Go,  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine 466 

Go  from  me,  yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand . .  635 

Go,  lovely  Rose 208 

Green  httle  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass. . . .  507 

Grow  old  along  with  me! 628 

Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time 225 

Hail,   holy   Light!   offspring   of   Heaven 
first-born! 222 


PAGE 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit! 519 

Half  a  league,  half  a,  league 601 

Happy  Insect,  what  can  be 224 

Happy  those  eari>'  dayes,  when  1 205 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings  162 

Hark,  now  everything  is  still 174 

Have  my  friends  in  the  town,  etc 358 

He  answer'd:  "Helen,  do  not  seek,"  etc. .  152 

He  lived  in  that  past  Georgian  day 665 

Hence  all  you  vain  delights 173 

Hence,  loathdd  Melancholy 208 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys 209 

Here  lies  our  sovereign  lord  the  King ....  280 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet 652 

He's  sentenc'd,  'tis  too  late 166 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 226 

He  that  of  such  a  height,  etc 155 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 508 

He  who  hath  never  war'd  with  misery. . . .  156 

Hie  upon  Hielands 95 

Him  that  was,  if  I  shall  not  feign 80 

His  golden  locks  Time  hath  to  silver  turned  152 

Holla,  ye  pampered  jades  of  Asia! 159 

How  changed  is  here  each  spot,  etc 636 

How  do  I  love  thee?  Let  me  count  the  ways  635 

How  Uke  an  Angel  came  I  down! 207 

How  many  thousands  of  my  poorest  sub- 
jects   165 

"How  seldom,  friend!    A  good  great  man 

inherits 493 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of 

youth 214 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 224 

How  well  I  know  what  I  mean  to  do. ... .  613 

I  am  now  older  than  I  was 27 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting 

flowers 520 

I  built  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house. . .  583 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young 149 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song. . .  431 

If  childhood  were  not  in  the  world 654 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps  473 

If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 669 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange . .  635 
I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  com- 
panions    502 

I  have  heard  my  people,  the  peasant-folk .  .  3 
I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only 

friend 601 

I  know  a  maid  in  bower  bright 42 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays . .  174 

Illustrious  England,  ancient  seat  of  Kings  152 

"I  may  sing  of  myself  now" 12 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land .  .  .  521 

I'm  wearin'  awa',  John 459 

In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland 

and  highland 653 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


805  \ 


PAGE 

In  days  of  March  and  Averil 42 

Inhuman  man!  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art  466 
In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  one. . .  510 
In  the  land  lived  a  priest,  who  was  Laya- 

mon  callM 27 

In  the  season  of  summer,  when  soft  was 

the  sunnd 60 

In  this  fair  stranger's  eyes  of  grey 639 

In  this  lone  open  glade  I  lie 641 

In  vain,  in  vain,  the  all-composing  Hour. .  806 
In  vain  to  me  the  smihng  mornings  shine. .  428 

In  Virgin^  the  sultry  Sun  'gan  sheene 446 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 493 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night 206 

I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds  and 

bowers 226 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he. .  610 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool 465 

Is  there  for  honest  Poverty 470 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cry'd,  etc 203 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know 663 

I  that  in  health  was  and  gladness 85 

I  think  we  are  too  ready  with  complaint . .  634 
I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung, .  635 
It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free . .  483 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner 484 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  round 530 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king 593 

It  must  be  so — Plato,  thou  reason'st  well!  295 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 433 

It  was  a  summer  evening 495 

I've  heard  them  lilting,  at  our  ewe-milking  457 
I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west. .  539 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 480 

I  watched  a  rosebud  very  long 644 

I  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead! 521 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies 98 

Jack  and  Joan,  they  think  no  ill 172 

Karshish,    the    picker-up    of    learning's 

crumbs 619 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now?  609 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs 659 

"  Late,  late,  so  late!  and  dark  the  night 

and  chill!" 602 

Late,  my  grandson!  haK  the  morning,  etc.  603 
Lead  kindly  Light,   amid  the  encircling 

gloom 657 

Leave  me,  O  Love!  which  reaehest  but  to 

dust 151 

Lest  men  suspect  your  tale  untrue 309 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds  164 
"Let    not  Ambition    mock    their   useful 

toil" ^  460 

Let  others  trust  the  seas,  dare  death  and 

Hell 199 


PAQK 

Like   as   the   waves   make   towards   the 

pebbled  shore I63 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star 173 

Like  unto  these  unmeasurable  mountains . .  113 

Listen,  Lordings,  if  you  will 36 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 455 

Lol  I,  the  man  whose   Muse  whylome 

did  maske 135 

Look  in  my  face;  my  name  is  Might-have- 
been  644 

Look  up  to  Pentland's  tow'ring  top 355 

Lo!  on  a  sudden,  and  all  unlooked  for 9 

Lords,  knights,  and  'squires  the  numerous 

band 294 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell 228 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind 352 

Lo,  when  we  wade  the  tangled  wood 650 

Lullay,  lullay,  little  child! 44 

Maidens  of  Engelande  sore  may  ye  mourn  43 

Make  we  merry  in  hall  and  hour 99 

Man  is  the  world,  and  death  the  ocean . .  .  167 

Man  yearneth  rim^s  for  to  hear 34 

"March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale"  501 

Mark  when  she  smiles  with  amiable  cheare  149 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood 498 

Methinks  we  do  as  fretful  children  do ... .  635 

Midst  of  a  cloister,  painted  on  a  wall 80 

Mild  is  the  parting  year  and  sweet 503 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  hving  at  this 

hour 483 

Most  miserable  man,  whom  wicked  fate. . .  147 
Much  have  1  travell'd  in  the  reahns  of 

gold 529 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die 528 

My  bonny  man,  the  warld,  it's  true 669 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past 496 

My   dear   companion,    and   my   faithful 

friend! 357 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men  593 
My  grandfather  says  he  remembers  he  saw, 

etc 631 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness 

pains •''36 

My  heart  is  high  above,  etc 100 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behoKl  ITS 

My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing 356 

My  Phillis  hath  the  morning  sun 151 

My  spirit  is  too  weak— mortality 629 

Mysterious  Night!  when  our  first  parent 

knew 5^ 

My  sweetest  Lesbia,  let  us  live  and  love ...  171 

Nature  that  framed  us  four  elements 159 

Nobly,  nobly,  Cape  Saint  Vincent,  etc. . .  611 
No  man  becomes,  before  death  calls  him .  .       8 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 538 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note  538 


806 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

Nothing  is  to  man  so  dear 33 

No!  those  days  are  gone  away 535 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments. . .   163 

Now,  brother  Walter,  brother  mine 28 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  etc 656 

Now  haud  your  tongue,  baith  wife  and 

carle 501 

Now  mirk  December's  dowie  face 460 

Now  shall  we  hymn  high  heaven's  Ward .       8 

Now  the  days  are  all  gone  over 653 

Now  the  hungry  lion  roars 161 

Now  wends  he  his  way  through  the  wild 

tracts  of  Logres 58 

O,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair 499 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky 440 

O  Death,  rock  me  to  sleep 100 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 466 

Of  Februar  the  fifteenth  nicht 84 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing  645 
Of  Man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit  215 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 504 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights 588 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide  164 
O  Friend!    I  know  not  which  way  I  must 

look 483 

Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven 654 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first ....  277 
Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  world  do 

name 174 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 607 

O,  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to 

find 622 

Oh,  Faustus! 159 

Oh!  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom 509 

Oh!  that  we  two  were  Maying 662 

Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's 

there 611 

O  Usten,  listen,  ladies  gay! 496 

O  lyric  Love,  half  angel  and  half  bird 633 

"O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home". .  662 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 663 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? . .   162 

O  mortal  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil 364 

O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  Rose 470 

On  a  starred  nighk  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. .  665 
Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends . .   165 

Once  within  a  summer's  dale 29 

One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand  149 

One  more  Unfortunate 655 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 528 

On  Linden  when  the  sun  was  low 504 

O  noble  worthy  king,  Henry  the  ferth^. . .     59 

O  sing  unto  my  roundelay 446 

O  that  those  lips  had  language! 439 

Others  abide  our  question.    Thou  art  free.  640 

O  Thou  Great  Being!  what  thou  art 465 

Our  life  is  likest  a  long  sea-voyage 9 


PAGE 

Our  revels  now  are  ended,  etc 166 

Over  hill,  over  dale 161 

O  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 470 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Au- 
tumn's being 518 

O  world!    Olife!    O  time! 528 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west  497 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day 172 

Pearl,  princes  prize,  and  men  essay 55 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild 455 

Pitch  here  the  tent,  while  the  old  horse 

grazes 664 

Placebo 100 

Pleasure  it  is 100 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth . . .   164 
Power  above  powers!     O  heavenly  Elo- 
quence!     155 

"Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood" 501 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair 170 

Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  etc 603 

"Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King!" 430 

Sabrina  fair 211 

Said  Abner,  "At  last  thou  art  come,"  etc.  623 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth 663 

Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled 469 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  f ruitf ulness .  . .  537 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love 170 

See,  the  flowery  spring  is  blown 360 

See,  the  star  that  leads  the  day 353 

See,  Winter  comes  to  rule  the  varied  year  362 

Seventeen  hundred  and  thirty-nine 666 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? . .   163 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despaire 200 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways ....  473 
She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young 

Hero  sleeps 507 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 655 

Shepherds  all  and  maidens  fair 172 

She  wakes  in  beauty,  like  the  night 510 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 480 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 465 

Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John!  etc 304 

Since   brass,   nor   stone,   nor   earth,   nor 

boundless  sea 164 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and 

part 157 

Since  through  virtfie  increases  dignity. ...     82 

Sing  his  praises  that  doth  keep 172 

Sing  lullaby,  as  women  do 114 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone 670 

Sleep,  Silence'  child,  sweet  father  of  soft 

rest 174 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roU'd . . .  594 
Some  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear 658 


I 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

So  now  is  come  our  joyful  feast 200 

Spring  is  come  to  town  with  love 42 

St.  Agnes'  Eve— Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was!. . .  530 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee *  505 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! 481 

"Still  the  lone  one  and  desolate,"  etc 11 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 170 

Stop,  Mortal!  Here  thy  brother  lies 507 

"Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming"  608 

Summer  is  icumen  in 41 

Sunset  and  evening  star 609 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  con- 
tent    155 

Sweet  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain  374 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 202 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  Uv'st 

unseen 211 

Sweetest  Love,  I  do  not  go 168 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave 528 

Take  feverfew,  and  plantain,  and  the  red 

nettle 3 

Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away 162 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King 203 

"Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they 

mean" 598 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 229 

Tell,  said  the  mighty  Fingal 444 

That  childish  thoughts  such  joy  inspire . .  206 
That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall  609 
That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  be- 
hold    164 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confin'd 207 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the 

fold 509 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 641 

The  changing  guests,  each  in  a  different 

mood 644 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. .  428 
The  days  grow  old,  the  low-pitch'd  camp 

hath  made 202 

The  feathered  songster  Chanticleer 448 

The  ganger  walked  with  willing  foot 669 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 204 

The  god  of  love,  ah,  benedicite 80 

The  hag  is  astride 227 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls. .  506 
The  host  was  harrowed,  with  horror  of 

drowning 8 

The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up 99 

The  isles  of  Greece!  the  isles  of  Greece!. . .  516 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  town 93 

The  man  of  life  upright 171 

The  men  of  wealthy  Sestos  every  year. . .  160 
The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clinie. .  355 
Then  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobrious 

more ^•^^ 

The  Percy  out  of  Northumberland 90 


8o; 


PAGE 


The  play  is  done;  the  curtain  drops. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead 529 

There  is  an  awful  quiet  in  the  air 665 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  tho'  none  hear  503 
There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls  587 

There's  a  maid  in  a  bower,  etc 43 

There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give,  etc. .  509 
There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night. .  481 
There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove, 

and  stream 478 

There  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  bow'r 94 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night 639 

The  Sea!  the  Sea!  the  open  Sea! 508 

The  soots  season  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 

brings 113 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high 295 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops  515 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west 455 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  etc 602 

The  Village  Life,  and  every  care  that  reigns  452 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us,  etc 483 

The  wrathful  winter,  'proaching  on  apace  115 
They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light! . .  205 

The  year's  at  the  spring 609 

This  ae  nicht,  this  ae  nicht 98 

This  battle  fares  like  to  the  morning's  war  164 

Thise  riotoures  thre,  of  whiche  I  telle 72 

This  life,  which  seems  so  fair 174 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may 

he 271 

This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd 

isle 165 

Thou  fair-haired  angel  of  the  evening 455 

Thou  clock 228 

Though  grief  and  fondness  in  my  breast 

rebel 366 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness. .  537 

Thou  Who  didst  make,  etc 644 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the 

West 662 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  bom . . .  280 
Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  .  473 
Through  winter  streets  to  steer  your  course 

aright 310 

Thus  came,  lo  Engftland  into  Normandy's 

hand 33 

Thus  charged  he:  nor  Argicides  denied 154 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 456 

Tir'd  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  slet'p!  354 
Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry  164 
'Tis  instinct  that  directs  the  jealous  hare . .  356 
'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved   .  518 

Tis  true— then  why  should  I  repine 294 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy 


name. 


To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 433 

To  Farmer  Moss,  in  Langar  Vale,  come 
down ^^ 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

ToU  for  the  brave! 440 

To  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love 456 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent 529 

To  thee,  fair  Freedom!    I  retire 374 

To  these  whom  death  again  did  wed 204 

Touch  us  gently,  Time! 507 

To  you,  my  piu-se,  and  to  noon  other  wyght    74 

"Turn,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale" 378 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won . . .  278 

'Twas  on  a  Monday  morning 459 

Two  souls  diverse  out  of  our  human  sight  654 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and 

death 643 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 161 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 670 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  on   the  green- 
sward   665 

Unfathomable  Sea!  whose  waves  are  years  528 

Upon  a  time,  as  ^Esop  could  report 82 

Up!  up!  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books. .  472 
Us  caitiffs  then  a  far  more  dreadful  chance  114 

Verse,  a  breeze  mid  blossoms  straying. . . .  494 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay 497 

Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand 

ships 159 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 639 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tippdd  flow'r, 464 

Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan 172 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin',  tim'rous  beastie.  . . .  464 
We  have  seen  thee,  O  Love,  thou  art  fair, 

etc 651 

Welcome,  the  lord  of  licht,  and  lamp  of  day  86 
Well!  If  the  Bard  was  weather-wise,  etc. .  492 

Well  then!  I  now  do  plainly  see 223 

We  read  full  oft  and  find  y-writ 37 

We  watched  her  breathing  thro'  the  night  655 
Whan  that  Aprille  with  hise  shour^s  soote  65 
What  are  we  set  on  earth  for?  Say,  to  toil  635 
What  beck'ning  ghost,  along  the  moon- 

hght  shade 303 

What  dire  offence  from  am'rous  causes 

springs 296 

What  hath  man  done,  that  man  shall  not 

undo 200 

Wha  the  deil  hae  we  got  for  a  king 459 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command  363 

When  cats  run  home  and  Hght  is  come 583 

When  chapman  biUies  leave  the  street 467 

When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high 273 

When  God  at  first  made  man 203 

When  I  consider  everything  that  grows. .  163 
When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent. . .  214 


PAGE 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has 

tamed 483 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be  530 
When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 

eyes 163 

When  I  survey  the  bright 204 

When  Learning's  triumph,  o'er  her  bar- 

b'rous  foe 369 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 229 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 502 

When  man  was  born  to  this  world's  light .  .  35 
When  music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young.  .  432 
When  shaws  be  sheen,  and  shradds  full  fair    88 

When  the  hounds  of  spring,  etc 650 

When  the  Nightingale  sings,  etc 43 

When  the  Sheep  are  in  the  f  auld 458 

When    to    the    sessions    of    sweet    silent 

thought 163 

When  we  for  age  could  neither  read  nor 

write 208 

Where  are  they  that  lived  before 41 

Where  the  bee  sucks  there  suck  1 162 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 225 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow 455 

While  briars  and  woodbines  budding  green  463 
While  the  dawn  on   the  mountain  was 

misty,  etc 500 

Whoe'er  she  be ... 204 

Who  is  Silvia?    What  is  she 161 

Why  did  I  laugh  to-night?  etc 530 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes?  can  tears .   227 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 228 

"Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie?" 500 

"Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone" . .  472 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun  169 

With  a  whirl  of  thought  oppress'd 295 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  etc 150 

Wondrous  is  its  wall  of  stone 10 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around .  .  469 
Ye  clouds!  that  far  above  me  float  and 

pause 490 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers 427 

Ye  mariners  of  England 504 

Yes!  in  the  sea  of  hfe  enisled 639 

Yes;  I  write  verses  now  and  then 503 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more  211 
Ye,  who  amid  this  feverish  world  would 

wear 370 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease 588 

You  brave  heroic  minds, 158 

Your  eyen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly 79 

Your  ghost  wiU  walk,  you  lover  of  trees. .  616 
Your  hands  lie  open  in  the  long  fresh  grass  643 
You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue. . .  161 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Absence 639 

Accomplishment    of    the    First    of    Mr. 

Bickerstaff's  Predictions 324 

Achitophel 277 

Address  to  the  Author's  Elbow  Chair  New- 

Clothed 357 

Adonais 521 

Ms  Triplex  (Virginibus  Puerisqite) 772 

Af  ton  Water 469 

Agincourt 157 

Ah!  Sunflower 457 

Ah  What  Avails  the  Sceptered  Race 503 

Aim  of  a  University  Course,  The 709 

A  Lad  that  is  Gone 670 

Alexander's  Feast,  or  the  Power  of  Music  278 

Alysoun 42 

Ambition 159 

An  Apology  for  Writing  in  the  Vulgar  and 

Maternal  Language 87 

Ancren  Riwle  (Selections) 51 

Andrea  Del  Sarto 616 

And  Wilt  thou  Leave  Me  Thus? 113 

Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle 23 

An  Ode  to  Ph— 355 

Apelles'  Song 150 

Apology,  An 645 

Approach,  The 206 

Areopagitica 266 

Argument  to  Hesperides 226 

Ariel's  Song 162 

Armour  of  Innocence,  The 171 

Art  and  Character  (Qibeen  of  the  Air) 733 

Art  of  Preserving  Health,  The 370 

As  Slow  our  Ship 506 

At  the  Church  Gate 659 

Auld  Lang  Syne 465 

Auld  Robin  Gray 458 

Author's  Resolution  in  a  Sonnet,  The 200 

Autumn 361 

Ave  Maria . 44 

Balade  of  Charitie ■ 446 

Ballad,  Ahce  Brand 498 

Ballad  of  Beau  Brocade 666 

Ballad  of  Good  Counsel,  A 82 

Ballad  of  Good  Counsel  or  Truth,  The . . .  75 

Bard's  Epitaph,  A 465 

Bard,  The 430 

Bastille,  The  (The  Task) 438 

Battle  of  Blenheim,  The 495 

Battle  of  Brunanburh 14 

Battle  of  HaUdon  Hill 36 

Battle  of  Hastings  and  the  Effect  of  the 

Conquest,  The 46 


PAQB 

Battle  of  Ivry,  The 656 

Battle  of  The  Baltic 504 

Battle  of  Trafalgar,  The 548 

Bede's  Account  of  Himself 18 

Bede's  Death  Song g 

Beowulf  (Selections) 3 

Bermudas 225 

Better  Answer,  A 294 

Black  Eyed  Susan 310 

Blessed  Damozel,  The 641 

Blow,  Northern  Wind 42 

Boethius 418 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 95 

Border  Ballad 501 

Boswell     (Review    of    Croker^s    BosweWs 

Johnson) 687 

Boswell's  First  Meeting  with  Dr.  Johnson  424 

Boswell  the  Hero- Worshipper 676 

Bread  and  Liberty 224 

Break,  Break,  Break 597 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  The 655 

Bristowe  Tragedy;  or  the  Death  of  Sir 

Charles  Bawdin 448 

Britannia's  Pastorals 201 

Bruce's  Address  to  his  Army  at  Bannock- 
burn 460 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  at  Corunna,  The  538 

Burns 683 

Burton  tells  why  he  Writes  Under  the 

Name  of  Democritus  Jufiior 229 

By  the  Fireside 613 


Caedmon's  Hymn 

Canterbury  Tales,  The  (Selection^/ 

Canute  and  the  Monks  of  Ely 

Carol 

Carthon:  A  Poem 

Cast- A  way,  The 

Castle  of  Indolence,  The  (Selections) ... 

Ca'  the  Yowes 

Cato's  Soliloquy 

Causes  of  the  Ruin  of  Rome,  The 

Cavalier  Tunes  (Give  a  Rouse,  Boot  and 
Saddle) 

Celestial  Surgeon,  The 

Celtic  Spirit,  The 

Characteristics  of  Shakespeare's  Dramaa 

Character  of  Pope,  The 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 

Charles  I  Sets  up  his  Staudurd  at  "Not- 
tingham   

Charlie  is  My  Darling 

Charm  for  Bewitched  Land. 

Charm  for  a  Sudden  Stitch 


8 

64 
4S 
W 
141 
140 

:^t)4 

4.-.^ 
_">") 
}_'() 

609 
r)69 
745 
544 
388 
601 

3 


809 


810 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage 510 

Choric  Song 587 

Chorus  (Atalanta  in  Calydon) 650 

Chorus  (Atalanta  in  Calydon) 651 

Christmas  Carol,  A 200 

Christ's  Victory  and  Triumph 200 

Chronicles  of  Sir  John  Froissai*t  (Selec- 
tions)     121 

Claius  Describes  Urania 189 

Clear  and  Cool 662 

Cloud,  The 520 

Coffee  House,  The  {History  of  England) . .  702 

Colin  Clout 101 

Coliseum  at  Night,  The 515 

Collar,  The 203 

Collins 386 

Coming  of  Winter,  The 167 

Corapleynt  of  Chaucer  to  his  Purse,  The  74 
Consideration  of  the  Vanity  and  Shortness 

of  Man's  Life 254 

Consolation  of  Beothius,  The  (Selections)    21 

Content 84 

Content 155 

Corinna's  Going  A-Maying 226 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  The 460 

Counterblast,  The 669 

County  Guy 502 

Courtier,  The 147 

Coy  Mistress,  To  His 225 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth 162 

Crist,  The  (The  Voyage  of  Life,  Doomsday)       9 

Critic,  A 240 

Crossing  the  Bar 609 

Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale,  The 80 

Cuckoo  Song 41 

Culture  (Culture  and  Anarchy) 748 

Cursor  Mundi 34 

Cuthbert's  Letter  on  the  Death  of  Bede. .     19 

Cyriack  Skinner,  To 214 

Cyriack  Skinner,  XXI,  To 214 

Daft  Days,  The 460 

Daily  Miracle,  The 23 

Dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins,  The 84 

Day  of  Judgment,  The 295 

Death 100 

Death  and  Hereafter 166 

Death  and  Immortality 240 

Death-Bed,  The 655 

Death  of  CaBsar,  The 176 

Death  of  LaocoOn,  The  (/Eneid) 114 

Death  of  Queen  Elizabeth  (History  of  the 

English  People) 764 

Death's  Summons 166 

Debate  of  the  Body  and  Soul,  The 30 

Dedication  to  Sir  Francis  Walsingham ...  178 
Dedicatory  Epistle  (Monmouth's  History 

of  Britain) 48 


PAGE 

"  De  Gustibus" 616 

Dejection:  An  Ode 492 

Departed  Friends 205 

De  Profundis 115 

Description  of  His  Father  (Latimer) 133 

Description  of  Spring 113 

Description  of  Urania,  A 189 

Description  of  William  the  Conqueror,  A    44 

Deserted  Village,  The 374 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The 509 

Detached  Thoughts  on  Books  and  Reading  556 

Dirge 162 

Dirge,  A 173 

Dirge,  A 204 

Dirge  Before  Death 174 

Dirge  for  Philip  Sparrow,  A 100 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline 433 

Disdain  Returned 226 

Divine  Image,  To  the 456 

Divine  Source  of  Law,  The 185 

Divinity  in  Man,  The 245 

Don  Juan 516 

Dover  Beach 639 

Drawing  near  the  Light 650 

Dream  Children ;  a  Reverie 554 

Drowning  of  the  Egyptians,  The 8 

Edmund's  Song  (Rokehy) 499 

Elegy  to  the  Memory  of  an  Unfortunate 

Lady 303 

Elegy  upon  the  Death  of  Lady  Markham, 

An 167 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard  428 

Elixir,  The 203 

End  of  the  Play,  The 660 

Endymion 529 

England 165 

English  Mail  Coach,  The 576 

Epic,  The  (Morte  D' Arthur) 594 

Epigramme  3 202 

Epilogue 634 

Epistle,  An 358 

Epistle  of  Karshish,  An 619 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot 304 

Epistle  to  John  Lapraik 463 

Epitaph  on  Charies  II 280 

Epitaph  upon  Husband  and  Wife,  An. . . .  204 

Essay  on  Man,  An 306 

Essex  and  Spenser 564 

Eternal  Child  in  Shelley,  The 77S 

Euphues  Glass  for  Europe 187 

Evelyn  Hope 612 

Evening  Star,  To  the 455 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The. 530 

Execution  of  Lady  Jane  Grey,  The 135 

Execution  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots 721 

Execution  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  The 129 

Expostulation  and  Reply 472 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


811 


PAGE 

Faerie  Queene 136 

Fair  and  Happy  Milkmaid,  A 232 

Fairies  Song 161 

Fairy  Song 161 

Faith 244 

Fame  and  Death 183 

Farewell,  A 151 

Farewell,  A 597 

Farmer  Moss's  Daughter 454 

Faustus  Fulfils  his  Compact  with  the  Devil  159 
Faustus'  Vision  of  Helen  (Dr.  Faustus) . . .   159 

Field-Sports 356 

Fight  with  Apollyon,  The 257 

Fine  Lady's  Journal,  The 337 

Fleece,  The  (Selections) 359 

Flowers  of  the  Forest,  The 457 

Forsaken  Garden,  A 653 

Fortunati  Nimium 172 

Frailty  of  Beauty,  The 113 

France:  An  Ode 490 

"Frater  Ave  Atque  Vale" 603 

Freedom 55 

French  and  English  Tragic  Writers 285 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  The 433 

Garden,  The 224 

Garden  of  Proserpine,  The 652 

Geist's  Grave 640 

Gentleman  of  the  Old  School,  A 665 

Gibbon  is  Inspired  to  Write  his  History. .  417 

God's  Care  for  Man 100 

God's  Wisdom  and  Eternity 245 

Good  Great  Man,  The 493 

Good  Morrow 172 

Good  Schoolmaster,  A 185 

Good  Schoolmaster,  The 246 

Gospel  of  Work,  The 686 

Grasshopper,  The 224 

Grave,  The 15 

Great  Fire,  The 280 

Great  Fire  of  London,  The 292 

Greene's   Farewell   to   his   Fellow   Play- 
wrights    192 

Guardian  Angel,  The 611 

Gulliver  Among  the  Lilliputians 325 

Hag,  The 227 

Hamlet  (HazUtt) 567 

Hark,  Hark  the  Lark 162 

Harlaw  (Antiquary) 501 

Harold's  Song  to  Rosabella 496 

Harp  that  Once  Through  Tara's  Halls,  The  506 
Hawking,  Hunting,  and  Fishing  (Walton's 

Angler) 234 

Hector  and  Andromache  {Iliad) 152 

Helen  of  Kirconnell ^^ 

Henry  Vth's  Address  to  his  Soldiers  at 

Harfleurs •  •    •   ^^^ 


PAQM 

Henry  Vlth's  Soliloquy  at  the  Battle  of 

Towton 154 

Henry  Wriothesly,  Earl  of  Southampton, 

To 156 

Hermit,  The 378 

Hermit,  The 444 

Hero,  The 680 

He  Who  Hath  Bent  Him  O'er  the  Dead. .  508 

Higher  Pantheism,  The 602 

Highland  Mary 469 

Hills  of  Gold  and  the  Terrestrial  Paradise, 

The 77 

His  Golden  Locks  Time  Hath  to  Silver 

Turned 162 

His  Grange,  or  Private  Wealth 228 

Hohenlinden 504 

Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad 611 

Home  Thoughts  from  the  Sea 611 

How  Gulliver  Conquered  the  Fleet  of  the 

Blefuscudians 326 

How  Layamon  Wrote  his  Book 27 

How  they  Brought  the  Good  News  from 

Ghent  to  Aix 610 

Hunting  Song 497 

Hunt  is  Up,  The 99 

Hunting  of  the  Cheviot,  The 90 

Hymn  for  Morning,  A 353 

Hymn  to  Contentment,  A 352 

Hymn  to  God  the  Father,  A 169 

Illustrious    England,    Ancient    Seat    of 

Kings 152 

II  Penseroso 209 

Impressions  of  a  Chinese  Traveller 397 

Induction  to  a  Mirror  for  Magistrates.  . .  115 

Infant,  The 35 

In  Memoriam  (Selections) 598 

In  Praise  of  Chaucer 80 

In  Praise  of  England 33 

In  Sickness 294 

Intimations  of  ImmortaUty 478 

Introduction  to  the  Last  Fruit  Ofif  an  Old 

Tree «» 

Introduction  (Songs  of  Innocence)  455 

"  In  Vain,  in  Vain  "  (Dunciad) ...  '^06 

Invidiosa  Senectus -*^ 

Irruption  of  the  Tartars,  An 53 

Isabella's  Plea  for  Mercy Iw 

Is  There,  For  Honest  Poverty 470 

"I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud"  480 

Jeanie  Morrison 5^ 

Joan t? 

Jock  of  Hazeldean '^^ 

John  Davis  (.Short  Studies  on  Great  Sub^ 

jects) 725 

Jolly  Shepherd,  The.  . 


Juggling  Jerry . 


(•.64 


812 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

King  Alexander  and  the  Isle  of  Bragaman    76 

King  Arthur 110 

King  Edwin  Considers  Adopting  Chris- 
tianity       16 

King  Lear 563 

Knowledge  and  Character 704 

Kubla  Khan:  Or  a  Vision  in  a  Dream 493 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci 535 

Lady  Margaret,  Countess  of  Cumberland, 

To  the 155 

Lady's  Misery  in  a  Summer  Retirement.  .  384 

L'AUegro 208 

Lamb,  The 455 

Lament,  A 528 

Lament  for  Chaucer,  A 81 

Lament  for  the  Makers,  The 85 

Lamp  of  Memory,  The 727 

Land  of  the  Leal,  The 459 

Last  Entry  in  Pepys'  Diary,  The 293 

Lead,  Kindly  Light 657 

Leander  Sees  Hero  at  the  Feast  of  Sestos . .   160 

Leave  Me  Not 87 

Legend  of  Good  Women,  From  the  (Selec- 
tion)       62 

L'Envoi   (Earthly  Paradise) 650 

Letters  from  Olney 415 

Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord 408 

Letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield 385 

Levana  and  Our  Ladies  of  Sorrow 572 

Liberty  and  Restraint  {Queen  of  the  Air) . .  735 

Life  of  Hooker 239 

Life's  True  Measure 171 

Lines  Written  in  Kensington  Gardens 641 

Lines    Written    the    Night    Before    his 

Death 150 

Lochinvar 497 

Locksley  Hall 589 

Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After 603 

London:  A  Poem 366 

Lord  Falkland 251 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 505 

Loss  of  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  The 179 

Lotus  Eaters,  The 586 

Love  in  the  Valley 665 

Lover's  Life  Compared  to  the  Alps,  The. .   113 

Love  Rune,  A 28 

Lucifer  in  Starhght 665 

Lullaby 44 

Lullaby  of  a  Lover,  The 114 

Lycidas 211 

Lyke-Wake  Dirge,  A 98 

Macbeth's  Meeting  with  the  Weird  Sisters  177 

Mao^Flecknoe 275 

Madge  Wildfire's  Song 501 

Madrigal I74 

Mahnsbury's  Account  of  Himself 45 


PAGE 

Manners  Makyth  Man 379 

Martin    Relph 631 

Maud 601 

Meditation  Upon  a  Broomstick 320 

Melancholy 173 

Merciles  Beaute 79 

Merits  of  Sir  Hudibras,  The 273 

Michael 473 

Mild  is  the  Parting  Year  and  Sweet 503 

Minstrel,  The 441 

Minstrel's  Roundelay 446 

Modern  Pastoral,  The 452 

Money  {Crown  of  Wild  Olive) 730 

Mors  Tua 202 

Morte  D' Arthur  (Tennyson) 594 

Morte  D' Arthur  (Selections  from  Malory)  103 

Mr.  Shandy  on  His  Son's  Death 394 

Musical  Instrument,  A 634 

My  Bonie  Mary 466 

My  Days  Among  the  Dead  are  Past 496 

My  Heart  is  High  Above 100 

My  Heart  Leaps  up 478 

My  Last  Duchess 609 

Natural  Supematuralism 672 

Ned  Softly,  The  Poet 332 

New  Invention  of  Printing,  The 110 

Night  {^neid) 114 

Night 455 

Night-Piece  on  Death,  A 352 

Nil  Nisi  Bonum  {Roundabout  Papers). ...  711 

Norman  and  English 33 

No  Treasure  without  Gladness 84 

Nox  Nocti  Indicat  Scientam 204 

Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Passionate  Shep 

herd.  The 149 

Object  of  the  Spectator,  The 334 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College  427 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 537 

Ode  on  Melancholy 638 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 536 

Ode  to  Duty 481 

Ode  to  Evening ,  431 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 518 

Of  Adversity 194 

Of  an  Unusual  Swelling  and  Commotion 

of  the  Sea 64 

Of  Books 248 

Of  Contentedness  in  all  Estates  and  Acci' 

dents 253 

Of  Death 193 

Of  Health  and  Long  Life 282 

Of  Myself 271 

Of  old  Sat  Freedom  on  the  Heights 588 

Of  Riches 195 

Of  Self-Praising 247 

Of  Studies 196 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


813 


PAGE 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  night 507 

Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self 194 

Oh!  Snatch'd  Away  in  Beauty's  Bloom. . .  509 
Old  Coach  Roads  of  England,  The  (Felix 

Holt) 718 

Old  Famihar  Faces,  The 502 

Oliver  Goldsmith 426 

Oliver  Goldsmith 693 

O  Lyric  Love  {Ring  and  the  Book) 633 

"O  May  I  Join  the  Choir  Invisible" 663 

O  Mistress  Mine,  where  are  you  Roaming .   162 

On  a  Girdle 207 

On  Another's  Sorrow 456 

On  his  Blindness 214 

On   His  having  arrived  at   the  Age  of 

Twenty-three 214 

On  Life,  Death,  and  Immortality 354 

On  Reading  (Choice  of  Books) 761 

On  Seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles  for  the  First 

Time 529 

On  Sleep 174 

On  Sleep  XXXIX.    (Astrophel  and  Stella)  151 

On  Testimonials 346 

On  the  Advisableness  of  Improving  Nat- 
ural Knowledge 753 

On  the  Death  of  Coleridge 562 

On  the  Deaths  of  Thomas  Carlyle  and 

George  Eliot 654 

On  the  Feeling  of  Immortality  in  Youth .  .  569 

On  the  Foregoing  Divine  Poems 208 

On  the  Funeral  of  Betterton 341 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket 529 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 214 

On  the  Life  of  Man 173 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 440 

On  the  Receipt  of  My  Mother's  Picture 

out  of  Norfolk 439 

On  the  Sea 530 

On  this  Day  I  complete  my  Thirty-Sixth 

Year 518 

On  True  Distinction 340 

Origin  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads 543 

Ormulum 28 

Orsames'  Song 228 

O  Sweet  Content 167 

Our  School 715 

O,  Wert  Thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast 470 

Owl  and  the  Nightingale,  The 29 

Oxford  (Essays  in  Criticism,  1st  Series) ...  745 
Ozymandias ^21 

Painter  who  pleased  Nobody  and  Every- 

'      body,  The 309 

Palace  of  Art,  The ^^ 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  1 215 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  III 222 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  VII 223 

Pardoner's  Tale '2 


PAGE 

Partridge  at  the  Play 382 

Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love 158 

Passions,  The 432 

Pastiche 653 

Pearl,  The 55 

People  are  urged  to  choose  Richard  for 

their  King,  The 125 

Perception  of  Beauty,  The  (The  Renais- 
sance)    767 

Peter  Grimes 454 

Petition  to  Time,  A 507 

Phillis 151 

Philosophy  of  Clothes,  The 670 

Piers  the  Ploughman 60 

Pilgrim  to  Pilgrim 160 

Plague  in  London,  The 316 

Plea  for  Charity  in  Controversies  and  for 

Sincerity,  A 184 

Plowers,  The 130 

Poema  Morale - 27 

Poetry  (Essays  Classical  and  Modem) 771 

Poet's  Epitaph,  A 507 

Postscript  to  the  Reader 289 

Praise  of  Peace,  The 59 

Praise  of  Woman,  In 33 

Praise  of  Women,  From  a 79 

Praises  of  Pan,  The 172 

Prayer  for  King  Edward 37 

Prayer    under    the    Pressure    of   Violent 

Anguish,  A 465 

Predictions  for  the  Year  1708 321 

Preeminence  of  Poetry,  The 188 

Primroses  filled  with  Morning  Dew,  To.  .    227 

Private  of  the  Buffs,  The 659 

Prologue,  at  the  Opening  of  the  Drury 

Lane  Theatre 369 

Prologue  (Earthly  Paradise) 645 

Prophecy  of  Literature  in  America 155 

Prospero's  Sohloquy 166 

Prospice ^28 

Protestation,  A 151 

Prothalamion 147 

Pulley,  The 203 

Pulvis  et  Umbra 776 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus •  663 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra. ^ 

Raleigh's  Account  of  his  Book 182 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  The  'So 

Recollections 342 

Red,  Red  Rose,  A ^ 470 

Reflections  on  the  Revolution  m  France. .  400 

Reflections  upon  Exile,  From •  348 

Religion  and  the  Bible  in  16th  and  17th 

Century  England 765 

Remedies  for  Discontent,  Tlu  ...  231 

Requiem *'70 


Bl4 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

Resolution  and  Independence 481 

Restoration  Drama,  The 710 

Retreate,  The 205 

Return  of  Charles  II,  The 291 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 484 

River  Otter,  To  the 493 

Robert  Browning,  To 503 

Robin  Hood 535 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne 88 

Royal  Power  in  France  and  England,  The  102 

Rubaiyat,  The  (Selections) 658 

Ruin,  The 10 

Rule  Britannia 363 

Saint  Hugh 167 

Saladin  and  Rosader 190 

Salt  of  the  Earth,  The 654 

Sands  of  Dee,  The 662 

Saul 623 

Say  Not,  The  Struggle  Nought  Availeth. .  663 

Schoolmaster,  The  (Selections) 133 

Schoolmistress,  The 371 

Science  and  Life  (Fors  Clavigera) 737 

Science   and   Modem   Progress    (Modem 

Painters) 728 

Scott's  Journal 539 

Sea,  The 508 

Sea  Du-ge,  A 162 

Seafarer,  The 12 

Sea-Limits,  The 643 

Seasons,  The 58 

Self-Dependence 639 

Seventeenth  Century  Squire,  The  (History 

of  England) 701 

Shakespeare 287 

Shakespeare 640 

She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways. .  473 

She  is  far  from  the  Land 507 

Shepherd's  Life,  The .199 

She  walks  in  Beauty 510 

"She  was  a  Phantom  of  Dehght" 480 

Short  Rule  of  Life,  A 78 

SUvia 161 

Simplex  Munditiis 170 

Sir  Gawayne's  Journey 58 

Sir  Orpheo 37 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 93 

Sir  Roger  at  Church 339 

Site  of  a  University 707 

''leep 165 

Solitary  Reaper 478 

Some  Murmur  When  their  Sky  is  Clear.  .  658 
Some  Sea   Pictures  of  Turner    {Modern 

Painters) 726 

Song 168 

Song,  AUan-A-Dale 500 

Song,  "All  the  Flowers  of  the  Spring". .  .   174 
Song,  {Arraignment  of  Paris) 151 


PAGE 

Song,  A  Weary  Lot  is  Thine 499 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  22nd  Novem- 
ber, A 277 

Song,  Go  Lovely  Rose 208 

Song,  in  "The  Indian  Emperor" 280 

Song — "  Late,  Late,  So  Late  " 602 

Song,  "My  Peggy  is  a  Young  Thing".  ...   356 

Song  of  the  Priest  of  Pan 172 

Song  of  the  Road,  A 669 

Song  of  the  Scottish   Maidens  after  the 

Battle  of  Bannockburn 43 

Song  of  the  Western  Men,  The 658 

Song  {Pippa  Passes) 609 

Song,  Sabrina  Fair 211 

Song  {Saints'  Tragedy) 662 

Song,  She  is  not  Fair,  etc 655 

Song,  Sweet  Echo 211 

Song,  The  Cavalier 500 

Song,  The  Owl 583 

Song  to  Celia 170 

Song— To  Cynthia 170 

Song  to  Pan 173 

Song  to  the  Evening  Star 505 

Sonnet  (Drummond) 174 

Sonnet  (Drummond) 174 

Sonnets  XV.,  XVIII.,  XXIX.,  XXX., 
XXXIIL,  LV.,  LX.,  LXV.,  LXVL, 
LXXIIL,    CXI,    CXVI.,    CXLVL, 

(Shakespeare) 163 

Sonnets  XL.,  LXXV.,  {Amaretti) 149 

Sonnet  XXXI.  {Astrophel  and  Stella) 150 

Sonnet  LI.  {Delia) 155 

Sonnet,  Cheerfulness  taught  by  Reason.  .   634 
Sonnet  Composed  upon  the  Beach  near 

Calais 483 

Sonnet     Composed     upon     Westminster 

Bridge 483 

Sonnet  LXI.  {Idea's  Mirror) 157 

Sonnet,  Inclusiveness 644 

Sonnet,  June,  1816 529 

Sonnet  (Last  Sonnet) 530 

Sonnet,  London,  1802 483 

Sonnet  on  Chillon 510 

Sonnet  X.  On  death 169 

Sonnet,  on  First  Looking  into  Chapman's 

Homer 529 

Sonnet  on  Prayer 655 

Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  Mr.  Richard  West  428 
Sonnets  I.,  VI.,  XXXV.,  XLIII.   {From 

the  Portugicese) 635 

Sonnet,  Prospect,  The 635 

Sonnet,  Sibylla  Palmifera 643 

Sonnet,  Silent  Noon 643 

Sonnet,  Superscription,  A 644 

Sonnet,  "Thou  who  didst  make,"  etc. . .  .  644 

Sonnet,  To  Night '.   503 

Sonnet,  "When  I  have  Borne  in  Memory"  483 
Sonnet,  "When  I  have  fears,"  etc 530    \ 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


815 


PAGE 

Sonnet,  "Why  did  I  laugh,"  etc 530 

Sonnet,  Work 635 

Sonnet,  Written   in   London,   September 

1802 483 

Son  of  Croesus,  The 645 

Spacious  Firmament,  The 295 

Spectator  Club,  The 344 

Sports  and  Pastimes  of  Old  London 175 

Spring 360 

Spring  Song 42 

Stanzas  for  Music 509 

Starling,  The 396 

State  of  England  in  1685,  The 699 

State  of  Learning  in  England,  The 20 

St.  Guthlac 741 

Story  of  King  Leir,  The 49 

Style 380 

Summer 361 

Superannuated  Man,  The 559 

Swift  and  the  Spirit  of  His  Time 762 

Symbols 644 

Tables  Turned,  The 472 

Take,  Oh,  Take  those  Lips  Away 162 

Tale  of  the  Paddock  and  the  Mouse,  The    82 

Tamburlaine  to  the  Subject  Kings 159 

Tam  O'Shanter 467 

Task,  The  (Selections) 435 

Taste  {Crown  of  Wild  Olive) 731 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 598 

Testament  of  John  Lydgate,  The 80 

Thanksgiving  to  God,  for  his  House,  A . . ,  228 

The  English  and  their  Literature 569 

The  Grand  Style 743 

"The  World  is  too  Much  With 483 

"There's  nae  luck  about  the  house." 441 

Thomas  Hoccleve's  Complaint 80 

Thoughts  in  Westminster  Abbey 336 

Three  Fishers,  The 662 

Three  Years  She  Grew 473 

Throstle,  The 608 

Thyrsis 636 

Tiger,  The 456 

Timber,  or  Discoveries,  From 197 

Time 528 

Tintern  Abbey,  Lines  Composed  on 471 

To  —(Shelley) 528 

To  —(Shelley) 528 

To  a  Child  of  Quality  Five  Years  Old. . . .  294 

To  Althea,  from  Prison 229 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 464 

To  a  Mouse 464 

To  a  Skylark 519 

To  Aurelia 360 

To  Autumn 537 

Toccata  of  Galuppi's,  A 622 

To  Daffodils 227 

To  Hester 502 


To  Lesbia 

To  Lucasta,  on  going  to  the  War 

To  Marguerite 

Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey,  On  tho 

To  Night,  (Shelley) ;;; 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket. . ... 
To  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved  Masterj 

William  Shakespeare 

To  the  Muses '" 

To  the  Virgins,  to  make  much  of  Time.  .  . 
Tractate  on  Education,  Letter  to  Hartlib 

Triumph  of  Charis,  The 

Trivia,  or  the  Art  of  Walking  the  Stroets 

of  London 

True  Relation  of  the  Apparition  of  Mre. 

Veal 

Twa  Corbies,  The 

Twa  Sisters  o'  Binnorie,  The 


AGE 

171 
-'29 
<.:«> 
173 
528 
507 

1C9 
455 
227 
2<iO 
170 

310 

312 
93 
94 


Ubi  Sunt  Qui  Ante  Nos  Fucrunt 41 

Ulysses 593 

Under  Mr.  Milton's  Picture 280 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree 161 

Universal  Prayer 304 

Upon  a  Child 654 

Utopia  and  Europe  Contrasted 126 

Valediction  forbidding  Mourning,  A 168 

Veni  Creator  Spiritus 280 

Verses  on  the  Prospect  of  Planting  Arte 

and  Learning  in  America 355 

Vertue 202 

Virginian  Voyage,  From  the 158 

Vision  of  Csedmon,  The 17 

Visit  to  Westminster  Abbey,  A 400 

Voices    of    Youth,    The    (Discourses    in 

Amerira) 749 

Voyages  and  Travels  of  Sir  John  Mandcv 

ville.  The 75 

Voyage  to  Brobdignag -7 


Walter  Scott  (Choice  of  Books) . 

Wanderer,  The 

Wanderings  of  Cain,  The 

War 


Warren  Hastings 

Warren  Hastings,  The  Trial  of 

Weep  no  More 

Wee,  Wee  German  Lairdie,  The. 
Welcome  to  the  Summer  Sun 

Well  of  St.  Keyne,  The 

When  the  Nightingale  Sings 
Widow  of  Glencoe,  The 

Winter 

Wish,  The 

Wishes  to  His  Supposed  Mistress 

"With  Wliom  is  no  Variableness,  Neither 
Shadow  of  Turning" 


11 
>n 

233 
403 
390 
172 
t.-i9 
S6 

m 

13 

362 
223 
204 

663 


816 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE  PAc; 

Wonder 207 

Wonders  of  the  Isles  about  Java 76 

Wordsworth  (Appreciations) 769 

Wordsworth    (Essays   in    Criticism,    2nd 

Series) 750 

Work  Without  Hope 494 

World,  The 206 

Worldly  Place 640 

Wounded  Hare,  The 466 

Wulf Stan's  Sermon  to  the  English 23      Zeus  sends  Hermes  to  Calypso  (Odyssey) . .   154 


Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley 3; 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 504 

Yes;  I  write  Verses 503 

You  ask  me  why  though  ill  at  Ease 588 

"You     Spotted     Snakes     with    Double 

Tongue  " 161 

Youth  and  Age 494 


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